#i feel like making a post vagueing her post but.. no wait. that’s exactly what i’m doing right now LMAO

[hereforuconnwbb]

The Study of Us - CHAPTER 5

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

word count: 10k

warning: language

hey guysss !! i was planning to edit this tmrw after finishing my schedule, but honestly thats probably gonna take forever and tmrw is gonna be a long day for me 😭 so i js pushed through the drowsiness and edited the chapter now to finally post it. i feel bad for delaying releases so much lately 😓 its almost 12 rn while im writing this note but im scheduling this to post at 12:30am not like that rlly matters but if there are any mistakes or parts that dont add up, js um pls ignore them—i am half asleep while doing this ABSAHHSA anywayssss i hope you guys enjoy and tysm for being patient 🫶🏽

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There were very few things Azzi enjoyed more than sleeping in on a Friday morning, especially when she didn’t have class. No alarms. No deadlines. Just her, her pillow, and a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

That is until her door nearly exploded.

BANG BANG BANG

“AZZIIIIIIII. OPEN UP. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.”

Azzi groaned, yanking her comforter over her head. “Goddamn, Caroline…”

BANG BANG

“I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL PICK THE LOCK. YOU KNOW I KNOW HOW—”

Azzi flung the blanket off, shuffled out of bed with all the grace of a sleep-deprived zombie, and opened the door with a slow, dramatic pull.

Caroline stood there, too bright-eyed for someone who had clearly been awake for hours, wearing leggings, an oversized UConn hoodie, and a knowing-ass smirk. Phone in one hand. Coffee in the other.

“Good morning, my beautiful sunshine,” she sang, stepping inside without waiting for an invite.

Azzi scowled and shut the door behind her. “You’re psychotic.”

Caroline beamed, completely unbothered. “Aubrey texted me.”

Azzi froze mid-turn. “…About what?”

Caroline dropped herself onto Azzi’s desk chair and spun in a half-circle. “About you. And Paige. And about the—what was it? 3 hours? Yea I think 3 hour tutoring session you had last night. And the pizza. And the Uno.”

Azzi sighed, dragging her hand down her face. “It was not 3 hours—”

“Azzi. It was 3 hours,” Caroline deadpanned.

Azzi flopped back onto her bed, pressing a pillow over her face. “Why is everyone making this such a big deal?”

“Because,” Caroline said, crossing her legs, “you never hang out with anyone that long. You barely even tolerate me for 3 hours.”

“True.”

Caroline glared. “Rude.”

Azzi cracked a smile under the pillow.

“So?” Caroline said, kicking Azzi’s foot. “How was it? What happened?”

Azzi lifted the pillow just enough to breathe. “We ate. Talked. Played Uno. Studied.”

“And?”

“And… that’s it,” Azzi shrugged.

Caroline gave her a look. “You’re being vague on purpose.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Caroline said. “Because I know you. You never just talk to people. You don’t really talk to anyone unless you’re comfortable. And you’re not exactly the ‘let’s play Uno and bond over pizza’ type unless something’s different.”

Azzi stared at the ceiling.

Caroline smirked. “Is it still awkward?”

Azzi hesitated. “Less.”

“Oh ?” Caroline leaned forward dramatically.

Azzi sat up, running a hand through her messy morning hair. “It was awkward at first, but… not in a bad way. I don’t know. She’s actually different in person.”

Caroline raised her brows. “Different how?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She thought back to Paige last night, curled up with her hood down and glasses on, talking about her siblings, quietly listening when Azzi talked about her family and basketball. The way she’d smiled when Azzi joked about beating her in 1v1. The way she laughed when she lost in uno and threatened to throw the whole deck.

“She’s just… more real than I thought,” Azzi said quietly.

Caroline tilted her head. “Real like…?”

Azzi rolled her eyes and got up, walking over to her dresser. “Why are you analyzing everything I say like I’m on a therapy couch?”

“Because I’m your best friend and this is so much more interesting than scrolling on insta.”

Azzi huffed a small laugh.

Caroline grinned. “So? What do you think of her?”

Azzi glanced over her shoulder.

Caroline’s grin widened. “You like her, don’t you?”

Azzi turned back around quickly. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

“That’s not a no,” Caroline sang, giddy.

Azzi didn’t respond. Her heart felt annoyingly warm and fluttery and she hated that Caroline could see through her like a glass door.

Caroline leaned back in the chair. “It’s just funny how every time I ask you to come to a game, you’re suddenly busy or you have ‘homework’ or you’re too tired. But Paige asks? Boom. You’re in.”

Azzi crossed her arms. “I was gonna say no.”

“But you didn’t.”

Azzi rolled her eyes again, cheeks faintly pink.

Caroline sipped her coffee with a smug look. “You know, it’s kind of hilarious. You’re usually the most unbothered person I know. But now? Look at you. Blushing and awkward.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. Fully.”

Azzi sighed dramatically and sat down on the bed again. “Whatever.”

Caroline softened a little. “So you’re really coming?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. I said I would.”

Caroline smiled, this time less teasing, more genuine. “Good. It’ll mean a lot to her.”

Azzi blinked. “You think?”

“I mean even though Aubrey and I asked her to tell you, do you really think Paige just invites anyone to her game?” Caroline said

Azzi didn’t have an answer to that. Instead, she grabbed the pillow again and hugged it to her chest.

Caroline stood and headed for the door. “I’m telling Aubrey you’re officially down bad.”

Azzi groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

“Too late.”

“CAROLINE—”

The door slammed shut with Caroline’s cackling echoing down the hallway.

Azzi sighed again, falling back on the bed.

—---------------------------------

The second the doors to Gampel opened and that familiar blast of cold air hit her face, Paige felt her brain officially switch to game mode.

It was 2 pm. 3 hours to tip.

She walked in with Caroline and Aubrey, all of them still in sweats and slides, bags slung over their shoulders. They didn’t say much, didn’t need to. The place just had a vibe on game days. Everything buzzed.

The second they pushed open the locker room door, the noise hit.

Ice and KK were playing some weird game of reflex catch with a rolled-up pair of socks. Sarah had both legs up on the wall doing stretches while scrolling on her phone like she wasn’t upside down. The others are doing their stretches.

Caroline took one look and muttered, “Circus.”

“No place like home,” Aubrey said, grinning as she kicked her slides off.

“Yo, Jana,” Paige called, already unzipping her bag.

Jana looked up.  “You ready?”

“Yep.”

Jana grabbed her comb and stood behind her, already parting Paige’s hair.

Paige sat still, phone in her lap, as Jana’s hands moved. She always liked getting this part out of the way early. Hair done. Locked in. No distractions.

Ayanna walked past and clapped Paige on the shoulder. “You better show out tonight. Geno’s already in his pacing era.”

“He’s pacing at 2?” Caroline said.

“Full-on hallway laps,” Ayanna  replied. “He yelled at Ice for chewing too loud.”

KK snorted from across the room. “It was one cheeto bro.”

“Yall are cursed,” Jana muttered, finishing the last braid and tying it off. “Okay. You’re good.”

“Bless you,” Paige said, standing and stretching her neck. “I’m gonna go sort out that ticket thing real quick.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “For Azzi?”

Paige froze mid-step. “…yeah.”

Aubrey immediately perked up. “We’re coming.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes we are,” Caroline said, already pulling her sweatshirt back on. “We wanna witness.”

Paige groaned. “It’s literally just a ticket.”

“You’re personally escorting her to the bench,” Aubrey said dramatically.

“I’m making sure she doesn’t get stuck in the student line.”

“Mhm,” Caroline said. “So romantic.”

“Can’t believe we’re third-wheeling to the box office,” Aubrey muttered as they walked out.

“Y’all need help,” Paige said, but she didn’t stop them from coming.

They crossed the main hallway and turned into the little hallway where the ticket box was set up for player comps. It was quiet, just one event staff guy at the desk.

He looked up and smiled. “Hey, Paige.”

“Hey,” she said, stepping up. “I just wanted to make sure a name got added. Azzi Fudd.”

He scrolled through his list. “Yep. She’s on here. One comp ticket. You want her behind the bench?”

“Yes, please.”

“She need a pass for tunnel entry?”

“Yea.”

“Got it. I’ll leave it at security.”

“Thanks,” Paige said.

Behind her, Caroline stage-whispered, “Wow. Behind the bench and a tunnel pass.”

“She’s so special,” Aubrey whispered back.

“Ok, shut up,” Paige muttered, cheeks warm.

As they walked back toward the locker room, Paige pulled her phone out and typed fast.

Paige: ur all set—come thru the player entrance & tell them ur name. theyll give u a pass n walk u down. u will be behind the bench

The reply came quick.

Azzi: ok cool ! thanks i cant wait ☺️

Paige stared at her screen for a second too long, smiling like an idiot.

“Did she text back?” Caroline asked, peeking.

“Mind your business.”

“She did,” Aubrey said. “Look at her face.”

“She’s blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“Azzi’s got you in a chokehold,” Aubrey said, grinning.

“She does not”

“She does,” Caroline said. “And honestly, it’s kinda adorable.”

Paige shook her head and pushed open the locker room door again.

“Y’all are worse than Geno.”

“Geno doesn’t call you out when you get all heart-eyes,” Aubrey said. “We do. You’re welcome.”

“I hate both of you,” Paige said, dropping back onto the bench.

She didn’t. Not even a little.

—---------------------------------

Azzi backed away from the mirror and stepped into her baggy jeans, loose and frayed a little at the knees, then slipped on her fresh white AF1s. Classic. Reliable. A little creased but still got the job done. She looked down, gave her outfit a quick once-over in the full-length mirror on her door. Oversized hoodie, chill jeans, clean kicks. Comfortable but not sloppy. Casual but… ok, maybe a little cute.

But whatever. It wasn’t for anyone. She was just going to a game. A basketball game. Just to watch. That’s it… Well, maybe there is a reason.

She grabbed her small crossbody bag, double-checked that her student ID and phone were in there, then slipped in her lip balm and airpods for good measure..

A small little jittery feeling crawled under her ribs as she walked out the door.

—---------------------------------

The closer she got to Gampel, the louder everything became—students yelling across the sidewalk, music from somebody’s speaker, the steady hum of gameday energy. It was barely 4, and the lines outside the arena were already long, stretching past the fencing with people buzzing about seats and rankings and starting lineups. She could see the security checkpoint from the road. The air was cool but not cold, and people were already filing in through the main entrances.

Azzi bypassed the crowd, headed toward the smaller side door—the one Paige told her to go to.

She had to show her ID twice, and the security guard looked skeptical until she said her name.

“Oh,” the woman said, flipping through a clipboard. “Fudd, right? Got you here. You’re with player comps. You’re good.”

She handed Azzi a pass on a lanyard and pointed toward the tunnel.

“Just walk straight down. Someone will meet you at the end to bring you to your seat in the section behind the bench.”

“Thanks,” Azzi said, slipping the lanyard over her hoodie.

She followed the path inside, the noise of the crowd behind the walls growing louder with every step. She passed volunteers setting up last-minute signage and workers wheeling coolers and towels toward the team hall. Everything looked busy. Real. Like a behind-the-scenes of a movie, except everyone had a job and no one was pretending.

As she reached the mouth of the tunnel, she slowed down.

The court was right there. Empty for now—no players, no layup lines, just a few staff in polos walking around, checking things off clipboards. The arena lights were already blazing, bleachers half-filled and still moving. Students were trickling in. Families and season ticket holders were already chatting and pointing. One little kid in a No. 5 jersey ran past, trailed by a tired-looking dad with a soft drink in each hand.

Azzi stood off to the side, unsure if she should keep walking or wait. A staff member spotted her and walked over.

“You Azzi?”

“Yeah.”

“Right this way. You’ll be just behind the bench. You’re early, but that’s good. It gets crazy in here fast.”

Azzi followed, heart thumping way harder than she expected. It wasn’t nerves, she wasn’t nervous. Not really. Just… out of place.

The staff guy pointed her to a seat directly behind the team bench.

Azzi sat slowly, eyes scanning the whole space. Gampel looked different from down here. Bigger. Brighter. Louder, even though it wasn’t full yet. She rested her hands in her lap, curling her fingers around the fabric of her hoodie sleeves, and tried not to smile too much.

Behind the bench. Just like Paige said.

She let her eyes wander the court again, then up toward the tunnel on the far side.

Still no players out.

But soon.

—---------------------------------

5 minutes later, the lights dimmed just slightly and the music shifted to something deeper, bass-heavy. The student section roared.

South Carolina jogged out first, shoes squeaking loud as they fanned out into layup lines. The cheers were mixed—loud, but not for them. More like respectful hype. Some boos too, mostly from the students already fired up.

Azzi leaned back in her seat, watching. They looked sharp, no doubt. Big. Fast. Focused.

And then exactly five minutes after the place exploded.

Cue the hype music. Cue the lights shifting again. Cue the announcer’s voice booming over the speakers.

“HERE COME YOUR UCONN HUSKIESSSSS!”

The tunnel across the court erupted, and the team ran out in a wave—Paige leading the team, followed by Ice, KK, Caroline, Aubrey, and the rest. The noise was unreal. Azzi flinched at how loud it was down here.

She stood halfway, not sure if she was supposed to. Paige hadn’t even looked her way yet—none of them had. They were all in that pregame zone, clapping, calling plays, running straight into warm-up drills. It made her grin. They moved like they belonged. Like they owned the place.

A few minutes passed then Caroline glanced over mid-drill and did a double take. Her whole face lit up.

She jogged over first, grinning and breathless. “Ok, you’re officially the most committed tutor I’ve ever seen.”

Azzi laughed. “Gotta keep my clients in check.”

Aubrey appeared a second later, pulling up beside her with a grin. “You look good! Not, like—you look good—like you look good here. This is so cool.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. You almost stuck that landing.”

“Shut up,” Aubrey said, bumping her shoulder. “She’s coming. Brace yourself.”

Azzi didn’t have to ask who.

Paige had peeled off from the group, jogging over with a slight smirk, ball tucked under her arm

“Hey,” she said, voice a little breathy from drills.

“Hey,” Azzi said back, smiling.

They hesitated for half a second then Paige leaned in, and Azzi hugged her. It was quick but warm, familiar. Paige held on a beat longer than necessary.

Behind them, Caroline immediately made a sound like a dying seagull. “Awwwwwwwww”

“Tragic,” Aubrey added. “She’s down bad.”

“I am not,” Paige said, pulling back but very much still standing way too close.

KK appeared like she’d been summoned by the drama, spinning a ball on one finger. “Ooooo we really doing hugs now? That’s cute.”

Ice showed up behind her, sipping from a Gatorade like it was tea. “What’s next? Matching jewellery?”

Paige groaned and stepped away, dramatically throwing her hands up. “Y’all need to worry about your own business.”

“We are, that’s why we’re invested,” Ice said.

Azzi laughed.

“Okay, okay,” Caroline said, backing up. “We’ll leave you alone now. Just don’t make out in front of the children.”

KK saluted Azzi as they trotted back toward drills. “Good luck, scholar. You’re doing the Lord’s work.”

And then it was just Paige and Azzi.

Paige rubbed the back of her neck. “Sorry. They’re… always like that.”

“I kinda love it,” Azzi said. “Feels like a sitcom. A slightly chaotic one.”

Paige chuckled. “Yeah. Welcome to the show.”

Azzi tilted her head. “So. You remember what I said last night?”

Paige blinked. “Uh… which part?”

She crossed her arms, mock serious. “If you play shit, I’m not tutoring you anymore.”

Paige put a hand to her heart. “Wow. Cold.”

“But…” Azzi’s eyes sparkled a little. “Put on a masterclass…”

Paige’s grin turned smug. “And we hang out after the game.”

“Exactly.”

“Define your version of masterclass.”

“Score a bunch. Flashy passes. Maybe make someone fall. I want drama.”

Paige nodded solemnly. “Say less.”

Azzi lifted her brows. “No pressure or anything.”

“Oh, I’m pressure-proof,” Paige said, backing away toward the court. “Just wait.”

Azzi watched her jog back into the drill line and shook her head, still smiling.

—---------------------------------

The pregame announcements came and went in a blur of thunderous applause, blinding lights, and player-by-player videos flashing across the screens. UConn’s starting five had been called—Kaitlyn, Paige, Ashlynn, Sarah, and Jana—each jogging out to their own roar, each moment louder than the last.

Now, the energy in Gampel had hit that strange, electric stillness that always came right before tip-off. Like a held breath.

The court was polished to a shine, the reflections of the overhead lights rippling off the hardwood in slow motion as the players took their positions. South Carolina huddled near their bench, focused and bouncing on the balls of their feet. UConn mirrored them.

Azzi sat forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on the court. Or more accurately… on Paige.

She was in her element now—shoulders rolled back, stance low and ready, head slightly tilted like she was listening to something only she could hear. Her jersey fit perfectly. Obviously. But something about the way the lights above caught her arms, casting shadows under each line of muscle, made Azzi’s thoughts derail for a second. Maybe even longer than a second.

She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. Really. But the lighting in this arena? Insane. She could practically sketch out the definition in Paige’s arms just from the way the overheads hit them. Her arms were flexed, loose but brimming with potential energy, the way athletes looked when they were seconds from exploding off the ground. Even the veins on her forearms were visible, subtle but right there, and Azzi had to drag her eyes away before her brain gave up entirely.

Unfortunately, she didn’t drag them fast enough.

Caroline, perched at the end of the bench just a few feet away, half-turned and caught the look on Azzi’s face.

“Oh my God,” she said under her breath but not quietly enough.

Aubrey leaned over behind her. “What?” she whispered back, eyes scanning and then landing right on Azzi’s very, very red face.

“Oh my GOD,” Aubrey repeated, laughing this time.

Azzi’s head snapped around, lips already parting in protest. “Don’t.”

“No, no, it’s cute,” Caroline whispered, clearly not about to stop. “That was a full-on thirst face. Like, textbook.”

“I was not—” Azzi’s voice squeaked, which didn’t help her case.

“She was admiring the… ‘lighting’” Aubrey said, using air quotes and everything.

“It’s excellent lighting,” Azzi muttered, tugging her hoodie sleeves over her hands like they might hide her mortification.

“It’s ok,” Caroline said, barely holding in a grin. “I stare at her arms in practice all the time. It’s healthy. Builds character.”

“Yea same” Aubrey added.

Azzi buried her face in her sleeve.

“God, yall are terrible,” came in Ice, from two seats down, who must’ve caught enough of the exchange to weigh in. “Let her blush in peace.”

“She’s got front-row view of the gun show, what do you expect?” KK added from beside her, sipping from her Gatorade again.

Azzi didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was too busy trying not to pass out from secondhand embarrassment.

And then the ref blew the whistle for tip-off.

A ripple of noise surged through the crowd, a wave of cheers rolling up from the student section like thunder. Kaitlyn stepped to center court for the jump, crouched, poised. Paige was already bouncing on the balls of her feet, smirking at her matchup like she was born for this.

Azzi peeked up through her fingers.

Paige glanced toward the bench and for a split second, their eyes met.

Azzi wasn’t sure if Paige could see her blushing from there, but the little smirk that tugged at her mouth?

It said yes.

The ball was tipped, and the game began with a burst of adrenaline that pulsed through the entire arena. Jana got her fingers to it first, tapping the ball back to Paige, who immediately corralled it and pushed up the court to a roar from the crowd.

Azzi sat on the edge of her seat, practically vibrating.

From the jump, South Carolina came out locked in. Their defense was tight, switching everything, bodies quick to rotate, hands always in passing lanes. UConn’s offense opened a little jittery—hesitations, missed timing on cuts, a rushed shot or two. And Paige… Paige looked like she was pressing.

Azzi noticed it instantly.

She still looked good, poised, focused, but there was something off in the rhythm of her game. A half-second delay in decisions. A loose dribble here. A contested pull-up that bricked long. Not bad, just… not her usual smooth.

By the third possession, Paige had missed 2 jumpers, both slightly off-balance. She passed up a look from 3, choosing instead to drive and kick to Aslynn in the corner who missed.

South Carolina was capitalising early, too. A fast break off a turnover turned into a clean and-one finish, and UConn trailed 9–3 before they could get settled.

Geno stood with arms crossed, deadpan. “Let’s settle, huh? Find a flow. Let the game come to you.”

Paige nodded, but Azzi could tell—she was in her head.

She kept glancing toward the sideline. Not overtly. Just little looks. Between free throws. After a whistle. That barely-there flick of her eyes toward the bench and just past it.

Toward Azzi.

Azzi flushed every time it happened, like she’d been caught eavesdropping on a secret.

Caroline, now seated two down from Coach, leaned back during a break in play and whispered to Aubrey, “She’s tight. You see that?”

“Yeah,” Aubrey said. “She’ll settle. She’s just trying to act normal with her here.” She tilted her chin toward Azzi without looking.

Azzi caught it. She pretended not to.

Midway through the first quarter, UConn had made some changes. Still, the Huskies couldn’t get their rhythm right. The passes were clean, the movement was there, but it didn’t click yet.

By the end of the first quarter, the score was 16–12, South Carolina up. Paige had just 2 points on 1 of 5 shooting.

Second quarter, it started to shift.

Not all at once but in moments. 

Paige called a high screen and crossed over into a hesitation step-back, nailing a mid-range jumper over the outstretched arms of the defender. She didn’t celebrate but she looked straight to the side of the court again.

Right at Azzi.

Azzi raised her brows. Smiled. Gave her a small nod.

Paige cracked the tiniest smirk before turning and jogging back on defense.

It built from there.

A backdoor cut caught South Carolina off guard, and Paige hit Kaitlyn on a dime with a no-look bounce pass for an easy two. The crowd roared.

On the next possession, Paige pushed in transition, split two defenders with a lightning-quick change of pace, absorbed contact, and threw up a scoop off the glass—

Whistle. Bucket.

“AND FUCKEN ONE!”

The scream cut through the arena like a blade. Paige banged her fist into her chest once, fire in her eyes. The student section lost it.

Azzi blinked, caught between shock and—yep. That was hot.

Caroline turned halfway around, caught the expression again, and just snorted.

“Pray for her,” she murmured to Aubrey. “She’s a goner.”

UConn closed the quarter strong. Ashlynn hit a corner three off a skip pass. Paige pulled off a slick behind the back dribble that had her defender stumbling. The bench exploded. Even Coach Geno surprisingly cracked a small smile as the lead trimmed to two before the half.

Halftime score: 34–32, South Carolina still ahead.

But momentum? Shifting.

The third quarter opened like a different game.

Paige didn’t hesitate now.

She wasn’t thinking anymore, just hooping.

She blew past her defender early in the quarter with a hard right drive, finishing with a reverse that spun off the glass and went in perfectly. The next trip down, she sized up a slower defender in isolation and drilled a stepback 3 with a hand in her face. Bang.

The crowd went absolutely wild.

Paige smirked, holding up 3 fingers as she backpedaled.

Azzi jumped to her feet without even realizing it.

By now, the bench was up on every play. Morgan and Aubrey waving towels, Caroline yelling, KK throwing up 3 fingers after every 3 point shot Paige hit.

Which kept coming.

A fast break? Paige picked the pocket clean, weaved through 2 defenders, euro-stepped around a third, and finished with finesse.

Then, late in the quarter, a hesi-crossover-spin move that left her defender frozen. Paige went up strong through contact, landed awkwardly but the shot dropped.

Whistle.

She didn’t say a word—just smirked, rolling her shoulder forward in a slow, deliberate flex. Then she pounded her chest twice, her eyes saying everything her mouth didn’t.

Azzi just about melted into her chair.

Caroline didn’t even try to be subtle. She turned full-body and said, “Be honest. You’re making out with her later, right?”

Azzi covered her face. “Caroline!”

“Just checking.”

Paige ended the third with 24 points and counting.

4th quarter?

A clinic.

She was everywhere. Her footwork was surgical, her vision insane. She skipped a pass through 3 defenders for a layup, then came down and hit a transition 3 in rhythm off a kick-out from Sarah. The team was cooking.

Geno didn’t sub her once. He didn’t need to.

Final minute, Paige hit a deep 3 from the top of the key to seal it.

32 points.

Gampel was shaking.

The buzzer sounded, and the final score lit up: UConn 74, South Carolina 65.

Paige stood near mid court, hands on her hips, chest heaving, the crowd roaring around her. Her teammates mobbed her—chest bumps, shoulder slaps, screams.

But once the initial chaos died down, she pulled away gently. Walked toward the sideline.

Toward Azzi.

She looked nervous now, like the adrenaline had dropped just enough to let the rest of her rush in. Her hair was damp, sweat still clinging to her neck, but she had that grin. That stupid, crooked, overly confident one that almost hid how unsure she really was.

She stopped in front of Azzi, still catching her breath.

“So…” she said, voice light but a little unsure. “About that hangout. Or… what do you think?”

Azzi smiled, heart thudding in her chest. “I think you earned it.”

Paige’s grin went bright.

Before she could say anything else, Caroline popped up between them like she’d been waiting. “Okay lovers,” she gestured toward Aubrey and Ice, who were now approaching too,  “we’re all hitting Ted’s after. So she,” she pointed to Azzi, “is walking with us to the locker room, and you,” she turned to Paige, “are gonna meet us outside.”

“Wait, me?” Azzi blinked.

“Yeah, we’re just grabbing our stuff. Be quick,” Aubrey added. “You can wait by the tunnel. VIP access.”

Azzi hesitated, then nodded. “Ok, yea. Cool.”

“Cool,” Paige said, clearly trying not to look too pleased. “See you soon.”

Caroline pulled Azzi along with them toward the tunnel, throwing a wink back at Paige as they walked.

Paige stood there, wiping her wrist across her forehead, still riding the high of the game, the crowd, the win.

But her eyes?

They were only on Azzi.

—---------------------------------

The locker room buzzed with chatter and laughter as the team's victory sunk in. The players were all talking, half-showered, still catching their breath from the frenetic pace of the game. Paige, however, was in her own little world, the high of the game still pulsing through her veins. Her teammates had already started to scatter, some heading straight for their things, others lingering in the hallway.

She quickly finished wiping down with a towel, the heat from the shower clinging to her skin, but her mind was elsewhere on Azzi. The idea of spending time with her after the game had her stomach doing backflips. She couldn’t explain why she was suddenly so nervous, considering she had just put up 32 points in a game that felt like a war. It was almost funny how her brain switched gears so fast—one moment, she was locked in the zone, the next, she was just a girl hoping Azzi would say yes.

As she walked to the locker room exit, she found Caroline talking to Azzi near the tunnel, laughing and chatting. Caroline gave her a knowing look, a smirk pulling at her lips. “You two better make it quick,” she said, as if she had orchestrated this entire thing.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” Paige said, trying to sound cool, but there was no hiding the excitement under her voice.

Azzi smiled as she approached, still in her game-day hoodie, her hoodie strings pulled tight against the slight chill of the hallway. “You did great out there,” Azzi said, her voice calm but sincere.

“Thanks,” Paige said, her grin spreading. “I had a slow start, though. Just needed to get into a rhythm.” She shrugged, hands on her hips as they made their way outside the arena, the cool night air hitting them.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Slow start? That’s one way to put it. But you definitely found your groove. I was impressed.”

“Hey, I’m not perfect,” Paige said, rolling her eyes. “But you know how it is. Nerves. Playing in front of everyone with… you know, you in the crowd.” She didn’t really know how to say it without sounding like a total mess, but Azzi just nodded like she understood, no big deal.

They made their way down the street, with Azzi walking just a little bit ahead of Paige. Azzi was quiet, observing the world around her with the calculated calm she always carried with her. Even now, after watching Paige play, she was still analyzing, assessing.

“So, yeah,” Paige started, trying to fill the silence, “what did you think of my shooting tonight? I felt like I missed a bunch early, but I found it eventually.”

Azzi glanced over at her, her lips curling into the smallest smile. “I mean, you were taking shots from everywhere. Some of them were a little rushed early on, but you adjusted. Your footwork on that step-back three was solid. You just need to stay patient and trust the shot.”

Paige felt a little relieved, hearing Azzi’s constructive take on it. She didn’t want to come off like she was fishing for compliments, but it felt good to hear that the tweaks she’d made in her head were obvious to Azzi.

“Yeah, I was thinking too much,” Paige admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “Once I stopped caring so much about… I don’t know. I could just play. It’s like something clicked. Then, I couldn’t miss.”

Azzi nodded. “That’s how it goes. Sometimes you’ve got to let go of all that extra stuff and just play.”

They arrived at Ted’s, the place where their team frequently hung out after big games, and Paige immediately ordered hot chips for the table. It wasn’t even a question—she just knew Azzi liked them. She didn’t need to ask. They slid into the booth, a comfortable space, away from the chaos of their teammates who were already deep into drinks and dancing.

Azzi slipped her hoodie off, revealing the black cropped tank beneath. Her arms were toned, and the cool air inside the restaurant made her look effortlessly chic. She adjusted her seat, her gaze falling on the other girls as they shouted and laughed at the bar.

Paige grabbed a shot, but as she took it, Azzi raised a hand. “I’m not drinking,” she said lightly, and Paige immediately set it down, her expression flickering with surprise.

“Alright, no drinks for me either,” Paige said with a shrug, pushing the shot glass away. “Guess we’re just here for the chips then,” Paige added, giving her a wink.

Azzi snorted, looking over at the table as the drinks continued to flow. “You sure about that? Because it looks like half the team is planning on taking shots ‘til they pass out.”

Paige laughed, leaning back in the booth and trying to get comfortable, even as her teammates got more rowdy. “I don’t need to be that wild. Maybe I’ll just have a few more chips instead.”

“Right,” Azzi said, sipping her water. “Because chips are so much better than shots.”

The server came over, bringing the massive bowl of hot chips to their booth, and Paige eagerly grabbed a handful. They ate in quiet contentment, the conversation ebbing and flowing, sometimes about the game, sometimes about nothing at all.

The team’s energy was infectious, but Azzi and Paige were perfectly content in their little bubble. Paige’s arm found its way over Azzi’s shoulders, a natural motion, something unspoken, as they both relaxed into the quiet moment, watching their teammates in the distance.

Azzi leaned in a little, her cheek resting against Paige’s shoulder, the gesture so simple, but it felt like they had been doing it forever. Paige’s heart fluttered at the gesture, but she didn’t overthink it. She simply put her arm around Azzi like it was the most natural thing in the world.

—---------------------------------

As Paige and Azzi continued to settle into their little corner of the restaurant, the noise from the team started to blur into a distant hum. It felt like they were in a bubble, just the two of them, a quiet, contented space that Paige had no intention of leaving anytime soon. Paige’s arm was still casually draped over Azzi’s shoulder, and the contact felt so natural, like it had always been this way. Azzi had leaned into the touch, her head resting lightly against Paige’s shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

The clinking of glasses and laughter from the rest of the team rang out across the room, but it felt like they were in a world of their own. Paige’s heart raced a little faster every time Azzi shifted slightly closer, and she had to stop herself from overthinking it.

Just as Paige was about to say something, Caroline’s voice cut through the cozy atmosphere, full of energy and more than a little tipsy.

“Hey, you 2!” Caroline’s words were a little louder than intended, and her presence swayed across the booth like a gust of wind. She was grinning, clearly enjoying the drinks she’d had so far. She leaned in toward the 2 of them, practically collapsing onto the table with a half-laugh, half-giggle. “What’s going on over here, huh? You 2 lovebirds look way too cozy.”

Paige immediately felt her face heat up. She was trying so hard not to overthink it with Azzi, but now Caroline’s teasing was making it ten times worse. “What are you even talking about?” Paige’s voice was a little higher than usual as she glanced at Azzi, who remained leaned against her shoulder.

“I mean, look at you two,” Caroline teased, waving a hand around dramatically, her eyes sparkling from the alcohol. “You’re, like, totally in sync right now. This is a new level of cute. Someone get the cameras, I’m shipping it.”

Azzi, though her face was flushed from the warmth of the moment, just rolled her eyes with a tiny smile. “You’re drunk, Caroline.”

“Am not!” Caroline retorted immediately, before bursting into a fit of giggles. “Okay, maybe I am. But seriously, you 2? This is precious. It’s like you’re both the same person but in different outfits, you know?” She looked between them, giving them a knowing wink.

Paige couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re insane, Caroline,” she muttered, but the smile on her face betrayed her.

Caroline leaned forward, elbows on the table, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “No, I’m right, Paige. I know exactly what’s going on here. I’ve seen this movie. You’re, like, one step away from making it official. I’m here for it.” She raised an eyebrow, clearly proud of herself for her “wisdom.”

Azzi, still tucked into Paige’s side, let out a soft laugh. “Well, you’re wrong, but thanks for the insight.”

Caroline tilted her head dramatically, as if considering this. “Ok, ok, I get it. No labels. Yet.” She sat back, pouting slightly before giving Paige an exaggerated wink. “But you gotta admit, it’s pretty cute.”

Before Paige could respond, Aubrey came swaggering over, clearly on a mission. She was holding a tray full of shot glasses in one hand, her other arm draped over a teammate who was stumbling behind her. “Shots, anyone?!” Aubrey announced loudly, her voice booming across the table.

She slid into the booth beside Caroline, her grin mischievous. “Paige, I know you usually don’t pass up a drink after a game, what’s up with you tonight?” She eyed the untouched beer in front of Paige with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not telling me you’ve gone soft on me now, are you?”

Paige’s lips parted, unsure how to answer, but Azzi’s voice cut in before she could. “She’s just here with me,” Azzi said with a shrug, a soft smile playing at her lips. “No need for the shots.”

Aubrey raised an eyebrow, glancing between the 2 of them, clearly sensing something more than. “Ohh, I get it now,” she said with a teasing tone, but she was far too drunk to make it anything more than a playful remark. “You 2 are real cute. Alright, no shots for you then.”

Caroline laughed and stood up, wobbling a bit. “Imma go join the others,” she said, clearly not paying attention to the fact that she was still holding onto a shot glass. She waved, drunkenly tipping over to another table. “Enjoy,” she called out, giving them both a cheesy wink before stumbling away.

Aubrey lingered for a moment longer before turning to Paige with a raised glass. “Don’t forget, you’re still my partner in crime, alright?” She smiled and then wandered back into the mix of the team, disappearing into the crowd.

As soon as the noise of the bar filled the space again, Azzi finally leaned back into Paige’s side, her cheek resting lightly on Paige’s shoulder once more. Paige smiled down at her, her heart still racing from the attention, but also grateful for the quiet.

“So,” Azzi said, her voice soft but clear. “What do you think? Ice cream?”

Paige blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Ice cream?” she asked with a smile, still processing the energy of the last few minutes.

Azzi nodded eagerly, her excitement apparent. “Yeah, I’m craving some. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Paige grinned, feeling a spark of energy at the idea. “Well, if you’re craving it, I’m definitely down.” She gave a quick look to her teammates still sitting at the table—Sarah, Allie, and Morgan—who weren’t drinking and were busy having a quieter conversation. Paige stood up, grabbing Azzi’s hand with a soft tug. “Let’s go tell them, make sure they’re cool, and then we can head out.”

Azzi looked up at her, her eyes lighting up at the idea of leaving the craziness behind for a little while. “I’m so down.”

Paige waved to the table of freshmen, who were all sitting together, and walked over to them with Azzi at her side. She leaned in and whispered, “We’re heading out for ice cream, you guys good here? Make sure everyone else is fine, alright?” She glanced back at the table full of noise and chaos.

Sarah, Allie, and Morgan looked up, nodding with understanding. “Yea, we got it,” Sarah said with a grin, her eyes glancing over at the wild energy of their teammates. “Go get that ice cream, we’ll make sure the rest of them don’t do anything stupid.”

Paige smiled and gave a quick nod before turning to Azzi, her heart racing with excitement. “Alright, let’s go.”

Azzi gave her a smile that made everything feel even better. “Let’s get ice cream.”

The night air hit them as soon as they stepped outside, crisp and cool against their flushed cheeks. The sky was a deep navy, scattered with stars barely visible against the glow of the campus lights. Paige immediately reached for the zipper of her jacket, tugging it up just a bit, but next to her, Azzi shivered slightly.

Without a word, Azzi pulled the same hoodie she’d worn earlier and slipped it back on. Her fingers worked quickly, tugging it over her head before she stuffed her hands into the front pocket with a little sigh. The hoodie was a bit oversized, the sleeves just brushing her knuckles, and it made her look even cozier. Paige glanced over, smiling quietly to herself.

“Cold?” Paige asked, even though it was obvious.

Azzi nodded, blowing out a puff of air that hung briefly in front of them like fog. “I thought it was gonna be warmer tonight. Rookie mistake.”

“You were inside a packed restaurant full of drunk 20-somethings,” Paige said, nudging her lightly with her elbow. “It probably felt like summer in there.”

Azzi gave a soft laugh, bumping her back gently. “Yea, well… my body regrets that confidence.”

They started down the path toward the main strip near campus, their steps naturally in sync without either of them trying. It was one of those peaceful silences, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Paige kept glancing sideways at Azzi every now and then, not even meaning to—just checking in, like her brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that they’d actually left together. Just the 2 of them.

“You ever notice how food cravings hit way harder after games? How I felt back in my basketball days.” Azzi asked suddenly, her voice casual.

Paige grinned. “Literally every time. I’ll finish a game, chug half a Gatorade, and 10 minutes later I’m like, ‘You know what sounds good? 17 pancakes.’”

Azzi snorted. “You would eat 17 pancakes.”

“If the stakes were high enough? Hell yea.”

“What stakes would require 17 pancakes?”

“World peace. Or, like… if someone dared me.”

Azzi laughed, the kind of laugh that crinkled her eyes and made Paige’s chest feel a little too tight for a second.

They turned the corner toward the strip of late-night food spots, the ice cream place glowing warm and welcoming. It was mostly empty inside, just a couple people scattered in booths. Paige held the door open, letting Azzi step in first, and they both headed straight to the counter.

“I’m going mint chocolate chip,” Paige said confidently. “I need that refreshing hit. Cleans the soul.”

Azzi gave her a look. “It tastes like toothpaste.”

“That’s slander. You’re just uncultured.”

Azzi raised her eyebrows. “Uncultured? I’ll have you know I’m a chocolate traditionalist.”

“Boring,” Paige muttered, grinning.

Azzi stuck out her tongue. “Delicious.”

Paige paid for both of them and got their cones and walked back out into the night. The cold air was a little sharper now, but it was quiet, peaceful. They strolled aimlessly, just enjoying the calmness.

About halfway through her cone, Paige paused. They were walking near the rec center, and just beyond the sidewalk, the outdoor court sat under the dim glow of overhead lights. It was deserted at this hour, just the faint echo of music from someone’s speaker in the distance. And right there, abandoned like it had fallen from the sky, was a basketball.

Paige’s eyes lit up.

“Ohhhhh,” she said, already veering off the path. “Look at that. Fate.”

Azzi followed her gaze. “What, the ball?”

“Yep.” Paige scooped it up with one hand, spinning it in her palm. “You know what this means.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, licking her ice cream. “That some rec bro forgot his ball?”

Paige pointed the ball at her dramatically. “That we have been chosen by the basketball Gods to honour this sacred space.”

Azzi gave her a look that was about 90% amusement and 10% fake disbelief. “You’re such a dork.”

Paige smirked. “A dork who can cross you up in one try.”

Azzi took another bite of her ice cream and said with the straightest face possible, “Let me finish this chocolate masterpiece, and then you can embarrass yourself.”

Paige laughed and bumped her gently with her hip, careful not to knock her cone. “You’re lucky I’m letting you warm up first.”

They wandered toward the edge of the court but didn’t step on it just yet, choosing instead to sit on the bench nearby and enjoy their cones. Paige took a dramatic bite of her mint chocolate chip, shivering exaggeratedly like she’d just ascended to flavor heaven.

“Tell me that’s not the most refreshing thing ever.”

Azzi stared at her. “It’s literally minty milk.”

“It’s rejuvenating,” Paige insisted, licking the drip that slid down the side.

Azzi grinned, taking a bite of her chocolate. “You know what’s rejuvenating? Something that doesn’t taste like mouthwash.”

“You’re so wrong it physically hurts me.”

They both laughed, their knees lightly touching where they sat side by side. Neither moved away.

Paige leaned back slightly, balancing the basketball on her knee. “You know, this night didn’t suck.”

Azzi gave a quiet hum of agreement. “Yeah. It really didn’t.”

Paige looked over at her. There was a peace about her right now, something soft and grounded. Paige looked away before she could linger too long.

“You still good for balling after this?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Azzi licked the edge of her cone, then gave her a sideways glance. “I was born ready. I just didn’t know I’d be playing in a hoodie and jeans.”

“I mean, I’m in Jordans and vibes. We’ll survive.”

Azzi snorted. “Jordans and vibes? That should be your next Instagram caption.”

“Please, like I’d waste that level of genius on a random post.”

They sat in companionable silence for another minute, each of them working through the last of their cones. Paige’s fingers were a little sticky, her mouth tingling from the cold. Azzi was licking the last bit of chocolate from the tip of her cone with a soft hum of satisfaction.

“Alright,” Paige said, standing up and tossing her napkin into a nearby trash can. She spun the ball once in her hands and looked down at Azzi, a playful glint in her eyes. “Game on?”

Azzi stood slowly, brushing the crumbs from her hands, hoodie sleeves flopping slightly over her fingers. “Game on.”

And with that, they stepped onto the court, just two silhouettes under the glow of the campus lights, still riding the warmth of laughter and sugar. The night wasn’t over just yet.

The basketball echoed softly against the court as Paige bounced the ball a couple of times, her eyes narrowing playfully at Azzi. They’d gone from laughing and joking to this, a one-on-one game. Azzi was looking at her like she was about to put up a fight, and that… that was exactly what Paige needed.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Paige grinned, dribbling the ball between her legs, flashing a quick, confident look at Azzi. “I warned you, I’m in elite form tonight.”

Azzi crossed her arms, leaning back against the court’s outer boundary, watching Paige with a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Elite, huh? We’ll see how ‘elite’ you are when you can’t keep up with me.”

“Oh, it’s on,” Paige said, eyes locking onto Azzi’s with playful intensity.

The first point was quick. Paige faked right, then spun left, finishing with a smooth layup. “Boom. 1-0, me.”

Azzi didn’t miss a beat, bouncing the ball with a practiced hand. “Yeah, you’re real smooth. Let’s see if you can keep that up.”

The game quickly turned into an all-out battle. Paige was fast and agile, but Azzi wasn’t letting her off the hook. With every move, Azzi made Paige work harder. At one point, Paige tried to fake a jumper but Azzi was right in her face, her hand up, challenging her to make the shot.

“Oh shit, you’re not gonna let me get anything easy, are you?” Paige grunted, trying to slip around Azzi’s defense but failing as Azzi’s hand swatted the ball away.

“Not a chance,” Azzi grinned, stealing the ball and dribbling it down the court with fluid ease, taking her own shot for 1-1.

They kept exchanging points like that. Paige, despite all the cocky smirks and back-and-forth banter, couldn’t deny Azzi was holding her own. 

The score was tied at 8-8, and Paige was starting to feel the burn.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “I’m sore as hell. My legs are still feeling that game earlier.”

Azzi, not buying the excuse, shot her a sly look. “Sore, huh? You seem fine to me.”

“I’m telling you,” Paige huffed, bending slightly at the waist. “If I’m not careful, I’ll pull something. Might even tear my hamstring.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Uh huhhhh. Sure.”

“Ok, look,” Paige said, stepping back to reset, “Maybe a little hamstring tear will help with your defense.”

Azzi smirked, taking a deep breath before getting back into position. “That so? Bring it.”

It wasn’t long before they were back at it, and Paige, feeling the heat of the competition, decided to pull out some tricks. On the next possession, she faked a shot and instead went for a quick spin to the right, aiming for an easy drive to the basket.

But Azzi, as usual, was right there, her hand shooting up to contest the shot. They collided, their bodies pressing together in defense, and Paige let out a surprised laugh, nearly losing her balance. “Damn, Azzi, no need to get so handsy.”

Azzi shot her a knowing grin. “What can I say? I play d like a pro.”

They were up to 12-12 now, and Paige was starting to feel the pressure. Azzi wasn’t giving her an inch, and Paige’s energy was starting to flag.

She came up with an idea—tickling. As Azzi came at her with her signature defense stance, arms wide, Paige couldn’t help but smirk.

As Azzi lunged to block, Paige slipped a hand under her ribs, giving a quick poke. Azzi jumped, her posture faltering for just a second, which was all Paige needed. “Gotcha!” Paige yelled, driving for the basket and scoring easily. “That’s 13-12, baby!”

Azzi shot her a playful glare, shaking her head as she bounced the ball. “You are so lucky that was a game move.”

Paige laughed, throwing her hands up in mock victory. “I’m just that good.”

Azzi came back with a vengeance, charging at Paige like a freight train. “Oh, you think you’re good?” she teased, getting in Paige’s face, her arms up in perfect defensive form. Paige stepped back, trying to pull off another quick move, but Azzi stayed glued to her like a shadow.

Paige could feel her exhaustion creeping in, her muscles sore from the earlier game, the endless dribbling, and now the added pressure of Azzi’s perfect defense. “Shit,” Paige grunted, trying to push past her. “No way. I’m not losing this.”

Azzi grinned. “We’ll see. It’s 16-15 now, so you better pull something out of your bag of tricks.”

Paige wiped her forehead again, eyeing the ball. She was getting cocky, maybe a little too cocky. “Watch and learn,” she muttered, then launched herself into a spin move, faking a pass to her left and then driving right.

Azzi wasn’t fooled. She blocked the shot cleanly, sending the ball flying off toward the side. “Not so fast, superstar,” she taunted, scooping the ball and taking it to the hoop. She finished the layup, making it 17-15.

Paige’s jaw dropped. “What the hell? That was supposed to be my shot!”

Azzi shrugged, clearly pleased with herself. “Guess you’re not as elite as you thought.”

Now Paige was scrambling. “Oh, it’s on, Azzi. I’m about to turn this around.”

But it was too late. Azzi, cool and composed, didn’t let up. With every move, Paige felt herself getting slower, her excuses sounding weaker. Finally, after a contested shot, Azzi knocked it down to make the score 19-15. The game was almost over.

“You good?” Azzi teased, eyes sparkling with playful victory. “You sure you don’t want to just give up now?”

“No fucking way,” Paige snapped, trying to dig deep, but it was clear the fight was out of her.

Azzi crossed her arms, leaning against the hoop with a smug grin. “1 point left. You ready to admit defeat?”

Paige put her hands on her knees, out of breath and just a little defeated, but still smiling. “Alright, alright. You’re gonna make me do the walk of shame, huh?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Yup. And when you do, you can call me ‘the one who took you down.’”

Paige scoffed, trying one last desperate shot, but Azzi was right there. She grabbed the ball and bounced it once before driving to the basket and finishing with a smooth layup.

The game was over.

“20-15,” Azzi said, grinning. “You didn’t even come close in the end.”

Paige sank to her knees dramatically, holding a hand to her chest like she’d just played the game of her life. “Alright, you win. But next time? I’m going all out. No excuses.”

Azzi laughed, offering a hand to Paige to help her up. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Paige grinned and grabbed her hand, pulling herself up. “You’ve been warned. I’m gonna get you back for this.”

Azzi raised her eyebrow, chuckling. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The sound of their heavy breathing slowly filled the quiet space between them as they both collapsed onto the bench, feeling the cool night air wrap around them like a soft blanket. The basketball court lay empty now, the only sound being the occasional squeak of their shoes shifting as they stretched their legs, their bodies sore from the intense game.

Paige wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, breathing in deeply, trying to catch her breath. She couldn’t help but chuckle at how worked up they both had gotten. The whole game had been a battle, but somehow, the competition had felt like nothing more than a way to spend time with Azzi. They were both sweaty and exhausted, but there was something calming about the stillness now that the game was over.

Azzi, sitting beside her, leaned back, staring up at the stars. The light from the nearby lampposts bathed their surroundings in a soft, golden glow, making everything seem peaceful. Azzi’s gaze drifted to the sky, her face a little more relaxed now that the adrenaline was fading.

“You know,” Paige said, breaking the silence, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a game quite like that. You actually made me work for every point.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, a smile tugging at her lips. “I told you, you weren’t gonna get anything easy tonight.”

Paige grinned, leaning back on the bench, her eyes following the stars as well. “Yeah, you sure weren’t kidding. I’ve got to give it to you, Azzi. You’ve got some serious game.”

Azzi shrugged, her eyes still locked on the stars. “It’s nothing, really. Just the usual. I’ve played for a  long time.” She paused, and for a second, her voice softened. “But you… you’ve got a real competitive streak. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”

Paige’s heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in Azzi’s voice. She wanted to say something more, to ask her what she meant, but instead, she just nodded, taking in the peacefulness of the moment. They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, just staring up at the vastness above them, listening to the occasional rustling of the trees in the distance.

A few moments passed, and Paige couldn’t help but feel a pull to Azzi. She looked over at her, noticing the soft curve of her neck and the way the moonlight seemed to highlight her profile. Without really thinking, Paige shifted a little closer, her leg brushing against Azzi’s, the faintest of touches.

Azzi didn’t pull away. Instead, she subtly leaned into Paige’s side, her shoulder gently bumping against hers. Paige’s pulse quickened slightly, but she didn’t move away. She wanted to stay right there, close to Azzi.

After a beat, Azzi shifted even closer, her head resting gently on Paige’s shoulder. Paige’s breath caught in her throat, and she could feel the warmth of Azzi’s presence seeping into her. It felt natural, easy, like they’d been sitting this way for years.

Paige’s arm moved instinctively, draping over Azzi’s shoulder. Her fingers brushed lightly against the soft fabric of Azzi’s hoodie, then lightly caressed her, almost as if to reassure herself that this was real. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant, as if it were something more than just a casual touch.

Azzi let out a soft sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as she settled deeper into Paige’s side. “I’m a little tired,” she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. “But… I don’t really want to leave yet. This is nice.”

Paige’s heart fluttered, a small smile curling at the corners of her lips. She couldn’t explain why, but hearing Azzi say that, in that tone of voice, made her feel… warm. Safe. She felt her own exhaustion creeping up on her, but she wanted to savor this moment just a little longer.

“I get it,” Paige murmured, her voice low and soft. She tilted her head slightly, resting her cheek gently on the top of Azzi’s head. Her hair was soft against Paige’s skin, and the feeling of Azzi so close made Paige’s chest tighten in a way that was almost unexplainable.

Azzi shifted slightly, her breath even and calm, and Paige’s heart fluttered again at the closeness between them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so… connected to someone like this. There was something about Azzi that made her want to protect her, to keep her close, and it wasn’t just the competitive edge that had drawn her in during the game. No, this felt different. Something deeper.

The two of them just sat there in the quiet, the only sound was their breathing and the faint hum of the world around them. Paige didn’t want to break the silence, not yet. It felt perfect. Just being with Azzi like this, in this moment, was all she needed.

—---------------------------------

The night had grown even quieter, the sounds of the world fading into the background as the two of them sat there, still and content. Azzi’s breathing had become slower, more even, and before Paige even realized it, Azzi’s head had tilted slightly, resting more comfortably against her shoulder. Paige noticed the softness of Azzi’s breath against her skin, the way her body had relaxed completely, sinking into the warmth of their shared space. Azzi was falling asleep.

Paige’s heart fluttered again, but this time, it was with an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. She watched her for a few moments, unable to tear her eyes away from the peaceful look on Azzi’s face. She almost didn’t want to disturb her, not when things felt this good, this right. But as time passed, Paige felt her own exhaustion creeping back in, and she knew it was time to head back to their dorms.

She carefully shifted, adjusting her arm around Azzi’s shoulder, and gently nudged her. “Hey… Azzi,” she murmured softly, a little hesitant, not wanting to disrupt the calm atmosphere they’d settled into. “You should get some real sleep. You can’t just crash here.”

Azzi stirred, blinking sleepily. She rubbed her eyes, groaning softly as she adjusted herself, her face still nestled against Paige’s shoulder. “Mmm… it’s fine,” she mumbled, her voice thick with the remnants of sleep. “I’m good.”

Paige smiled softly, amused by how stubborn Azzi could be. “I know you’re good, but I’m walking you back to your dorm,” she said, a gentle firmness in her voice. “Come on, let’s go. It’s just a 10 minute walk.”

Azzi gave a half-hearted sigh but didn’t argue. “You really don’t have to—” she started, but Paige was already standing, pulling Azzi to her feet with a gentle hand on her back.

“I know, but I want to,” Paige said, grinning. “It’s just a short walk. Plus, I get to spend a little more time with you, so I’m good.”

Azzi chuckled softly, adjusting the sleeve of her hoodie, but let Paige guide her toward the path that led to her dorm. The walk was quiet but comfortable, the night air still warm enough for them to walk side by side without shivering. Paige kept glancing at Azzi, noticing how tired she looked but also how content. It made something inside Paige stir, something she couldn’t quite place but knew she didn’t want to let go of.

—---------------------------------

When they finally reached Azzi’s dorm, Paige stopped at the entrance, her hand resting on the doorframe. Azzi turned to face her, eyes still a little heavy from sleep, but a soft smile tugged at her lips.

“Thanks for walking me back,” Azzi said quietly, her voice low but sincere. “And for the game tonight. It was… fun. I really needed it.”

Paige smiled, her heart doing a little flip at Azzi’s words. “No problem,” she said, voice soft. “Thanks for coming out, Azzi. It was… honestly one of the best parts of my day.”

Azzi looked at her for a moment, her gaze lingering, and then, without saying anything more, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Paige in a slow, steady hug. Paige froze for just a second, her arms instinctively going around Azzi’s back. The warmth between them felt different this time. Deeper. Something unspoken passed between them, something soft and vulnerable.

Azzi held the hug a little longer than usual, her cheek resting gently against Paige’s, and Paige couldn’t help but feel a rush of emotions swirl in her chest. When they finally pulled away, Azzi gave a small, almost shy smile. “You wanna come over tomorrow?” she asked, her voice casual, but Paige could hear the quiet invitation behind her words. “Just to hang out. Not for tutoring or anything. I’ll make you coffee, or whatever.”

Paige blinked for a moment, surprised by the offer, but the thought of spending more time with Azzi made her pulse quicken. “Yeah,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “I’d like that.”

Azzi smiled again, a little more brightly this time. “Cool. I’ll text you when I wake up.”

Paige felt a warmth spread through her chest, and for a brief moment, she didn’t know what to say. She just stood there, looking at Azzi with a soft smile, her heart pounding in her chest.

Azzi, still blinking a little, smiled back, a quiet but genuine expression on her face. There was something in the way they stood there, something that made Paige feel like this moment was more than just a goodbye. It was the kind of silence that said everything and nothing all at once.

“Well,” Paige started, clearing her throat, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Azzi nodded, her smile still lingering. “Yea, tomorrow. Goodnight, Paige.”

“Goodnight, Azzi,” Paige replied softly, giving her one last lingering glance before Azzi walked back into her dorm.

As she made her way down the path, she could feel the warmth of their moments still radiating through her chest. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. A spark of something she couldn’t quite name, but one she was more than willing to explore.

And as she walked, Paige couldn’t help but think—tomorrow was something she was already looking forward to. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[fingertipsmp3]

The fact that someone interacted with one of my personal posts from close to a year ago and then vagued about it needs to be studied

[bwabys-scenarios]

Could I get a yandere meruem x reader on her period? Tyy <3

Prized Possession(NSFW)

Yandere!Meruem x Fem!Reader

!!REBLOGS APPRECIATED!!

A/N: I wasn’t sure exactly what you wanted so I did a lil nsfw fic, but if you want something SFW/headcanons/etc then please feel free to send another request with specification ^^

warnings: fingering, pussy eating, dubcon, public sex, period sex, breeding, mentions of pregnancy, Pitou treats you like their queen and pampers you, Meruem is HORNY, obsessive and possessive behavior

Yandere NSFW: @lightshowerrr @highbats69 @jungtoast @nenggie @aliceattheart

If you want to be added to the taglist, please check out the taglist information in my pinned post then comment what you want to be added to! Make sure you have your age in your bio and that your blog can be tagged/mentioned!

It had been two days since Meruem had tightened the metaphorical collar around your neck, keeping you stationed on his lap at all times of the day. His nose stayed buried in your neck, and despite your cries to at least do it behind close doors, his fingers stayed buried in your pussy, lightly pumping into you.

“Shh, shh, my princess. This is for your own good, so don’t complain.”

He curled his fingers in your cunt, pressing down on your abdomen and humming lightly. “Soon… I can smell it.”

Meruem had never been the type to keep you too far out of his reach, but lately his version of love had been absolutely smothering. It wasn’t always revolved around sex, sometimes he would force you into the little nest of blankets and pillows he built for you, or hold you so tight you’d have to remind him of his strength while gasping for air.

He couldn’t stop purring as he ran his hand over your abdomen, continuing to say how “close it was”. You didn’t even want to know what he was talking about, but by the way you started to feel kind of icky and tired, you were beginning to understand.

And you were terrified.

Now, you liked Meruem. He wasn’t as cruel as others made him out to be, and he sure did have quite the soft spot for you, but he still was an inhuman monster that ate humans. And because of his inhumanity, his knowledge of the human body was limited, besides what he read from medical text books and the own way his semi-human instincts reacted to the changes in your hormones.

And that’s how you found yourself being awoken in the middle of the night to Meruem lapping at your cunt, a dull ache in your abdomen.

“Ugh… Meruem…”

He glanced up, his hands on your thighs. “My princess… did I disturb your sleep?”

Although his words sounded sweet, there was a hint of mischief in his eyes. If he wanted you to stay asleep, he could have made sure you did, but instead he decided to gently push at your abdomen as he continued to gorge on your pussy.

It was then you noticed the red on his mouth, and fit a fleeting second you feared the pain you were experiencing was due to him LITERALLY eating your pussy.

But no, it wasn’t anything like that. With another soft push on your abdomen, you watched as blood dribbled into his mouth.

“I knew it was close… how I’ve waited for this time of the month…”

You whined in embarrassment and pleasure, gripping the sheets as you felt his tongue push into your sensitive pussy. “P-please… too much…”

He didn’t stop, and you knew better than to push him away or complain too much. Meruem would never hurt you in anyway, but you knew that no amount of pushing or complaining would make him stop. It would just make him purr and push harder, just enough to put you on the edge of pain and pleasure. A vague discomfort, but not enough to hurt.

So instead of pushing or whining, you whimpered softly, gently stroking his face. He quite enjoyed that, his eyes narrowing in contentment. “Such a good girl… there you go, almost there…”

Meruem took great pride in his ability to make you cum within minutes of being between your legs. He was a natural from the beginning. Of course he was, he was king.

He stayed there, between your legs for what seemed like hours, each orgasm helping to relive the ache in your abdomen. Once he was thoroughly satisfied, he moved up to your face, rutting his hips against yours.

At this point he looked almost feral, his eyes peering down at you as his thick cock rested on your belly. He rubbed it against you, growling as he lowered his blood stained face to yours.

“Kiss me.”

It was only a for a second, but your hesitation caused him to growl lowly. “I won’t repeat myself.”

He gripped your chin, squeezing just enough to make you uncomfortable. You whimpered softly as you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.

As soon as Meruem felt the touch of your lips, he relaxed. It wasn’t long before you felt his cock prodding at your pussy, and his tongue prodding at your lip.

You really didn’t want to taste your own blood, but you also didn’t want to be scolded, so you obediently opened your lips, just as his cock sank into your bloody cunt.

He allowed you to whine, for your nails to scratch his back as he began to fuck into you. Meruem had the power to stop you whenever he wanted, but he didn’t. How kind he was to you, how lenient he was with his little pet.

“Shh… be a good pet and take it.”

Meruem preferred to be as close to you as possible when fucking you. His instincts told him to keep you pinned down and still, to breed you when he started smelling the sweet pheromones of your menstrual cycle.

Nights like this were exhausting. He needed you so badly, his brain filled with the need to breed you until your belly was heavy with his seed. It didn’t help that you were crying out and moaning beneath him in this sensitive state of yours.

How he loved the sounds you made, the cries and whimpers, the moans and whines. You really were his little princess, the perfect pet to play with in his spare time.

But… at the same time, you were much more than that. When the royal guard suggested he start spreading his seed among the many human women at his disposal, he became angry and almost… guilty. He didn’t want to impregnate some woman he didn’t know, he wanted you and you alone.

Perhaps he did love you. He had read many books, some being novels on romance. Meruem didn’t really understand it at first, but after meeting you he just couldn’t get you out of his head. It was an unhealthy obsession, you were supposed to be a way to waste away his spare time, but now he was beyond attached.

As he filled your womb once again with his cum, he placed a hand over your belly. “My little mate… yes, that’s what you are, my mate…”

He lightly traced circles in your belly with his finger, his eyes soft. The urge to mark you and cover you in his scent was overwhelming. He felt so possessive over you, even though you only interacted with his Royal Guards, he still felt the need to make sure everyone knew you were his.

As your blood soaked into the soft sheets of your shared bed, he finally pulled out, humming softly. “Pitou.”

They were by his side in seconds, not reacting at all to the scene in front of them. Meruem pulled you into his lap, petting you as if you were his exhausted puppy, rather than the woman he deemed his mate.

“Bathe her, dress her, then feed her.”

Without hesitation, they nodded. “Yes, King Meruem.”

You whined softly as Pitou carried you in their arms. One hand was on the soft curve of your ass, and the other was in your hair, soothing you softly. You were their queen, someone Meruem ordered they worship just as much as they worshipped him, so they did just that.

“My queen, I see you’ve come into heat.”

Pitou set you by the bathtub, filling it up with warm water as they used a rag to wipe away the blood from your thighs. After all the access blood was gone, they placed you in the warm water. “Heat..? I guess… that’s what you would call it.”

You relaxed as Pitou washed your body, their hands grazing your soft breasts and thighs. “It seems King Meruem has successfully bred you. It’s an honor to bear the King’s young.”

You watched as Pitou caressed your belly, right over your womb. You weren’t sure how they would know you were pregnant, surely there was no way you were already. “The King’s semen is potent, you’ll be with child soon.”

Ah, that explained it. They just assumed since you and Meruem had sex, that there was no way you weren’t pregnant. You’d laid with Meruem several times before, but this time… he was really adamant about filling you up.

Pitou rinsed you before scooping you up as if you were just a kitten. They dried you off, grabbing a pair of panties for you with the pad already applied. It was a bit humiliating how much the royal guards babies you, but you couldn’t do much about it. Once you were dressed, Pitou purred softly, butting their head against your hand.

Meruem didn’t allow for much affection, but you did. You smelled so much like him, and as the queen you were the second best, and the only one other than Meruem that Pitou would be so docile for. “Mmph, my queen…”

You let them carry you back to your chambers, where Pouf and Youpi were waiting with a meal, prepared just for you. Meruem sat on your now freshly cleaned bed, reading a book. He looked up for only a second, giving you a knowing smile.

“Eat, you need your energy. You’re losing blood, so it’s iron rich.”

You sat down, Pitou laying their head in your lap as you ate. You were surprised at how lenient Meruem was with Pitou, but the ant just saw Pitou as nothing more than your pet, and his servant. The cat like ant purred and mewed softly as you petted their head. It was a bit strange, but it was the only physical contact you got outside of Meruem. The other two royal guards didn’t seem to like you as much, more like they put up with your presence to keep their king happy.

After you finished your meal, Meruem set his book down. “Come.”

Pitou set up immediately so you could follow Meruem’s orders. You stood, wobbling slightly, causing Pitou to shoot up and accompany you. They acted like a mama cat, grooming your hair as they guided you to Meruem’s side.

Pitou set you down, the kneeled next to Meruem as he pulled you into his lap. “Sleep, you need rest. Do not think this was the only breeding session, this process will happen until your heat is over.”

You knew that Meruem was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn’t a liar, and he didn’t over exaggerate. If he said you needed rest, you would.

You slid your hair on his chest, closing your eyes as he ran his hand over your hair.

You weren’t looking forward to this week at all.

[maplesyrupsainz]

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙ur hot call me | GR63˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

pairing: george russell x florist y/n reader (she/her)

genre: social media au

warnings: none jus fluff :)

summary: in which a mysterious boy leaves a note for you to call him in your workplace, so you do

a/n: got a super vague request for george content so hope i did him justice!!! i luv george sorry if it's soo short

request!!!!: hello hello, i would like to request a george smau? i know we love him and carmen but... i'm in my george feels tonight so... i don't think i have an actual request i just want more george...

fc: various brunette girls from pinterest

my masterlist

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by yourbff, user1, and 1,183 others

yourusername this is me trying not to exclusively post 🌻🌹🌷🪻!!

view all 89 comments

yourbff i miss u!

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georgerussell63

liked by alex_albon, landonorris, and 333,728 others

georgerussell63 🌊🌺👯‍♂️🍷

view all 4,283 comments

charles_leclerc thanks again for the flowers george

alex_albon ?? he got me flowers too

landonorris the boy is mineee

georgerussell63 can everyone relax

user1 my favs fr

user2 who r the flowers for george russell 63⁉️

user3 me

charles_leclerc me

user4 😭

messages ->

instagram ->

yourusername posted a story

liked by yourbff, georgerussell63, and 102 others

yourbff where are you

yourusername on a date 🤫

yourusername with flower shop boy

yourbff tell me everything

georgerussell63 posted a story

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris, and 137,183 others

charles_leclerc the mystery woman

landonorris interesting

messages ->

twitter ->

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by georgerussell63, yourbff, and 1,728 others

yourusername 🐱💐🌼❤️

view all 101 comments

georgerussell63 nice caption

yourusername i copied (u)😊

yourbff the note lol

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user8 wait

twitter ->

messages ->

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by yourbff, user8, and 3,283 others

yourusername some of my favourite bouquets from this week 🌷

view all 1,019 comments

yourbff the last one is insane & my favourite ever

yourusername this is exactly how i feel about u

user10 this is george's new gf's account??

comment deleted by yourusername

user11 she doesnt seem like george's usual type

comment deleted by yourusername

user12 this is george's gf?? why is she a flop lowkey

comment deleted by yourusername

comments are now restricted on this post

twitter ->

instagram ->

georgerussell63

liked by lewishamilton, alex_albon, and 402,837 others

georgerussell63 pic haul

view all 6,273 comments

user17 no girl this time

user18 she cant handle it i think

yourbff make dinner for me next time too im left out

georgerussell63 are you sure you want that

user19 who is this girl ?? what is going on 😭

user20 how many gfs george got 💀

charles_leclerc everyone is obsessed with your personal life george

georgerussell63 i know, how boring

user21 yikes

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instagram ->

yourusername

liked by georgerussell63, yourbff, and 63,273 others

yourusername it's u & me thts my whole world <3

tagged: georgerussell63

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georgerussell63 oh my god

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georgerussell63 it was love at first sight

charles_leclerc we lost a real one today

alex_albon fly high 🕊️

georgerussell63 so dramatic for what?

user25 new favourite wag

liked by yourusername

THE END 🤍

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Ten

Series Masterlist This chapter had a lot of mistakes when I pulled it up, so forgive me (or better yet, shoot me an ask) if you see any editing issues I might have missed! I just need to get it out and I can look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow. Also! Do y'all think this story needs a signature cover pic or is posting it without media okay?

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The sound reaches Kelly before anything else does- low, repetitive, clinical.

Not music. Not voices. Just engines. Tires over rumble strips. A gearbox caught mid-shift.

It’ wasn’t unusual, at first. Racing is their whole life. Their apartment is crowned with race memorabilia and sim rig parts and limited edition stickers tucked neatly into drawers. But something about the loop- the steadiness of it, the fact that it hasn’t changed since she left him this morning- makes her stomach tighten.

She walks quietly through the entryway, coat still on, bag slung over one shoulder. The lights are dim. It’s late. And Max is exactly where she figured he’d be. On the couch. Elbows braced on his knees. One hand thumbing through a frame-by-frame replay on his phone while the big screen mirrors the onboard feed from Zandvoort. Not his.

Hers.

Again.

Kelly doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches as Max gives P a half-armed hug and lets her scurry off to her room without so much as looking away from the screen. The ghost-blue glow of the television flickers across his face as he rewinds the same three seconds for the fifth time- brake, shift, turn-in, throttle. Brake. Shift. Turn-in. Throttle.

The footage is raw. No commentary. No overlay. Just the cockpit camera, the static of the engine, and the sound of her breathing through the corners. Kelly quietly sets her bag on the chair by the door. “You’ve watched that one before,” she says, lightly, not accusing. Just… noticing.

Max doesn’t glance up. “It’s clean.”

She crosses the room slowly, unzipping her coat. “Is that why you’re watching it on loop at 10 PM?”

His eyes stay on the screen. “It’s clean,” he repeats.

There’s a pause. The footage stutters and restarts. Her lap at Spa. That final sector, again. Kelly doesn’t sit. She just stands near the edge of the kitchen island, watching him the way someone watches a rabid dog. With caution. She tries again, gentler this time. “Do you need something to eat? You didn’t touch dinner.”

Max shakes his head once, barely a motion. “I’m not hungry.”

Kelly swallows the sigh threatening to rise in her chest. Not because she’s angry. Not even because she’s jealous. But because something is wrong, and he won’t say what it is. She waits for him to explain. He doesn’t.

“It’s just…” she gestures vaguely toward the screen. “That’s the only thing you’ve been watching lately. Not your races. Not your onboard. Not the other teams.”

Max finally looks over at her, but it’s more of a glance than a connection. “I’m just trying to understand something. Understand what eve-” He stops, like he realizes he was dangerously close to saying something real. 

“Understand what?”

Deflection. “Her line through Pouhon.”

That’s it. No elaboration. No analysis. No curiosity. Just her line. The way she takes a corner. Like it’s that fucking simple.

Kelly walks around to face him fully now. Her voice is calm but razor-thin. “You’ve won two races since Zandvoort. Two. And you didn’t even fucking smile on either podium.”

He still doesn’t look at her. That’s what breaks her. 

Kelly wraps her arms around herself. She suddenly feels cold, like the air in the room has shifted without her permission. “You’ve been off lately,” she says, carefully. “Not just here. Everywhere. After the race… the podium… it’s like you’re not even there.”

Max doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even blink. His jaw flexes once. That’s all.

Kelly presses her lips together. “Did something happen?”

He hits rewind. The footage stutters again. She watches him watch her- slow motion this time. The car rotates through Eau Rouge, and he’s studying her steering input like a man dissecting scripture.

“Max.”

He exhales through his nose. Not a sigh. Not frustration. Just… breathing. “Nothing happened,” he says.

She nods once. It’s not confirmation. Not really. The room is silent again, except for the sound of the car. Her car. Her lap. Kelly runs a hand through her hair, a quiet fidget. “Okay.”

She doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t push. She just turns, heads toward the hallway, leaving Max in the half-light, the onboard footage playing on a loop behind her.

He doesn’t notice her leave. He’s already rewinding again.

It starts happening at night.

Max disappears after dinner- doesn’t say where, doesn’t say why. Just vanishes down the hallway and shuts the office door behind him.

The first few nights, she pretends not to care. Watches a show by herself. Answers emails. Does a skincare routine she’s too tired to enjoy. By the fifth night, it’s not just a habit- it’s a pattern. The door locks at 9:37 PM, give or take a minute. Doesn’t open again until after midnight.

Kelly hears it click every time. 

She checks before she goes to bed, like she always does now. Just to be sure. Just to feel the cold insult of the handle not turning. She waits until almost midnight before knocking. She knows what’s on the other side of it.

It’s not porn. She almost wishes it were. Porn would make more sense. Porn is human.

This isn’t that. It’s LeChriste. Her voice. Her radio calls. Her data sheets. Her footage. Max hunched over two monitors, running laps she drove like he’s trying to solve a fucking murder. No change in tone. No interest in the noise of the outside world. Just… her.

When he opens the door, Max looks like he hasn’t blinked in hours. His hair is messy. His jaw tense. The backlight of the monitors still flickering across the room. One of them is paused on a sector-three throttle trace- hers, of course. The numbers glow like static.

The apartment is cold. Her fingers are cold. She’s standing in the hallway of her own home like a stranger. Watching her partner obsess over a girl who has no idea what she’s doing to him. What he’s letting her do. 

And somewhere beneath the quiet worry, beneath the sad, tired ache of a life being consumed by someone who’s never even set foot in your house- there’s fear.

Because it’s not admiration in Max’s eyes. It’s something darker.

Two days later, when Kelly brings it up, she’s not even trying to sound gentle anymore.

“You’re obsessed.”

Max doesn’t look up from his dinner plate. “I’m not.”

She laughs- just once. It’s bitter. “Your office is locked most nights. You watch her laps on loop. You read every article with her name in it, even the ones in fucking French. You don’t talk to me, you don’t touch me, and you haven’t looked at me like I’m a person in four weeks. But sure. You’re not obsessed.”

He sets his fork down with a little too much force. “You think I’m cheating? With her?”

“No,” Kelly says, too fast. “I think if you were cheating I’d at least understand it.”

That makes him pause. She watches the flicker in his posture- not guilt. Offense. “I don’t even follow her on Instagram,” he mutters, like it proves something. “Go through my phone if you want. There’s nothing there. We don’t talk. She’s not- she’s not in my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Kelly says.

Max turns, finally, face drawn tight. “What, you think I’m into her or something?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“No, Max. I’m saying it doesn’t matter what kind of obsession it is. Love, hate, whatever the fuck this is- she’s in here.” Kelly taps her temple once, sharp. “And there’s no room for anyone else.”

Max glares. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m lonely.” Her voice cracks. “There’s a difference.” He doesn’t answer. He moves to walk past her- dismissive, ready to lock himself in again- but she stops him with a final word. 

“It’s sad.”

Max stops, barely glancing her way.

“That you can’t enjoy any of it,” she says softly. “Your wins. Your life. Me. Because you’re too busy trying to find a flaw in someone who doesn’t even think about you.”

This time, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend. He just disappears back into his office and locks the door.

It clicks at 9:38 PM.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You don’t get why people complain about England so much.

Milton Keynes isn’t bad. A little flat, sure. Everything closes too early, and the roundabouts are borderline sadistic. But the tail end of summer is hanging on, and the air outside the back plaza smells like grass and warm tarmac, and sometimes you think that’s enough.

Maybe you only feel this way because you’re not completely broke anymore. That helps. You’ve been able to make one or two fair payments on the debt your parents took for the Dale Coyne stint. 

You can comfortably keep enough, enough for your meals, your subscriptions, a splurge on a new pair of Levi’s and some skincare- and still send home more than you ever could at Dale Coyne. That part probably has more to do with them allowing you to stay in a windowless driver’s room above the factory and being too busy to actually do much beyond work and eat, but still. For once it’s not hanging over your head like a guillotine.

Maybe it’s because your mom says that offers are flying into the email inbox you share- not that you can open them, not that any of the subject lines have been titled with an F1 team, but there’s time yet before your November deadline draws up. (31 days, but who’s counting?)

Or maybe it’s because you’re respected here. As a person. As a contributor.

You’re not a wildcard here. Not a one-off. Not a name they trot out when they want a media boost or a miracle in sector three. They parked you here after Zandvoort- quietly, without much ceremony- and you’ve made yourself so useful they’d be stupid to let you go.

Sim work happens in the early mornings and after hours, when the building hums and nobody’s watching. That’s when you go deep- when the static clears and you can disappear into the numbers without someone asking if you’re sure you’re supposed to be here.

You code your own plug-ins. Build your own test stints. Optimize long runs with a spreadsheet no one else knows how to read. Gavin says it’s freakish, the way you love it.

He’s taken to staying late, playing engineer.

He’s not great at it. Not yet. He doesn’t have the practiced timing of a true race engineer- the split-second instinct to give you what you need before you ask for it, the sharpness under pressure. His delivery’s a little clunky, and sometimes he gets flustered when he has to shout over the engine sim. But he tries. Hard. And he doesn’t seem to mind that you don’t always wait for him to finish his sentences before you act on what he’s saying.

He’s got ambition. Heart. A notebook full of color-coded tabs and a voice that cracks when he’s tired. And you like that about him. You like the way he’s game for anything, even if he’s unsure, even if he’s guessing.

He doesn’t mind staying late or getting up early. Sometimes you’re elbow-deep in sector analysis at midnight, and he’s in the next seat with a half-eaten protein bar and one sock missing, running lap deltas until his laptop dies.

You’re forgiving with each other. You stumble. He fumbles. You laugh. It’s kind of fun.

Sometimes, when the runs go long and the lights dim overhead, it feels like you’re kids again- just two overachievers playing house in a Formula 1 sandbox. There’s no championship on the line. No press conferences. No goddamn legacy dragging behind you like a chain. Just work. Pure, addictive, gratifying work.

But the real magic still happens during the day.

That’s when the factory’s full- engineers, developers, race staff, logistics. People who are designing next year’s car, refining this year’s package, tightening every variable until it's all down to fractions of fractions. That’s your window. You slip into places you don’t belong- not really- but you pretend that you do.

You poke around. You ask questions. You offer insight where you have it. Soak up knowledge where you don’t. You pressure the dev team to sign off on more test drives, and when they do, you deliver. You give feedback so meticulous it borders on obsessive, and instead of brushing you off, they thank you for it.

And they listen.

They care.

They pull you into conversations, ask your opinion, remember how you take your coffee. They tell you when something’s going to break your heart, and when something might break records. You still don’t have a race seat. You still are greeted by a factory when you open your bedroom door. But for the first time in a long time, you feel like you belong.

You’re not in exile anymore.

You belong. At least, it feels like it.

It’s a good rhythm. Hard, grueling, nonstop- but it’s good. It’s yours.

So when they schedule a braking test and mention Max is flying in to run some laps too, you don’t think anything of it.

If anything, you think it might be kind of nice.

You haven’t seen an active driver since your last race. A few hours of track time- even just for feedback- will be good for everyone. You miss the rhythm of it. The language of it. The quiet competitiveness of being in the garage with someone who knows exactly what it feels like to thread a car through chaos and call it control.

Max is smart. He’s sharp. You’re not friends, but you’re not enemies either. He’s always been professional. Maybe a little short, maybe a little distant, but he’s under pressure too. Everyone is. You figure working with him might even be refreshing- he's good at what he does, and if nothing else, you respect that.

You’re still a little annoyed this braking package is even being tested. You flagged it as a waste of time two weeks ago when they booked the track- said as much to the room, in fact- but enough people had wanted to see it through for the show to go on. They’re paying you either way. If they want to spend money proving you right, so be it.

You sip your coffee. Re-check the model. Write down three things you’re planning to say during testing tomorrow.

You get to drive a real car tomorrow. At the actual track. With some of your favorite development staff, who’ve promised to bring snacks and sarcasm and a full day’s worth of dumb jokes. You’ll trade notes with an active driver, talk shop, dig into the nuance of things you only get to simulate most days of the week.

It’s not a race weekend. But it’s close enough to feel like home.

You’re optimistic. Excited, even.

Which is probably why you’re so surprised by how it all unfolds.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The jet engines are still ticking warm as Max climbs into Christian Horner’s car outside the private airstrip at Luton. The clouds are low and colorless, the kind of overcast that feels like it’s pressing down on the world, but Max doesn’t mind. He likes when things are quiet.

Christian insisted on picking him up personally. A little odd, maybe, but not enough to question. People do weird things when championships are within reach.

They ease onto the narrow country roads, flanked by stone walls and wet hedges, and the mood in the car is light- Christian half-chatting about simulator feedback and upcoming upgrades. He’s got that particular brightness he saves for when he thinks something might actually work.

“You’ll feel it most through the exits,” he says, hands easy on the wheel. “Not a full overhaul, but it could smooth things out around the corners. We think. If it goes well, we can throw it on your car after the championship is locked, but we’re really looking to next year.”

Max shrugs, eyes on the road. “We’ll see.”

Christian grins. “I like it. Cautious optimism. That’s a good look on you.”

Max doesn’t answer, but his mouth tugs into the ghost of a smirk. The car hums beneath them, quiet and well-insulated, the rain misting against the windshield like static. Christian taps the steering wheel with the flat of his fingers, like he’s holding back from saying something heavier. Then he lets it go.

“You know we’re basically there, right?” he says, voice low and easy. “This weekend or the next. It’s yours.”

Max leans his head back against the seat, lets his eyes drift toward the slate-gray sky. “Feels different this time.”

Christian nods. “Because it is.”

They don’t say last year was chaos. They don’t say people still think it was rigged. They don’t say you’ve spent twelve months proving it wasn’t a fluke. But it’s all there, suspended in the air between them.

“Second title’s the real one,” Christian says. “First is luck. Second’s proof.”

Max doesn’t disagree. He can feel it in his bones- that slow, steady certainty that they’ve built something real. The kind of domination that doesn’t happen by accident. The kind that settles deep into your name and never leaves.

“Feels like we’ve stopped surviving and started building,” Christian adds, a little quieter.

Max lifts a brow. “You getting sentimental?”

Christian grins. “Maybe. A little. But come on- you feel it too. This year’s been clean. Sharp. Every piece falling into place. It’s not just you winning- it’s us executing.”

Max lets that settle. It’s true. It’s been efficient. Ruthless. He’s not just faster- he’s smarter. The team’s smarter. The machine runs, and he’s the sharpest gear inside it. He knows exactly what it takes now. There’s no flailing, no desperation. Just precision.

“Two more races, maybe three,” Christian says. “Then champagne and history books.”

Max’s lips press together, but there’s a flicker in his chest. A spark of pride. Of clarity.

It’s his.

He glances out the window again, watches a raindrop streak sideways across the glass. They pass a field full of soggy sheep and a weather-worn house with flower boxes under the windows opn the open stretch between Luton and Silverstone. It’s almost peaceful.

“You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?” Christian asks.

Max tilts his head. “Since I was a teenager.”

Christian snorts. “You were a nightmare.”

“You still hired me.”

“Regretted it every day until about two years ago.”

Max laughs under his breath, just once. It’s easy. Familiar. They’ve fought tooth and nail to get here- together. For all the tension, the chaos, the headlines, this moment is smooth. Settled. Two men in a car on a gray English road, talking about the title like it’s already theirs.

And for a moment, it feels like nothing could touch that.

Until the Bluetooth chimes. The screen lights up with a contact he doesn’t recognize- just a number: 66.

Christian taps the console screen.

“Christian,” comes a voice, syrupy-smooth and unmistakably American, “I still think it’s a mistake bringin’ Max in to test this setup.”

Max’s brow furrows.

The voice continues, polite but pointed, every syllable wrapped in sugar and laced with heat. “I told y’all it wasn’t gonna land. The sim was already screaming at us. Max is gonna hate it, and I hate wasting good tires for undercooked ideas.”

Christian huffs a laugh, shooting Max a glance like this is some inside joke. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, not quite charmed, but not hostile either. “Don’t ‘good morning’ me. I already gave you feedback. I just don’t see why we gotta drag Max out of bed and across the continent just to come to the same conclusion.”

There’s a beat of silence in the car. Max goes still. The air shifts. That voice- it cuts through him like piano wire. Christian keeps it light. “Maybe he’ll surprise you. He’s in the car with me now.”

“Oh, is he?” Your tone changes, softens just a little. “Well. You go on and tell him good luck from me.”

Christian chuckles. “Will do. See you at the track.” The line disconnects with a soft beep. The silence that follows is heavy, but Christian doesn’t seem to notice. He taps the screen off and returns his hand to the wheel, casual as ever.

Max is frozen. 

His hands, warm moments ago, now feel clammy against the fabric of his joggers. The sensation of the seat under him sharpens- too rough, too real. A prickling discomfort creeps up the back of his neck.

He feels it in his teeth before he fully accepts it.

That was you. And you’re here.

His stomach tightens, and his thoughts immediately skate to Kelly.  She is going to lose her shit if she finds out he was in the same place as you- let alone unannounced. The thought sends a cold wave of anxiety washing over him. Christian breaks the silence without turning his head, completely oblivious to the nuclear fallout settling behind Max’s eyes. “She’s been helping us out since the Dutch Grand Prix.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “Helping how?”

Christian glances at him. “Dev driver. Sim work. Data prep. She’s been living at the factory, basically.”

Max stares straight ahead. “You never told me that.”

“Wasn’t important.” Christian’s tone is neutral, but not apologetic. “And,” he adds, almost amused, “after the press stunt at Zandvoort… well, she needs to keep her head down. Helmut wasn’t impressed. Figured we’d tuck her away for a bit and let everyone cool off.”

Max doesn’t reply. He’s trying to process, to rewind the last two races in his mind- every debrief, every feedback report, every flawless sim overlay he’d praised without thinking.

“She’s the reason your data prep has been better,” Christian says, almost smug now. “You even said it yourself- clean readouts, tighter strat margins. That’s some of hers.”

Max’s heart stutters. He remembers the comments. Remembers reading notes, your notes, smart and surgical, concise in a way that made him feel sharper just reading them. He’d leaned on them. Let them shape his choices- in Italy, in Japan. Trusted them without question.

And he hadn’t even known. How hadn’t he known? He should’ve seen it- the parallels between the meticulous work he’d seen on the plane, at the house- taped to the fucking walls like a goddamn psycopath- and the psychotically perfect debrief packages he’d been spoiled with for five weeks.

The car pulls through the quick stretch of asphalt that gives way to the track, but even as Christian decellerates, Max’s heart only pounds faster. 

Kelly is going to lose her fucking mind.

They’ve been circling this for days- no, weeks- dragging it through phone calls, between long-haul flights and cold hotel rooms, through quiet dinners that turned into arguments and arguments that turned into silence. Not because she thinks he’s going to cheat. That was never it.

She’s not jealous.

She’s exhausted.

Exhausted of the way his mood changes when your name is mentioned. Exhausted of waking up to engine audio and old race footage. Exhausted of being in a room with him and still feeling like someone else is taking up all the space.

She can’t stand the way he talks about you- or more often, the way he doesn’t. The way he seethes in silence after watching your laps on repeat, or how his mood darkens at the mention of your name on the feed. She’s said as much. She sees it. She sees him, and whatever sickness has taken root under his skin, it repulses her.

Max knows this. He knows it.

And this- you being here- is going to set it over the edge. Whatever tentative ceasefire he and Kelly have been holding together with fraying thread? It won’t survive this.

Not when she finds out he’s sharing a workspace with you.

And still, somehow, the thought that drills itself deepest into his chest isn’t that he’s wrong. It’s not that this obsession- because that’s what it is- has warped him. He doesn’t think about the way he’s been staying up at night with your sector data open on a second monitor.

No.

He thinks only about how this- you being here, you being part of his team- is going to cause a problem for him. It’s going to make things harder.It’s going to turn the tension in his apartment into something he can’t put off anymore. Something that demands a response.

And all of that would be frustrating enough if there were even the smallest part of him that felt anything tender toward you. But there isn’t. There never has been.

There is only hate.

Pure, compulsive, clawing hatred for the way you walked into Spa and looked like you belonged. For the way Jos has seemed taken with you from the start. For the way no one can stop praising your work. For the way Max watched that race footage on loop and still couldn’t find what he was looking for- a fatal flaw. A misstep. A single crack to prove you didn’t deserve any of it. Something that would condemn you to a life of anything-fucking-else.

And now?

Now you’re here. Embedded. Integrated. Inside the walls of his house. And he didn’t even know. 

Christian keeps talking. Something about the dev team. Something about how hard you’ve been working. How seamlessly you’ve integrated- God, Max can’t hear it anymore.

“She never went back to America,” Christian continues. “She’s been here, putting in hours at the factory, in the simulator. Seems like she’s doing well.”

It’s all just you.

You, you, you.

It’s like you’ve wrapped your hands around the throat of everything that used to belong to him- his career, his team, his family- and now you’re just squeezing.

His ears are buzzing. His chest feels too small, his seat too tight, the collar of his jacket suffocating. There's something crawling beneath his skin, pressing against his ribs, scratching at his throat.

You’ve been feeding him data via the team, via GP, via the neatly formatted debrief packages that always were laid out in front of his seat well before the meeting ever began. Without his knowledge. Without his permission.

You’ve been in his lap breakdowns, in his race strat, in his mid-stint timing sheets. Every time he praised a clean debrief package, every time he told the engineers that the sim rigs have been impressively sharp right on startup, no extra tuning needed- it was you. You were there. Inside his performance. Wrapped in the very thing he takes the most pride in. His driving.

And it had all gotten better.

He wants to scream. Wants to claw the seat apart beneath him. Because you haven’t just infected the margins- you’ve made yourself integral. He can’t escape it now. You’ve touched everything.

The team. The data. The fucking car.

Jos.

Kelly.

Every corner of his life that was already cracked- you’ve wormed into it like rot. You’ve tainted everything.

And worst of all, no one else sees it. They think you’re helpful. Impressive. Charming, even. They think you’re brilliant. They’re wrong.

They have to be.

Christian pulls into the side gate at Silverstone, flashing his credentials at the guard before easing the car into a private lot just outside the test pits. The tires crunch on gravel as he parks.

Max doesn’t move. Christian opens his door, throws him a look. “Alright?” Max doesn’t answer. Christian doesn’t question it. He lingers a second longer, then pulls the door handle and steps out with a nod. “We’ll see you inside.”

The door shuts with a soft thunk, and Max is alone. He exhales like he’s been underwater. Then he pulls out his phone. It rings twice before Kelly answers. Her voice is sharp, already on edge- like she’s bracing for something she already knows she’s not going to like. “What?”

“She’s here.” Silence. He swallows. “I didn’t know. I just found out.”

Another pause. It stretches, tight as piano wire. Then: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He shifts in his seat. “It’s not like that. I didn’t ask for this.”

“That’s not the point,” she says, voice low and tight. “It’s never been about her being here. I don’t think you’re sleeping with her. I never have.”

“Then what is this?”

She pauses, and when she speaks again, it’s quieter. A little shakier.

“It’s that everything- everything- gets to come before me.”

Max frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Racing. Your father. This- this sick little loop you’ve been stuck in since Spa. The constant fixation. Like if you stare at her long enough, she’ll crack and you can prove something to yourself.”

He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.

“I can’t compete with that. I shouldn’t have to.”

Max sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Kelly, I’m telling you-I didn’t even know she was-“

“It’s not about knowing,” she snaps. Her voice catches, not with tears, but restraint. “I’ve tried,” she says. “I’ve tried to understand Jos, the team, the way you shut down and disappear when things get hard. But it’s not just one thing anymore. It’s everything. And I’m always the one waiting for your attention to come back around.”

Max’s chest pulls tight. “Don’t do this now.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she says. “That’s the problem.”

He stares out the windshield. You’re there- just barely visible through the parked trailers. Laughing at something someone says. At ease.

Max leans back into the headrest, staring out at the track beyond the gate, barely blinking. “Kel, I’m telling you, I didn’t know.”

“I don’t care!” she shouts, voice cracking. “I don’t care if you knew. I can’t do this anymore, Max. I can’t deal with your weird fucking hatred or your fucked-up family or Jos or her or whatever the hell it is that’s broken inside you. I just… it’s too much.”

“I’m packing a bag,” Kelly says. “P and I will be in Paris for a while. Please don’t call. I don’t want an apology. I don’t want promises you’re not going to keep.”

“Kelly-“

She exhales again, long and hollow. “I can’t be second to your father. I can’t be second to racing. And I sure as hell can’t be second to some fucked-up obsession you won’t even admit you have.” 

The call ends without ceremony. He stares at the blank screen. Then at the world beyond the windshield. You’re still there.

Across the lot, standing half-shielded behind a transport truck, laughing at something an engineer says. You’ve got one hand on your hip, a clipboard tucked beneath your arm, and that easy, unfazed expression you wear like armor. You’re not just here. You’re comfortable. Settled. Liked.

Max watches you like a predator watches movement through tall grass. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. His blood is molten. It was you.

You.

You set this fire. You brought this shit into his house. Into his team. Into his life.

Everything unraveling- Kelly, his father, the team, his fucking brain- it all circles back to you. To the way you wormed your way into their trust. Into their affection. Into his results. Without his permission. Without even trying.

And you haven’t paid for it. 

Not yet. But you will.

Goddamn it, you will.

Max opens the car door, grabs his few things, and starts walking towards the pit. He offers a few small waves, a head nod to the right people, but doesn’t stop to talk on his way to the locker room. 

The garage is already humming- light flooding in from the , tools clicking, radios murmuring. It’s all sharp-edged and sterile. Familiar. He keeps his head down, jaw wired tight, and makes a sharp turn into the locker room.

The door smacks shut behind him, and for a moment, it’s quiet. Still. But it doesn’t feel right.

Max has spent more time in the Silverstone testing garage than any other locker room at any other track. Even Zandvoort. Even Spa. He can close his eyes on any given day and tell you exactly where everything is- which corners the cleaners skip, which outlet holds a phone charger the most securely. He knows something is different.

It smells different.

Not just the usual cocktail of oil, rubber, and deodorant that clings to these places like a second skin- no. There’s a sweeter note in the mix now, faint but undeniable. A soft scent tucked into the corners like it’s trying to blend in. Like it’s pretending it’s earned a place here.

He drops his duffel on the bench with more force than necessary. His eyes flick to the wall of race suits. There’s a new one on the rack.

Cut narrower. Smaller. Slimmer through the shoulders. The sleeves hang like they were sewn with secrets. It's hung right beside his- like you belong next to him. Like the team thought nothing of putting you there.

His teeth grind.

A sports bra looped lazily over a folded hoodie. A scrunchie pulled tight around the latch on locker 14. Fireproofs folded neatly over the top of the duffel in front of it. Your helmet on the wall hook- gleaming, smug, perched like a crown.

Max's fists curl tight before he even realizes it.

This was supposed to be his sanctuary. A space untouched by anything soft, or sentimental, or feminine. It was where he went to be only a driver- where nothing existed except the weight of the suit on his back and the war waiting at the end of pit lane. Where being exactly who he was raised to be makes him a master, not a monster.

But now?

Now there’s a pink fucking beauty blender by the sink.

There’s you.

And you're everywhere, yet you don't even take up much space. That’s what pisses him off most. You haven’t overstepped, haven't flooded the locker room with your things. You’re just... here. Undeniably.

He walks to the sink, slower now. Grips the edge of the counter and leans forward until he can see himself in the mirror- sharp under the fluorescent lights. Too pale. Shadowed. Something about his reflection looks... unfinished. Like he’s missing skin. Like something inside him has been scraped raw and left to blister.

Kelly’s gone. Packed up and left without crying. Left without begging. He told himself she wouldn’t leave. She always said she wouldn’t. Who would leave this?

Max hadn’t said much to convince her not to go. But what was there to say? He knows what she thinks of him. That he’s poisoned. That he’s sick in the head. That he’s been rotting from the inside out, a rabid dog chewing on a bone he refuses to let go of.

His gaze drops to the makeup bag. Then to the helmet. Then to the suit.

You didn’t ask permission to be here. Didn’t earn your way in. You walked in with soft edges and good timing and everyone opened their fucking arms. And now?

Now they talk about you like you matter. Like your voice means something. Like you help. Like you contribute. You’re not just tolerated- you’re welcomed.

Max’s throat tightens. His jaw pulses. And worst of all? You’ve been touching his work. His craft. The one thing he’s built his entire goddamn life around.n You’ve been touching it without him even knowing.

Helping.

Helping him.

And now Kelly is gone, and Jos keeps looking at him like he’s waiting for something, and the team is humming better than ever and you’ve been here behind the curtain the whole time, pulling strings with your clipboard and your Southern drawl and your clean, pretty hands.

It makes him want to wreck something. To burn something to the ground.

He grips the edge of the counter and stares at his reflection. The overhead light cuts sharp lines down his face. He looks tired. Stretched thin. Like a man whose world has shifted ten degrees off center and no one around him seems to fucking notice.

He yanks open his locker. The door bangs louder than it should, metal slamming metal, the sound echoing in his skull. He pulls on his gear mechanically, dresses with sharp, brutal efficiency. Each motion is exact. Angry. Controlled. Suit zipped. Boots on. Balaclava shoved down and hanging around his neck like a noose.

He has no plan.

Not yet.

But he knows one thing: you’re going to regret ever stepping foot in this garage.

You’re going to feel him at your back every second of this day.

He’s going to dismantle you- piece by piece, inch by inch- until you’re begging to go back to America. Back to IndyCar. Back to whatever cousin-fucking farm town let you believe for even a second that you could survive here.

He’ll be patient.

He’ll smile, if he has to.

But he’s going to make you suffer.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re mid-sentence with Gavin when the garage doors groan open and Christian steps inside, clipboard under one arm and coffee in hand. “Morning,” you call, light and easy.

Christian eyes the data printouts still clutched in Gavin’s hands, then the half-drunk coffee beside your laptop. “How long have you been here?”

You smile sweetly. “What time did the gates open?”

It’s almost amused, the way he chuckles and taps the top of your clipboard as he passes. “Tell me you didn’t print more for me.”

“Two full stints and a run breakdown,” you say, offering a proud little shrug. “Nothing crazy.”

Christian shakes his head, muttering something about overachievers as he disappears toward the telemetry station. You hadn’t expected to like him. He wasn’t particularly warm during your brief stints in Spa or Zandvoort. Efficient. Cold, even. He’d barely looked up from the boardroom table during your first contract discussion.

But the longer you’ve been here- filling his inbox with run logs and leaving stacks of annotated telemetry on his desk like a one-woman crusade against inefficiency- something shifted. The occasional conversation. A dry comment. The way he pretends to be annoyed when you fudge your time card and don’t bill him for the overtime he knows you’re putting in.

It’s subtle. But you can feel it.

He’s not as brutal as he seems. Just exacting. And mostly left to run his own little kingdom off to the side of whatever chaos Helmut’s orchestrating.

“So,” Gavin says, nudging the edge of your clipboard with his knuckle. “Still think this whole setup’s half-baked?”

“I didn’t say half-baked,” you counter. “I said… unpolished.”

Gavin grins.

You glance over the sheet again- dragging the opposite rear slightly under braking. The idea isn’t terrible. A little more rotation into the corners. More rear stability under stress, offset the rotational drift a bit, give more grip into corners, especially in changeable conditions.You get what they’re trying to do. You’re not against it. You just… don’t think they’ve nailed the implementation yet. Too many assumptions built into the mapping. Sloppy on paper, sloppy in the sim. You can’t imagine it will translate to the car as anything but… sloppy.

Still, if you can feel where it wants to go, maybe you can help get it there. Track��s already paid for. Might as well make the most of it. 

GP wanders into your periphery, and you give him a smile and a quick nod. Familiar, but not close. Max’s race engineer is sharp- maybe the sharpest in the paddock- but he tends to keep his cards close. You can respect that.

“Hey,” he says, in that calm, understated way. Always neutral. Always listening. “You ready to jump in first?”

“Sure am.”

And then- he walks in. You don’t hear the locker room door, just the shift in the air. The crew seems to pull tighter around his presence, instinctively, like they’re anticipating the weather to change. You glance over automatically, and there he is.

Max Verstappen.

It’s been weeks since you last saw him. Not since Zandvoort. Not in person, anyway.

He looks the same- jumpsuit half-zipped, balaclava slung around his neck like a scarf, expression unreadable.

You offer him a small, polite smile. “Morning,” you say. “Good to see you.”

Max doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t even nod. “I’m driving first,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, like he’s not really speaking to you, just announcing something inevitable. The words hang in the air like a dropped wrench. You blink.

The clipboard in your hand shifts slightly, but your smile doesn’t move. “Oh,” you start, keeping your tone light, neutral. “I thought the plan was-” 

“She’s had the package on the sim for weeks, it sounds like,” Max cuts in, sharp but calm. Talking to Christian, not to you. “She can send her notes if she wants. I want to see how it runs without the preamble.” He still hasn’t looked at you. You feel something sink low in your stomach. You’re not even in the conversation anymore. You’re around it. Present, but no longer acknowledged.

There’s a split second where you’re trying to catch up- trying to figure out if you misheard something. If maybe this is just Max being weird and Dutch and blunt and driven. You know how Jos is. Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s hereditary. Maybe it’s nothing.

You don’t agree. You don’t argue. You want to. Your gut reaction is to open your mouth- to gently, confidently remind him how the session’s been laid out for two weeks, how the engineers asked for your warm-up feedback specifically, how you were supposed to help optimize the later runs for him.

But you don’t.

It’s not your place. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not with him.

You pause for a beat, unsure whether to speak again- but it’s already out of your hands. Christian gives a small, tight nod. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll get the seat swapped.” That’s it. No question. No redirection. No eye contact. Not a hill Christian’s going to die on. Not with Max.

You process it quickly- no time to let it land wrong. No time to show anything other than flexibility. You adjust your grip on the clipboard and give a polite, easy smile. “Of course,” you say. “Happy to work from the pit wall until someone needs me.” Your tone is warm. Helpful. Undemanding. And it’s true. You’ll help however you’re needed. You always do.

But still… something tugs low in your chest. A dull, familiar ache. You haven’t been in a real car in weeks. Not since Zandvoort. Sim sessions are fine- they serve a purpose- but they don’t breathe. They don’t push back. They don’t talk to you the way a real car does when the weight shifts under braking or the tires start to chatter against the limit.

You miss it. Not in a dramatic way, not in a desperate way. Just... like missing a limb. No big deal.

You step back from the car as Max steps up, careful not to let your gaze linger when the pit crew pulls your seat and installs his. You don’t look at Max or GP or Christian. You keep your smile. You center yourself in your role.

You’re here to be useful. That’s enough.

Gavin shoots you a side glance, but you don’t look at him, either. You're too busy straightening your posture, smoothing down the front of your jacket like that’ll make it sting less, collecting your laptop and your headset and wandering over to the temporary pit wall. 

Max climbs into the car like he owns it. Not just the machine- but the moment.

You stay off to the side of the pit wall, arms crossed loosely, clipboard pressed against your ribs. The headset sits snug over your ears, filtering in telemetry, tire temps, radio chatter. You’re not sulking. Not even disappointed. You’re observing.

That’s what you said you’d do.

Max launches cleanly out of the garage. No hesitation. Smooth in the pit lane, sharp into the out lap. Everything looks fine, at first. Clean throttle pickup. Controlled steering. You let yourself settle into the rhythm of it, eyes flicking across the numbers on the monitor.

Then the first braking zone hits.

The front end wobbles. The rear steps just half a beat too late. It’s not huge- barely noticeable on the external feed- but you’ve felt this setup a dozen times in the sim. That was the drag pulling unevenly. Just enough to throw the balance.

He adjusts, but you see it again. Lap two. Same issue. The car skips like it wants to pivot too early under load.

“Bit twitchy,” GP says lightly into the comms.

“Feels great,” Max responds. His voice is tight. Quick. “No notes.”

Your brows draw together. The laps keep coming, and the issues start compounding. He’s fighting the car. Overshooting entries. Missing apexes. Going off line. He’s driving the hell out of it. That much is clear. But it’s brute force, not balance.

You glance at Christian. He’s standing with his arms crossed, jaw set, not saying anything. But he’s watching Max a little too closely. You tug at his sleeve. He tilts his head, just slightly, and you lean in to speak under the comms.

“I know it’s not my turn,” you say quietly, “but I’ve been in this setup more than anyone. There are a few tricks to stabilizing the rear under heavy braking. If you want, I can talk him through it.”

Christian eyes you for half a second- measuring, maybe- but then nods. “Give it a shot.”

You flip your mic on. “Hey, Max,” you say gently, keying your mic with the same calm tone you’d use during a debrief. “Try braking a little earlier into Turn 9, then dragging about half-pedal to rotate the car. The pull settles better that way, keeps the rear where it should be. Might give you a cleaner line.”

There’s a beat of silence- long enough to make you wonder if he’s thinking it over. Adjusting. Trying it.

Then-

“Don’t need coaching,” Max says, his voice hard-edged and clipped. “Got it.” The comm cuts out with a decisive click. You blink, startled- but not bruised.

It’s not what you expected. You were careful with your tone, kept it light, supportive. Non-confrontational. The advice wasn’t even complex- just a tweak, a trick that helped you tame the same twitchiness during sim work last week. You glance toward Christian, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at you. Just stares straight ahead at the live feed, his jaw set, arms folded tighter across his chest than they were five minutes ago.

You shift back in your seat, smoothing a crease in your jeans out of habit. The headset hums soft with tire data and GP’s quiet pacing in Max’s ear. You focus on the numbers, on the lines. On the job.

Let him work it out. Let him feel it.

He’s Max Verstappen. World champion. Hell of a driver. If anyone can take a twitchy, half-baked braking system and drag something clean out of it, it’s him. You didn’t mean to imply otherwise. You don’t think otherwise.

So you sit back. Let the moment pass. Watch the delta clock tick. You expect to see improvement- not instant brilliance, but maybe a cleaner sector. A smoother trail into Turn 9.

But the next lap comes and goes. And the data says otherwise. The car still fights on entry. The rear still snaps wide at the apex. He’s still overcorrecting. Still off-line. You tilt your head slightly, frowning at the monitor.

You weren’t trying to take anything from him. Not control. Not authority. Just... offering the knowledge you’ve earned the hard way. A few more laps go by. More missed corners. More resistance from the car. The brake temps are running high. The split across the rear bias is getting messy. His lines look aggressive, not efficient.

You say nothing, quiet, until it feels cruel, inefficient, wasteful not to try. God knows what kind of tab today is going to run up for RedBull. It’s wrong to just sit on knowledge that you know can clean this up, even just a fraction. “Try adjusting your entry into Turn 12,” you offer again, voice smooth as glass. “Just a little more-”

This time, there’s no voice. Just the soft, deliberate click of a mic button being held down long enough to cut you off. Your audio drops out mid-sentence. You exhale, slow. Not upset. Not yet. Just... calculating.

That wasn’t an accident. He’s held his mic button. Deliberate. Dismissive. Your hand tightens around your clipboard. The pressure blooms hot in your chest, but you push it down. He’s making it clear- he doesn’t want your help. Not in front of the team. Not in front of Christian. Not ever.

And the worst part?

It’s not just hurting the session. It’s killing the data.

He’s not learning anything. He’s not adjusting. He’s pretending the system works because he’s refusing to let it fail. He’s trying to drive around physics, and no one’s getting clean feedback out of it- not the devs, not the engineers, not you. This isn’t just a bad test session. It’s unusable. 

The system was always going to be a little unrefined, a little more than unrefined, in your opinion. That’s what these days are for. But this? This is sabotage. Max isn’t driving to improve the package. He’s driving to prove you wrong.

And maybe it’s not personal. Maybe it’s just ego. Maybe he doesn’t like your suggestions. Maybe he doesn’t trust a dev driver to advise a driver that’s approaching two-time world champion.

Maybe.

But something about the way he’s doing it- the performative dismissal, the passive silences, the outright cut-off- It doesn’t sit right. You press your lips together and tuck your clipboard tighter to your chest. You’re not wrong. You know that.

But suddenly, it feels like being right isn’t going to matter. Not in this garage. Not today.

When they call Max in, there’s no explanation. No argument. Just a dry instruction from GP to box this lap, delivered without inflection. Max doesn’t push back.

The engine cuts and it’s almost a relief. The tension that's been laced into every radio call, every lap, every breath- it doesn't vanish. But at least it stops compounding.

You pull your headset off and make your way toward the huddle already forming around the screen. GP’s in the center, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Gavin’s got a pen behind one ear and a thousand-yard stare. Alessandro, the lead on the braking prototype, is scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically wipe the data away.

You glance at the screens. It’s a mess.

He never settled the car. Never found a consistent input rhythm. Lap one looked nothing like lap three, which looked nothing like lap six. Braking variance, throttle delay, tire wear pattern- all of it compromised. He didn’t test the system. He tested his ego.

“Jesus,” Alessandro mutters. “He forced it the whole time.”

“Every lap,” Gavin adds. “No clean delta. No lift-brake comparisons. It’s worthless.”

Not entirely. You’ve done this enough times to recognize usable slivers buried beneath the chaos. But to anyone else it looks like dogshit. Totally unworkable. You glance down at your own clipboard. Your notes are meticulous. You’ve been shaping this system in the sim for weeks. You know what it needs- what it responds to.

You don’t make a show of it. You slip them to GP under the screen, out of sight.

“Here,” you say. “Maybe these will help.” He takes them, scans the handwriting, then flicks his eyes up to yours.

“They’re pulled from your data,” you say quietly. “Your analysis. Got it?”

GP blinks at you. His brow furrows, just slightly. He nods. Folds the papers. Doesn’t ask again.

You don’t elaborate. Just step back as the group crowds around the tablet, trying to stitch something together from the mess.

The headache building behind your eyes lifts miraculously when Christian turns to you and says, “Let’s get you in for a couple laps. Just to stabilize the baseline.”

And just like that? It’s gone. The tension, the frustration, the weird sick pit in your stomach.

Gone.

Your whole body lifts at once, like someone pulled a string in your chest. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he says, already turning toward the engineers. “Give her a baseline and send her out. We need something usable.” You don’t wait for anyone else to speak.

You practically skip to the locker room, the clipboard swinging in your hand, the weight of the last thirty minutes falling off your shoulders like water. You haven’t driven a real car in weeks. Not since Zandvoort. And sim hours can’t replicate the sound, the vibration, the way the tires talk back to you at the edge of grip.

A real car.

You could cry.

You swing open the locker room door, still smiling. And then you stop. Your boots are there. Your gloves. Your helmet- just gleaming on the shelf, visor slightly cracked open like it’s waiting for you. Your suit, hanging neatly just as you left it. But your fireproofs?

Gone.

Not folded over your bag where you always keep them. Not tucked in your locker. Not crumpled on the bench or dropped behind the door. You freeze for half a second, scanning everything twice, then again.

No. No fucking way. You know you brought them. You folded them this morning. Laid them out just so- sleeves crossed, neckline folded down, because you like being able to get dressed in exactly ten seconds flat. And now? Nothing.

You stare at the spot where they should be. Okay. Okay. Maybe you moved them. Maybe you set them somewhere and forgot. Maybe someone tossed them in a pile without thinking.

But the locker room is too clean. Too intact. Everything else is untouched. Just the one thing missing. You bite the inside of your cheek, the nerves starting to flicker under your skin. It’s stupid. Paranoid. Insane, even. This is a professional garage. People don’t just… hide each other’s fireproofs.

But you can’t ask.

You can’t let anyone know you don’t have them. Because if someone finds out, they won’t let you drive- not without the full kit. Safety regs. Liability. Some poor OSHA nerd, or whatever the insufferable Euro equivalent is, would throw themselves in front of the car.

And you are not missing your shot today. Not over this. Not when you’ve been starving for the vibration of some real power through your bones.

There’s no time. No one saw anything. No one’s asking questions. No one knows. You can’t wear jeans and a sweater under your suit- they’ll bunch and pinch. And if anyone sees the fabric lines, they’ll know. So you strip.

Down to your bra and underwear.

You step into the suit carefully, like someone might walk in any second. Tug the zipper up to your throat. Adjust the collar. Make sure every inch is covered.

It’s fine.

No one needs to know.

It’s just a few laps.

You walk back into the garage with your helmet under one arm and your gloves clenched in your hand, the weight of your suit suddenly heavier than you remember it being. It clings differently now, soft and close over skin, and the air inside the building feels sharper, thinner, colder through the bretahable panels. But your stride is steady. Even. Measured.

No one says anything. No one looks twice.

That’s… good.

Your gear is zipped to your throat, cinched at the wrists and ankles. Velcro checked. Checked again. Every inch of you is covered. And still, you feel bare in a way you can’t explain. Not vulnerable, not exactly. Just… aware.

The pit crew is moving like clockwork. Christian and Alessandro are already at the screens. Gavin sees you coming and gives a sharp little nod, stepping in to take your phone. You murmur a thank-you as you pass it off and start toward the car.

You don’t see Max until you’re practically alongside him. He’s just standing there, arms folded, posture easy, like he hasn’t spent the last hour driving that setup into the ground. You glance his way, ready to be professional- polite, even. Maybe offer a small smile if it feels appropriate. But something in his expression doesn’t match the moment.

His gaze flicks toward you. Not dramatic. Not lingering. Just a pass over. And in that second- barely longer than a breath- you catch it. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A shift in his eyes.

Like he’s… surprised.

You wouldn’t have noticed it if you hadn’t looked. You weren’t looking for it. But now that you’ve seen it, it sticks in your mind- not because it makes sense, but because it doesn’t. Surprised?

You don’t dwell on it.You’re not here to dissect his mood. You climb into the car, careful with your motions, hyper-conscious of how the suit moves against you- how much thinner it feels without your fireproofs underneath. You grip the edge of the cockpit to lower yourself in, careful not to let the fabric shift too far up your arms or legs.

Gavin helps you buckle in, clips your HANS anchors over the posts of your helmet. The harness pulls tight over your chest, pressing your heart into your ribs. Your breathing slows. You exhale once. Then again. Visor down. Radio check. Systems go.

Series Masterlist Another super chapter- 25 pages for your patience over the weekend <3

Sorry, Kel 💔

[hummingbird24220]

Can I request reader making friendship bracelets for the strawhats but the bracelets are attached to their devil fruit power, I'm thinking it's a variation of 'red string of fate' except that when reader froms a strong bond with someone they become tied together allowing them to gain power through these ties (basically the power of friendship lol) the bracelets themselves aren't a part of the devil fruit just a cute thing reader does to help others visualize what they mean to them (as only reader can actually see the strings of fate)

Anyways the plot would be the strawhats reactions to the friendship bracelets (whether or not they know about the significance of them is up to you) this is mostly platonic strawhats but if you wanted to add romance that's cool too!

You don't have to write for all the strawhats if you don't want to but I definitely wanna see Robin's reaction to a friendship bracelet! (I think she'd really enjoy having a physical object to embody friendship)

(Sorry the ask was so long, love your writing! <3)

Glad you love my writing! Lovely to hear <3

I really liked this prompt - i love the string of fate stuff, makes me feel a bit gooey inside hehe

I could have kept going on this forevvverrrrrrrr i love the concept... spin off mini series anyone?!?!

Hope you enjoy reading!

Ties That Bind

One Piece x Fem!Reader

The kitchen was warm with the scent of Sanji’s post-lunch tea blend, a hint of citrus and mint lingering in the air. Everyone had gathered around the table like they usually did after a big meal, laughter still dying down from Luffy’s latest story about nearly punching a sky island seagull by accident.

You sat near the end of the table, a small box of thread, beads, and charm trinkets sitting beside your teacup. Nami had noticed it earlier and complimented the little braided bracelet you wore on your wrist—blue with a tiny compass bead. You smiled and muttered something vague, but now, with everyone calm and relatively in one place, you figured it was time to explain it properly.

You shifted in your seat, fiddling with a half-finished bracelet in your hands.

"Hey... can I tell you guys something?" you asked, your voice a little hesitant but clear.

Zoro tilted his head lazily, arms crossed. "If it's a confession about secretly being a government spy, say it now."

"I knew something was weird!" Usopp pointed dramatically.

"Shut up, Usopp," said Nami, elbowing him gently. "Go on, [Y/N]."

Luffy leaned forward like a kid about to hear a ghost story, chin propped up on his hands. "Yeah, yeah! Is it about your powers?"

You blinked, surprised. "...You knew?"

"Of course!" he beamed. "You smell like magic. Or maybe cinnamon. I dunno."

You laughed nervously but nodded. "Okay, yeah. So, my Devil Fruit is called the Saiken saiken no Mi—it means something like the Bond-Bond Fruit. It's… hard to explain, but basically, when I form a strong bond with someone, I can see it. Like... a thread tying us together."

Robin perked up with interest, lacing her fingers together. "A thread of fate, perhaps?"

You nodded. "Exactly. Only I can see them. Some are faint, some are bright, but the stronger the connection, the more... real they feel. And through them, I get stronger. I borrow strength from the people I'm tied to."

"So like the power of friendship?" Franky grinned. "That's super classic."

"Basically, yeah." You smiled sheepishly. "But I didn't want to freak anyone out by suddenly saying I see invisible strings attached to you all, so I started making these—" you held up the bracelet in your hand, bright orange with a tiny seashell charm, “—to kinda... represent the bonds I feel. For me, and maybe for you too. Something physical. Something nice."

Chopper gasped, eyes sparkling. "That's so cool! Wait—do I have one?"

You reached into the box and pulled out a little bracelet with white and pink beads, shaped like sakura petals. "Here."

Chopper practically exploded into a blushing mess as he took it, clutching it like it was the most sacred treasure in the Grand Line.

"You've been tying us together this whole time..." Brook said wistfully, his empty eye sockets looking soft. "Even without us knowing."

"You don’t have to wear them," you quickly added. "I just… wanted you all to know what you mean to me."

Nami’s bracelet was gold and teal with a tiny bell. Sanji’s was red and black, with a flame-shaped charm. Usopp’s had earthy tones and a little slingshot bead. Robin’s was elegant, deep violet and lace-like. Franky's had tiny gear charms. Brook’s was ivory and had musical notes.

You hesitated before pulling out the one meant for Zoro—green with a single white bead shaped like a sword—and Luffy’s: red, simple, but with a tiny anchor charm that seemed to glow with joy.

Zoro took his with a grunt of approval and a quiet, "Thanks." You swore his ears turned pink.

Sanji nearly cried over his. "You handmade this for me? Angel."

Robin turned the bracelet in her fingers thoughtfully. "You truly see something special in everyone, don’t you?"

You just smiled. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

"Wait, wait!" Luffy waved his hands. "So if you get stronger from bonds, what happens if you get, like, super close with someone?"

You blinked, surprised by the question—and the slight glimmer of teasing in his grin.

"Well," you said, "the bond gets stronger, and so does the power. I guess, in theory… the closest bond of all would make me unstoppable."

"Like a best friend?" Usopp grinned.

"...Sure," you said, smiling softly.

The mood on the Sunny shifted, but in the best way. A kind of quiet awe had settled over the table as each member of the crew examined their bracelet like it was a rare treasure.

Robin wore hers immediately, slipping it onto her wrist with a graceful flick. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “I’ve spent a long time surrounded by people who only wanted to use me. And now, someone wants to... tie themselves to me.” She looked up and smiled warmly. “It’s rather beautiful.”

Brook held his up to the sunlight. “Yohohoho! If only I had skin to feel this against. Still, I will treasure it forever, just as I treasure our friendship. Though if you ever want to make me a matching anklet—”

“No,” Zoro muttered flatly.

Nami had looped hers around her wrist, then her ankle, then back to her wrist. “It’s fashionable. Very versatile. And handmade, which gives it value.” She glanced at you with an amused smirk. “Also, you’re incredibly sentimental, aren’t you?”

Sanji sighed like he’d just been proposed to. “You tied a thread to my heart, mon ange…”

Usopp had immediately put his on and now kept glancing down at it like it was going to disappear. “So wait, if I make my bond with you stronger, do you get stronger, or do I get stronger too? ‘Cause I’m just saying, team synergy is really underrated in combat situations—”

“HEY!” Luffy suddenly slammed his hands on the table, bracelet proudly on display. “If getting strong means making super strong bonds, then we gotta do that right now. Everyone! Bonding time!”

Chopper gasped. “Really?!”

Franky slammed his drink down. “Super bonding?! Count me in!”

You blinked. “Wait, what—”

“We should do a group activity,” Luffy declared with the confidence of a king. “Something that makes [Y/N] feel extra connected to us. Like… a trust fall. Or a big team nap.”

“That’s not how it works,” you laughed. “You can’t force connection, it just happens over time.”

“Time? We don’t have time! What if we fight someone really strong next week? You gotta be ready!”

Zoro leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You’re gonna give her emotional whiplash.”

But Luffy was already on his feet. “Let’s all tell [Y/N] a secret! That’ll make us close, right?”

“Captain,” Robin said lightly, “you’re rather enthusiastic about this.”

He beamed at you. “You’re part of my crew now. That means we’re all family. And if your powers run on family juice, then we need to juice it up!”

“…I’m gonna pretend that made sense,” you muttered, but your heart felt like it might burst.

Chopper jumped onto the table. “Okay, okay! I’ll go first! I pretend to be tough sometimes, but sometimes I cry when people call me a monster. But you never did, [Y/N]. That’s why I love you.”

Your eyes welled up immediately. “Chopper…”

“MY TURN,” Sanji shouted. “Sometimes I make extra portions ‘by accident’ just to see if you’ll pick mine over the others.”

“Obviously she does,” Zoro muttered. “Your curry’s hotter than a volcano’s butt.”

“I ENJOY COMPLIMENTS.”

Nami tapped her bracelet thoughtfully. “I hoard money because I’m still afraid. I trust you, though. You never once looked at me like I was a thief. Just… a navigator.”

Usopp cleared his throat. “I, uh… I used to make up stories about people like you. People who cared without needing a reason. Now one of them’s real.”

Your hand trembled as you clutched the box of threads to your chest. “You guys…”

Robin gave you a serene look. “You’re weaving more than bracelets, [Y/N]. You’re weaving a place for yourself. And we’re honored to be caught in your thread.”

Then all heads turned to Luffy.

He was sitting quietly now, looking down at his bracelet. And for once, his usual grin was softer. Quieter.

“My secret is…” he looked up, “...I already feel strongest when I know you guys are with me. That’s why I don’t need a power like yours. I already believe in it.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until Chopper started panicking and tossing tissues at your face.

Luffy stood up, walked over, and plopped his hat on your head.

“So, bonding time worked?” he asked, eyes hopeful.

You sniffled, clutching the rim of his hat. “Yeah. Yeah, it really worked.”

--

The sky had begun to blush with streaks of orange and lavender, soft waves lapping gently at the Sunny's hull. The energy from Luffy’s “crew bonding time” had finally died down, with Franky tinkering below deck, Sanji prepping dinner, and Zoro pretending not to nap on the lawn. A peaceful calm had settled over the ship.

You sat on a lounge chair on the deck, a warm cup of tea cradled in your hands. Steam curled upward, swirling through the threads—those glowing, invisible strings that stretched between you and every corner of the Sunny.

Some shimmered like fresh starlight, others pulsed like gentle heartbeats. Each one was different—some chaotic, some serene—but they all led back to you. A net of connection. Of love, loyalty, and laughter. And though no one else could see them, they were as real to you as the sea itself.

You smiled softly.

“May I join you?” came a gentle voice.

You looked up to find Robin approaching, a book tucked under one arm, her bracelet glinting softly in the fading light. Deep violet thread, tiny rose-gold accents, and a small book charm nestled at its center.

“Of course,” you said, shifting to make room.

She sat beside you, graceful as ever, folding one leg over the other and setting her book in her lap. For a moment, she said nothing—just sipped her own tea, gazing out at the horizon.

Then her voice broke the silence, low and thoughtful. “I’ve received many gifts in my life. Few as... sincere as this.”

You glanced at her wrist, where the bracelet sat snugly. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I don’t just like it,” she said. “I feel it. It’s strange. Even without seeing the threads, it feels like something is tied between us. Like it’s always been there, waiting.”

You stared into your cup for a long second, then spoke. “Sometimes… I wonder if people will misunderstand. That they’ll think I’m only getting close to others because it makes me stronger. That I’m just… using them.”

Robin turned toward you, eyes calm but sharp.

“That kind of power can’t be forced. And it certainly can’t be faked.”

You looked up.

“Your ability,” she said gently, “only works because you truly care. That’s what makes it powerful. And dangerous. Because if someone hurt one of us…” Her expression darkened for the briefest second. “I imagine you’d become unstoppable.”

You laughed softly, the sound half-embarrassed, half-relieved. “I guess I’d better stay on your good side.”

Robin smiled, but her gaze lingered on her bracelet. She ran her fingers over the little book charm, and for a brief moment, her lips trembled.

“I’ve spent most of my life being hunted,” she said. “Wanted. Feared. I never imagined someone would look at me and think, She matters enough to tie a thread to. But you did. And it means more than I know how to say.”

You nudged her shoulder gently, trying to keep things light. “Aw, Robin, don’t get all weepy on me now. You’re gonna make me cry, and then Chopper’s gonna panic again.”

She chuckled, brushing beneath one eye. “Too late.”

The sun dipped lower, gold spilling over the deck like spilled treasure. The threads shimmered in your mind’s eye—especially hers, now glowing warmer than ever.

“Thanks for sitting with me,” you murmured.

“Any time,” she said. “After all… we’re tied together now.”

-

Time aboard the Sunny had passed quick, and with each moment, your bonds grew stronger. You grew stronger.

-

Smoke curled through the dense trees of the island, the once-quiet jungle now a torn battlefield. Explosions echoed through the valley, and the Straw Hats were spread out, locked in skirmishes with a group of mercenaries hired to capture Devil Fruit users.

You stood at the center of it all—heart pounding, blood buzzing, a quiet hum in your ears like a rising crescendo.

This fight was different.

Not just because it was brutal—but because something inside you had clicked.

You could see the threads now. Not just shimmering faintly, but glowing. Pulsing. They surrounded you like a constellation, each one tied to someone you loved—and every single one sang with emotion.

Fear. Loyalty. Determination. Trust. Power.

A whip lashed toward you, charged with Haki. You dodged on instinct—not your own, but one you'd learned from watching Sanji every time he danced through the air.

You spun and dropped into a low sweep-kick, following through with an upward strike so fast your knuckles cracked the air—Luffy’s wild, rubbery rhythm channeled through your limbs, even without the stretch.

Your opponent staggered.

Then another merc came at you from behind, swinging a jagged blade—and you turned, blade in hand. Not your usual style. But the grip? The stance?

Zoro.

You moved with clean precision, a flash of green and steel in your mind, parrying the attack with force that sent vibrations up your arm. You didn’t hesitate—you let the bonds guide you.

Zoro’s quiet grit. Sanji’s graceful fire. Luffy’s reckless, joyful strength.

You weren’t mimicking them—you were fighting like someone who knew them inside and out. Someone shaped by them.

Across the battlefield, the others started to notice.

“Whoa—IS THAT [Y/N]?!” Usopp shouted from behind a crumbling stone wall.

“No way…” Chopper gasped, peeking over a boulder. “That move looked just like Sanji’s!”

Sanji froze mid-spin-kick, locking eyes with you across the field. “What the hell—did you just copy my move, sweetheart?!”

You grinned, lips bloody but eyes blazing. “Call it inspiration!”

“Oi!” Zoro barked, slicing through a trio of enemies. “I taught you that stance in a spar ONCE. ONCE!”

You shrugged, twirling the enemy’s weapon and chucking it back at another target with expert aim. “Guess it stuck.”

Robin, from above on a summoned flower-wing platform, watched with quiet awe. “She’s drawing strength from us… not like a parasite, but like a mirror.”

“She’s shining,” Nami whispered.

Luffy was the last to notice, mid-fight and laughing as he socked someone square in the jaw. Then his eyes landed on you—your form alive with golden threads dancing at your back like celestial ribbons.

His grin stretched wide.

“[Y/N]!!!” he called, ducking a punch and flinging an arm toward you. “YOU LOOK SO COOL RIGHT NOW!!!”

You burst out laughing, mid-spin, driving your heel into the ground and launching a mercenary several feet through the air.

One by one, the mercenaries began to retreat. You stood there panting, the threads still glowing—stronger than ever. And through them, you could feel it:

The bond. The trust. The undeniable connection.

Not just power borrowed—but power forged. Through shared meals. Inside jokes. Long nights and sea storms.

This strength wasn’t just yours. It was theirs, too.

As the battlefield quieted and the others regrouped, Luffy jogged up to you, hands on his hips.

“That was awesome,” he said, breathless with excitement. “You fought like all of us at once!”

You wiped blood from your lip and smiled. “Guess you guys are rubbing off on me.”

“Or maybe,” Robin said as she landed beside you, her bracelet faintly glowing, “you’ve finally started to see just how deeply we’re all tied together.”

You looked around at your crew—your family. The threads between you pulsed in soft, steady rhythm.

Yeah. You saw it. And now, they could, too.

-

The stars were beginning to peek through the darkened sky, the moon a silver coin casting gentle light across the deck. The crew was scattered around the Sunny in various states of exhaustion and satisfaction—wounds bandaged, bellies full, spirits high.

You sat at the bow, legs swinging over the edge, a mug of something warm cradled in your hands. The threads in your mind’s eye were quiet now, humming softly. Still glowing. Still strong.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about the battle—how instinctively the power had come, how natural it had felt to move with pieces of your friends inside you. It hadn’t been overwhelming. It had been comforting. Empowering.

You smiled faintly.

“Hey.”

You turned. Luffy stood behind you, hands in his pockets, his bracelet catching the moonlight. There was something different about his expression—still playful, still curious, but... softer. Quieter.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure.”

He stepped closer, then sat beside you, stretching his legs out. “Can I… see them?”

You blinked. “See what?”

He turned to you, eyes wide with that impossible brightness. “The threads. The ones that tie us all together.”

Your heart stilled.

No one had ever asked before. Not seriously. Not like this. You’d always assumed it was just your burden—your gift. Your curse. A secret window only you could peer through.

You stared down at your hand, at the glowing lines stretching outward like an unseen web. “I… I don’t know if I can make them visible to others.”

Luffy didn’t push. He just tilted his head. “Wanna try?”

You looked at him for a moment.

Then nodded.

You set your mug down, sat up straight, and closed your eyes.

It started as a pull in your chest—like tugging thread through a needle. Carefully, slowly, you began to unravel that perception, pushing it outward. Extending it beyond yourself. You reached into the core of your fruit’s power, channeling not just energy, but emotion. Every laugh, every fight, every quiet cup of tea and silly card game and comforting shoulder.

You felt your fingers tremble.

Then—

“…Whoa,” Luffy whispered.

You opened your eyes.

The deck glowed.

Not brightly, not like fire or lightning—but soft, gentle light. Golden threads stretched between you and every single one of your crewmates, weaving through the ship like constellations. Some threads pulsed bright and strong—like the one leading from you to Luffy, or to Chopper, or to Robin. Others had more subtle glows, warm and steady.

Each thread was unique—colors, textures, patterns. You could feel their personalities through them.

Zoro’s thread was taut and grounded, like woven steel. Sanji’s danced with warmth, flickering like firelight. Nami’s sparkled with bursts of gold, laced with stormy energy. Robin’s was velvet-smooth, deep violet with intricate knots. Luffy’s—brightest of all—was wild and fluid, chaotic and beautiful. A living firework.

The crew slowly gathered, one by one, drawn by the shift in the air.

“What is this…” Nami whispered, stepping closer to one of the floating threads.

“Are these… ours?” Chopper asked, reaching out with trembling hooves.

“They’re real,” Zoro muttered, watching one pulse with his breath.

You were sweating now, concentrating hard. It took everything to maintain this projection—but you wanted them to see it. You wanted them to know.

“This is what I see,” you said quietly. “Every day. Every bond. Every thread that ties me to you.”

Robin stood beside you, eyes shimmering. “It’s beautiful.”

Usopp sniffled. “Why does mine look like it’s got beads on it?”

“Because I know how much you love flair,” you teased, voice trembling.

Luffy’s eyes hadn’t left the threads. His face was a mix of awe and joy, the kind of pure reaction only he could pull off.

“They’re alive,” he said. “These bonds… they’re really alive.”

You nodded. “They are. You make them real. You all do.”

And then—Luffy grinned.

He stood, arms stretched out wide as if trying to catch the sky.

“I LOVE IT!!!”

The others laughed, their voices light with wonder. Even Zoro cracked a smirk. Sanji tried to light a cigarette with shaking hands and gave up entirely, just staring at the glowing thread between you.

You held the image a few seconds longer—long enough to burn it into their memories—before gently letting it fade, like smoke in the wind.

The deck returned to normal.

But something lingered.

A feeling. A warmth. A knowing.

You leaned back with a breathless smile.

Luffy looked down at you, still grinning. “You’re awesome.”

You met his eyes, soft and shining. “So are you.”

-

The morning sun spilled golden light across the deck, warming the wood and shimmering off the sea. The crew gathered around the table for breakfast—freshly made by Sanji, as always—still glowing in the afterglow of yesterday’s battle and the reveal.

The memory of golden threads dancing in the air hadn’t left them.

Neither had the awe.

“So,” Sanji said casually, setting down a plate of sunny-side-up eggs in front of you with a flourish, “I believe it’s only right to point out that [Y/N] used my fighting style in that battle.”

“Light on your feet. Beautiful form. Graceful kicks that could kill a sea king.” He spun with a wink. “Clearly, the power of our bond is unmatched.”

Zoro made a sound. A sound. Low, dismissive, impatient.

“Your fancy footwork was one thing,” he said through a mouthful of rice. “But the real strength came when she ended that merc with a full-on counterstrike. That was my technique.”

You raised a brow at your plate. Here we go.

Sanji bristled. “Counterstrike? She deflected a two-ton punch with a spinning heel kick. That’s my move.”

“Please,” Zoro scoffed. “She stood her ground and overpowered him. No spinning. Just raw strength. That was me.”

“She even moved like me,” Sanji snapped. “You couldn’t twirl to save your life.”

“Because I don’t need to twirl to win, curly-brow.”

“Want me to twirl you overboard—?!”

Nami sighed. “It’s too early for testosterone.”

Usopp munched toast, watching them with wide eyes. “This is weirdly flattering. They’re fighting over who has a better connection with [Y/N].”

“They’re fighting over whose bond is stronger,” Robin said lightly, sipping tea. “It’s oddly romantic.”

You sat back, sipping your own tea, amused beyond words.

But Sanji wasn’t done.

He turned from Zoro mid-argue, marched over to you, and—

Knelt. On one knee. Took your hand.

You blinked.

You flushed.

Your brain, traitorous and immediate: MARRIAGE?!

“[Y/N],” Sanji said with utmost sincerity, gazing up at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “Out of all the bonds you hold… which one is the most powerful?”

The entire table went silent.

Zoro choked on his rice.

You stared, your face slowly going crimson. “I—um. That’s… I mean…”

He lifted your hand to his lips.

Your heart actually stopped.

You gave a slow, thoughtful hum, eyes narrowing mischievously. “Hmm… Sanji, Zoro… it’s honestly so close.”

Sanji’s smile widened like he was about to win.

But then—

You grinned.

Eyes gleaming.

You gripped his hand tighter, leaned in just slightly, and said with a soft, velvety voice:

“Of course… I could always strengthen the bond in… other ways.”

Sanji made a sound like someone had just pulled the pin on a very flustered grenade.

Then—

He died.

He dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut, flat on the deck with swirly eyes and a blissed-out smile.

Usopp dropped his toast. Chopper shrieked. Robin covered her mouth, amused. Luffy burst out laughing so hard he fell backward off the bench.

You threw your head back, laughing with your whole chest. “Oh my god, I didn’t think he’d actually pass out—”

Zoro rolled his eyes but was smirking. “Serves him right.”

As Sanji twitched on the floor, hearts floating from his head like steam, you picked up your tea again and sipped calmly.

“Guess that answers his question.”

-

The waves rocked the Sunny gently, a lullaby of the sea, as the last rays of the sun kissed the horizon in shades of peach and gold. Most of the crew had turned in early, worn out from the chaos of the past few days.

But you stayed on deck, sitting near the figurehead with your knees tucked up to your chest and a blanket around your shoulders. The breeze was cool, but the warmth in your chest kept you from feeling it.

You could see them again—the threads.

Still glowing.

Still alive.

They shimmered faintly in the dusk light, stretched like constellations across the deck and walls and sails. So many beautiful bonds. So many pieces of yourself that had once been broken, now tied to others.

You felt whole.

But one thread… One thread blazed like sunlight.

It wasn’t just bright. It wasn’t just strong. It radiated.

Wild and untamed. Joyful and fierce. The thread tied to Luffy.

You didn’t even have to look to feel him behind you.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You turned. He was barefoot, messy-haired as always, arms behind his head like he had all the time in the world. He plopped down beside you, crisscross applesauce, and stared out at the sea with a relaxed smile.

“I knew you’d be up here,” he added, glancing at you. “You always look at the sky when you’re thinking.”

You smiled back. “I could say the same to you.”

He grinned wider, and for a long moment, you both just sat in comfortable silence.

The wind tugged at your hair. The sea whispered. And the thread between you glowed like firelight in your chest.

“Hey, Luffy,” you said finally. “Do you… remember when you first found me?”

He blinked, then nodded once, slow. “Yeah. You were in that weird old port town. Working for that rich jerk.”

You nodded, eyes distant. “More like owned. I didn’t even realize I was fading until you walked in, like a storm. You didn’t even hesitate. Just looked at me and said, ‘Wanna come with us?’”

Luffy’s smile softened. “Well, yeah. You looked like someone who needed the sky.”

Your throat tightened.

“You saved me, you know,” you whispered. “Not just from that place, but from… me. I used to think my powers only worked if I earned people’s love. Like I had to be useful. Like I had to deserve it.”

Luffy was quiet, watching your face.

“But you…” Your voice wavered. “You just… took me. Like I was already something precious. Like I didn’t have to earn anything.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Then he reached out—softly, gently—and tugged the edge of your blanket until you scooted closer. Your shoulder touched his.

“You are something precious,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’s why you shine so much.”

You felt your chest tighten in the best way. That thread between you burned golden. Stronger than any other. Stronger than steel, stronger than fate.

“I used to think I needed someone to be my light,” you murmured. “But I think… maybe I just needed someone to let me shine.”

You looked at him.

And smiled.

“You’re the sun, Luffy. You just don’t know it.”

He laughed, a little awkward, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah. You’re the one glowing all the time.”

You reached over and took his hand—warm and calloused and steady. The thread between you flared in your mind like a second heartbeat.

“Yeah,” you said. “But only because I’m standing in your light.”

For once, Luffy didn’t answer with words. He just grinned—really grinned—and leaned his forehead against yours, laughing under his breath like you’d told him a secret that made him happy.

And you laughed too. Because you’d never felt more seen. Or more safe.

Wrapped in his sunlight. Tied to something bigger than fate.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Peach - Built to Be Wanted

hehe the start of a new slow burn series but don’t worry it’ll be filthy eventually🌝 i took so long posting this after the masterlist because i hated the original dividers i planned on using😭

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

warnings: refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.89k

series masterlist | main masterlist

You’ve never been to District 12 before, but it looks exactly like you imagined.

Rebuilt, but not polished. Not finished.

Everything’s still a little dusty, like the buildings haven’t quite settled into place yet. The streets are wide and open, edged by rows of mismatched houses—some new and standing tall, others still waiting for their last coat of paint. You pass them with your duffel bag digging into your shoulder, sun beating hot against the back of your neck, and try not to let the knot in your stomach get any tighter.

The directions said to go straight to the municipal office once you got off the train.

So that’s what you do.

It’s not far. Just far enough to make you sweat. Just far enough to make you second-guess every step, every swing of your arms, every inch of your body.

The receptionist is an older woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into a bun and a clipboard she barely looks up from.

“Name?” she asks.

You shift your weight. “Y/N. I’m here for the nurse apprenticeship at the hospital. Was told there’d be housing ready when I arrived.”

She flips a few pages. Clicks her tongue. “It’s not.”

You blink. “I—I’m sorry?”

“The house. It’s not finished yet.” She doesn’t look up.

You stand there for a second too long, bag slipping slightly from your shoulder.

“They said it’d be ready by now,” you say quietly.

“Well, it’s not,” she replies, still flipping. “Construction got pushed back. Something with materials being rerouted to District 10. Not my department.”

You swallow hard. “Okay. So… where am I ‘sposed to stay?”

The woman finally glances up, eyebrows raised like you’re the one causing trouble.

“Victor’s Village. Just head that way.” She waves vaguely past the windows. “Someone there’ll take you in until your place is finished.”

“Thas’—” You bite your lip. “Are you sure?”

“They’ve got houses with space. You won’t be a bother.” A pause. “Probably.”

And that’s it.

No map. No guide. No explanation.

Just a tight smile and the sound of your own shoes on the tile as you step back out into the sunlight, heart beating too fast and throat too tight.

The walk to the Victor’s Village isn’t long, but it feels like it stretches on forever.

Maybe it’s the weight of your duffel digging into your shoulder. Maybe it’s the sweat slicking your back. Maybe it’s the way your brain keeps looping someone there will take you in like that’s a normal thing to say to someone who just got off a train in a brand-new district with nowhere to sleep.

You try not to let it show on your face.

The road curves a little as you reach the edge of town, and that’s when you see the fence.

It’s tall. Gated. Meant to separate the Victor’s Village from the rest of District 12, like it’s still its own world—even now, two years after the Games ended.

Inside the fence, the houses are… beautiful.

They’re not grand, exactly, but they look it. Bright white trim, deep porches, tall windows with hanging flower baskets and old-fashioned lanterns mounted beside the doors. Every home has signs of life—someone’s laundry hanging to dry on a line, a tricycle tipped over in a front yard, wind chimes clinking gently in the heat-still air.

All twelve houses are clearly occupied, most of them by people who came back after the war to help rebuild. It doesn’t look like a neighborhood for victors anymore. It just looks like a place for people who’ve lived through something.

You slow down without meaning to, eyes tracing the curve of a railing, the slant of a roof, the way the afternoon light pools golden on the porch steps.

You hover at the edge of the gate for a moment, heart in your throat.

Just pick one, you tell yourself.

You do.

You walk up to the porch of the nearest house with a flutter in your chest and knock twice—sharp, quick, before you can overthink it.

It takes less than five seconds for the door to open.

And then you nearly forget how to breathe.

Because of course.

Of course it had to be him.

Haymitch Abernathy.

One of the most famous men in all of Panem.

You recognize him immediately—greying blond hair, grey eyes, broad shoulders, and the kind of worn-in exhaustion that doesn’t fade, even two years after the war ended. He’s barefoot. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Holding what looks like a mug of coffee, though the sharp smell of liquor clings to the doorway like a second welcome mat.

He squints at you.

“Can I help you?”

Your mouth opens.

Then closes.

You absolutely did not plan for this.

You stare at him.

Not because you mean to. Definitely not because it’s polite.

But because—damn.

You remember seeing him on TV growing up. Reaping broadcasts. Capitol interviews. War coverage. He always looked tired, always had a drink in his hand, always said the most inappropriate thing at exactly the wrong time.

But even then, even as a kid…

You always thought he was attractive.

You just didn’t realize that in person he’d look like this.

Taller than you expected. Broader, too. His shirt’s wrinkled and a little threadbare at the collar, like he grabbed it off the floor that morning, and he smells like liquor and soap and something warm that you can’t place. His hair’s messy, his expression is unimpressed, and his bicep flexes slightly as he adjusts the mug in his hand—and you are staring.

Absolutely, shamelessly, staring.

You don’t even realize it until his eyebrows go up.

Then he gives you the once-over, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking from your face to your neck to the strap of your duffel and then lower.

And then he says, flatly, “Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me?”

Your whole body jolts.

“I—no—sorry—I’m—um—”

You gesture vaguely toward the yard, your voice cracking right down the middle. “They told me to come to the Victor’s Village? Was ‘sposed to have a house but s’not ready an’ they said someone here might—might have space—so I jus’—”

You are rambling.

And still sweating.

And still actively trying not to pass out because he is somehow even hotter up close and also your emergency housing option.

Haymitch blinks at you.

Then he leans against the doorframe, sipping from the mug like he’s rethinking every decision he’s ever made.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

“I didn’ mean to pick your house specifically,” you blurt, words falling out way too fast. “I didn’ know it was yours—obviously I recognize you now, like who wouldn’, you were on TV all the time and kind’ve helped end the Games an’ everythin’—”

He raises one eyebrow.

“—but I wasn’ like followin’ you or anythin’, I jus’ knocked, an’ you opened the door, an’ now I’m standin’ here, an’—um—”

You take a breath.

Immediately lose it again.

“I’m Y/N,” you say, like that explains everything. “I’m from District 9, I’m here for a nurse’s apprenticeship at the hospital—they started a new pediatric program an’ I applied months ago, they accepted me, an’ I was ‘sposed to have housing, but s’not finished, the receptionist jus’ said to come here, so I did, but now I’m on your porch an’ I’m really sorry—”

Haymitch stares at you.

Just stares.

Like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real.

You’re still talking.

“I brought my own things. I have toiletries. I won’ get in the way. I jus’ need somewhere to sleep until the house’s done, they said it’d take a month or two—maybe less dependin’ on materials—so I won’ be here long, you don’ even hafta talk to me if you don’ wanna, I’ll stay outta your way, I promise, I—”

“Girl,” he cuts in, holding up one hand. “Breathe.”

You stop.

Just like that.

Like your brain short-circuits.

Haymitch watches you for another beat. Then sighs like he’s already regretting whatever’s about to come out of his mouth.

“Well,” he mutters, stepping back into the house, “get in before you melt into the porch.”

And for some reason, that’s when your brain finally short-circuits for real.

Because of all the people you could’ve ended up living with—

It had to be Haymitch Abernathy.

The second you cross the threshold, the air changes.

It’s cooler inside, thank God, but it’s not just the temperature. The whole house feels dense with something—something quiet and heavy and his.

The place isn’t a disaster, not really. Not the way you’d imagined.

There’s clutter, yeah—books stacked in strange places, a few empty glasses on the side table, a half-folded blanket thrown over the back of the couch—but it’s clean where it counts. Lived-in. Comfortable. The kind of space that’s not trying to impress anyone.

Haymitch shuts the door behind you, his footsteps slow and even against the wood floors. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks past you into the living room and takes another sip from the mug like he didn’t just let a stranger into his house because the receptionist told her to knock.

You stay near the door, clutching the strap of your duffel like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.

The room smells like coffee and something woodsy. Old whiskey, maybe.

There’s a dent in the couch cushion like he always sits in the same spot.

You swallow and shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your clothes cling to your skin. Of how much space you take up. Of how out of place you feel standing in the middle of his world, sweating and awkward and way too loud.

“I, um…” you start, voice softer now. “I can sleep wherever. Floor’s fine. Or the couch. Or—”

He cuts you off again, already walking toward the stairs. “There’s a guest room.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

He gestures toward the hallway. “Down the hall, last door on the left. Has a bed. It’s not fancy.”

“I don’ need fancy.”

He snorts. “Good. ‘Cause you’re not gettin’ it.”

You almost smile.

You wait until he disappears up the stairs before you let yourself exhale—slow, shaky, chest still tight with everything you’re not saying.

Okay. Guest room. One or two months. Don’t take up space.

You can do that.

You wait a few seconds after he disappears—just long enough to hear his footsteps fade—before you finally make yourself move.

The hallway is narrow but clean. Hardwood underfoot, pale walls, the faint smell of something citrusy. Not new, but well-kept. Like someone tries, even if they don’t talk about it.

You find the room easily. Last door on the left, just like he said.

It’s simple.

A twin bed with a patchwork quilt that doesn’t match the curtains. A wooden dresser with one drawer slightly open. A small desk pushed against the wall. No pictures. No clutter. Just clean, bare space and the soft, settled kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.

You close the door gently behind you.

Let your duffel fall to the floor beside the bed.

And finally—finally—you sit down.

The mattress dips under your weight, the quilt cool beneath your palms. You stare down at your hands, flexing your fingers like they don’t quite belong to you.

It hits you all at once.

You’re really here.

Not in District 9 anymore. Not in your shared bedroom with Mercher snoring on the bunk above you. Not helping your mom hang laundry or patch up injuries from the grain fields.

Here.

In District 12.

Living—temporarily—with Haymitch Abernathy.

You laugh once, breathless, disbelieving.

Then you reach for your bag and unzip it, fingers moving on autopilot as you unpack what little you brought. A soft bundle of pastel scrubs—purple, pink, blue—each with their own neat little pattern stitched along the hems. A framed photo of you, your mom, and Mercher, smiling in the field behind your old house. A worn paperback. A rolled-up knit blanket.

And tucked carefully beneath your clothes, the thing you’ll never admit to bringing.

The pink stuffed bear you’ve had since you were born.

You slip it under the pillow before you can think too hard about it.

Then you sit back again, palms resting on your thighs, back straight, shoulders tense like you’re waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does.

Just quiet.

And a whole lot of unfamiliar air.

You sit on the edge of the bed a little longer than you probably need to.

The heat from the walk here hasn’t gone away. It’s still clinging to your skin, your shirt sticking to your lower back, your hair probably frizzing out in three different directions. You’re not even sure what time it is. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, and your body’s still catching up.

Eventually, the discomfort wins out.

You stand, brushing your hands on your thighs, and glance once around the room like maybe it’ll offer you some kind of direction. It doesn’t. Just blank walls and soft light filtering through the curtains.

You grab your toiletries from your bag and steel yourself.

The hallway feels longer the second time.

You don’t hear him—don’t even know if he’s downstairs—but you clear your throat softly as you step around the corner, clutching your little toiletry pouch like it’s some kind of shield.

“Um…”

Haymitch looks up from the couch. He’s on the couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent, arm slung over the side like he’s been there forever.

His eyes flick to yours.

Then to the bag in your hands.

“Bathroom’s second door on the right.”

You blink. “I—how’d’ya know I was gonna ask?”

“You’re real loud for somebody who barely talks.”

Your face warms.

He smirks like he can see it. “Shower works fine. Towels are under the sink. Don’t fall and die.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, ducking your head as you shuffle past.

“Welcome,” he says, already halfway back to whatever battered book he was reading.

The bathroom is small, but clean.

The tile’s a little chipped in places. The mirror’s got a smudge near the top edge. But it’s real. Lived in. It doesn’t feel sterile the way hospital bathrooms do, and it doesn’t feel impersonal like the ones at train stations. It just… is.

You close the door behind you with a quiet click, set your pouch on the edge of the sink, and turn the faucet in the tub until the water runs warm.

Then you sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on your knees, and breathe.

“You’re real loud for somebody who barely talks.”

The words echo back into your chest, sharp at the edges.

You know he didn’t say anything about your body. Not directly.

But the tone. The timing. The way his eyes flicked down once before settling back on your face.

It stirs something old and too familiar in your gut.

Loud.

They used to say that in school too. Not about your voice. Not about your words.

About your footsteps.

About your size.

About the way you moved.

You sigh through your nose, shake your head like you can scrub it clean, and stand up.

The mirror isn’t kind. They never are. You keep your eyes low as you pull off your shirt, peeling it away from your damp skin. Your bra comes next—simple, worn, comfortable. Then your shorts. Underwear.

Everything ends up folded on the edge of the sink like that’ll make it feel less vulnerable.

You step into the tub, careful, and let the water pour over you.

It’s hot.

Too hot, maybe.

But you don’t turn it down.

You let it sting your shoulders and slide down your back, down your arms, over the full curve of your belly and thighs. Let it soak your hair, flatten the heat of the day, drown out the thoughts.

You always knew this wouldn’t be easy.

New place. New people. New version of yourself you’re trying so hard to believe in.

But standing there, steam curling around your face, the water pooling at your feet, you let yourself feel it for a minute.

The fear.

The weight.

The strange, quiet hope that maybe—not today, not yet—but maybe, something good will come out of it.

You don’t say anything.

Just lean your forehead against the cool tile wall.

And let yourself be still.

You stay in the shower longer than you mean to.

Long enough for your fingers to wrinkle. Long enough for your legs to ache from standing still. But the water feels good, and the tile doesn’t judge you, and it’s the only place that’s been quiet since you stepped off that train.

Eventually, you shut the water off.

Dry yourself carefully.

Your favorite pair of sweatpants are soft from too many washes, and the oversized t-shirt you brought smells like your mom’s fabric softener.

You glance at yourself in the mirror before leaving the bathroom.

Not long.

Just enough to tug the hem of the shirt lower and try not to cringe at your reflection.

The hallway is still quiet when you step out.

You hesitate in front of your bedroom door.

You could go back in. Shut it. Pretend this day never happened.

But you know yourself too well.

If you sit down, you’ll stay there. You’ll spiral. You’ll overthink everything from your voice to your posture to the way you stammered on his porch like you’d never seen a man before.

So instead—you turn toward the living room after tossing your clothes on the bedroom floor.

And you go.

Haymitch is still on the couch when you reappear, feet propped up on the coffee table, mug half-empty. He doesn’t look up right away, just glances toward the sound of your bare feet on the hardwood.

Then he raises an eyebrow.

“Thought you disappeared.”

You shake your head, arms crossed tight over your chest. “Jus’ didn’ wanna be a bother.”

“You’re not,” he says, too casual.

Then pauses.

“Yet.”

You huff under your breath and make your way toward the armchair opposite the couch. It had a worn-in cushion and a little throw pillow tucked in the corner. You pull that pillow into your lap the second you sit, fingers worrying the edge of it like it might give you something solid to hold.

Haymitch glances at you.

Doesn’t say anything else.

The silence stretches.

But it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever sat in.

The pillow is soft.

You press your arms into it, fingers curled tight around the edge, trying not to let your shoulders round in too much. You stare at a spot on the floor between your feet for a few seconds, then glance up.

The room’s still quiet.

No music. No television. Just the sound of the fan spinning lazily overhead and the occasional clink of Haymitch’s mug when he shifts it in his hand.

You let your gaze wander—slow, careful, trying not to be obvious.

There’s a bookshelf near the fireplace, crammed with mismatched paperbacks, some shelved sideways, some stacked on top of others. A coat tossed over the back of a kitchen chair. A pair of boots by the door. A blanket draped over the back of the couch that looks handmade, maybe even hand-stitched.

Everything feels… lived in. Not carefully decorated, not showy. Just his.

You blink back down at the pillow in your lap.

“How old are you?” he asks, suddenly.

You jolt a little.

Look up.

He’s watching you now—not intensely, not probing, just… looking. Elbow on the armrest. Mug resting against his thigh.

“Twenny,” you say.

He nods. “So fresh outta school?”

You shake your head. “Finished when I was eighteen, like right before the war.”

“Huh.”

Another sip of his drink.

“You from the grain side of Nine?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Born an’ raised.”

“Figures. You got the look.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. “The look?”

“Hard worker. Tired eyes. Pretty girl who doesn’t think she’s pretty.”

You blink.

He says it like it’s a fact.

Like he’s not even trying to make a point. Just noting it.

Your face heats immediately, and you bury it in a shrug. “Y’all’re real blunt out here.”

He smirks. “You ain’t seen blunt yet.”

You snort under your breath and look back down at the pillow, still clutching it to your stomach.

He doesn’t say anything else right away.

Just lets the quiet settle again.

This time… it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

You sit with his words still echoing in your chest.

Pretty girl who doesn’t think she’s pretty.

You’re not sure what to do with that.

Not when it sounded like nothing more than a casual observation. Not when he said it without looking at you too long. Not when it didn’t feel cruel—but didn’t feel like a compliment either.

You glance up again.

He’s still watching you. Or half-watching. Eyes on his mug, flicking your way every few seconds like he’s still deciding whether or not you’re going to pass out on his rug.

You shift, hug the pillow a little tighter.

Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, “Can I ask you somethin’?”

His eyebrows raise slightly. “Sure.”

“You always lived here?”

He nods once. “Born in Twelve. Stayed in Twelve. Didn’t exactly have time to go house hunting.”

You look down at your fingers, picking at the edge of the pillow. “What’s it like? Livin’ in the Victor’s Village.”

He shrugs. “Used to be empty. Quiet. Not so quiet now.”

You snort softly. “That your way of sayin’ I’m already disruptin’ your peace?”

He smirks. “Not yet.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… hovering.

You press on, quieter this time. “I’ve never been in one before. A Victor’s Village. We have one back in Nine, but s’always been gated off. I always wondered what it’d look like on the inside.”

Haymitch leans back in his seat, the leather creaking. “You expected gold trim and champagne fountains?”

“I expected not to knock on your door,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

His grin turns sharp.

“Still time to change your mind, peach.”

You blink.

Then furrow your brow. “Did’ya jus’ call me peach?”

“Mm.” He takes a sip of his drink. “You look like one.”

You freeze.

Your stomach twists, the smile slipping from your face before you even realize it was there. He says it so casually—so offhand, like he’s not thinking—but all you can hear is the echo of voices from years ago. Boys laughing. Snickering behind lockers. Round like a peach. Big like a pig.

Pretty girl who doesn’t think she’s pretty.

Right.

You let out a quiet, awkward laugh and stand too quickly. “Um. I should probably unpack the rest of my stuff. Long day.”

Haymitch glances up at you, something unreadable in his expression, but he doesn’t stop you.

“Right,” he says. “Sure.”

You nod once, too fast, clutch the pillow tighter before dropping it, and shuffle back toward the hallway before he can say anything else.

The moment the door closes behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

And try not to think too hard about what he meant.

Or why it hurt so much.

Next

[pedroscowgirl]

Under the spotlight

hugh jackman x fem!reader

this is the last part of the series from my masterlist "a younger revelation"

warnings: smut! minors dni! p in v (wrap it up) , age gap (reader is in her 20s and hugh is 55), established relationship, creampie, public teasing, reader has hair, lmk if i forgot something!

wc: 7.9k

a/n: hi everyone thank you for waiting such a long time for this but i had a massive writers block for this series but i hope yall like it! and i also wanna thank everyone for the support and love that yall have given to this series <3 also my cat was sitting on my hands so i couldn't post this earlier

It’s one of those perfect mornings where time seems to stretch, slowing down to match the easy rhythm of your breathing. The bedroom is bathed in soft light, the pale autumn sun filtering through the curtains, casting a gentle golden hue over the room. Everything feels serene. The world outside is still, quiet. It’s just you and Hugh, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of a lazy Sunday.

You’re lying on your side, your face nestled into the pillow as you feel Hugh’s warm body pressed up against yours, his arm loosely draped around your waist. His slow, steady breathing sends a comforting warmth along your back, the soft rise and fall of his chest against you a grounding reminder that this—right here, right now—is real. It’s always the little things that get to you, the way his hand absentmindedly traces small circles on your hip, or the way his hair is still slightly mussed from sleep.

His phone is in his hand, the occasional soft click of the screen illuminating in the dim room. You glance over at him, curious but too comfortable to move much, letting the sheets envelop you both in a cocoon of comfort.

“Checking your fan messages already?” you tease, your voice still a little husky from sleep.

He smiles without looking up, that lazy, playful grin of his that always makes your stomach flip. “Something like that,” he murmurs, his deep voice still carrying the warmth of sleep.

You can feel him scrolling, his thumb moving over the screen in that familiar swipe, probably going through memes or replying to texts. But then you notice the distinct sound of the camera clicking. Your senses sharpen slightly, but you remain still, watching him through heavy eyelids.

“Hugh,” you say, a warning laced in your tone, but you don’t move.

“Hmm?” He turns his head towards you, trying—and failing—to look innocent, though that mischievous glint in his eyes betrays him.

Before you can ask, he’s already snapped a photo, quick and subtle. You barely register the motion until it’s done, and he’s grinning like a cat that’s just caught a bird.

“Did you just take a picture?” you ask, amused but also intrigued.

“Maybe,” he replies, smirking.

You roll over slightly to face him, your eyebrow arched, though you’re far too comfortable to pretend to be mad. “What are you planning?”

Instead of answering directly, he turns the phone screen towards you. It’s a photo of the two of you, or rather, a hint of you. The image is almost artful in its subtlety. The sheets are tangled, the lighting soft and warm, but it only shows a small part of your arm resting on the bed and a faint glimpse of Hugh’s face in the far corner, just enough of his tousled hair and stubble to be unmistakable. The focus is deliberately vague, making it impossible to tell who is with him unless you already knew.

“Are you really going to post that?” you ask, half laughing, half groaning at how much chaos this one image will stir up.

His grin widens as his thumb hovers over the “Post” button on Instagram. “Why not? Just a little tease.”

“A little tease?” you repeat, incredulous. “You know exactly what you’re doing. People are going to lose their minds.”

“That’s part of the fun,” he says with a chuckle, that deep, playful sound you can feel reverberate through his chest.

You watch as he writes out the caption, short and vague: “Sunday mornings be like... 😌 #justchilling”

It’s perfect, deliberately vague and enough to send the internet into a frenzy. No name, no tags, just an intimate glimpse into his life, and the fans will eat it up. You can already imagine the whirlwind of theories and speculation that will follow, fans dissecting every pixel, trying to figure out who he’s with, if this means he’s seeing someone, or if it’s just a clever trick to keep them guessing.

“You’re evil,” you say with a laugh, watching as he hits ‘post.’

The phone buzzes almost instantly with notifications, the comments flooding in before either of you can even react.

“See?” he says, pulling you closer to him, his voice laced with amusement. “They love it.”

You lean over, resting your head against his shoulder, unable to hide your own smile. The comments are exactly what you’d expected. Fans are already speculating—some convinced it’s just a casual, fun post, others absolutely certain this is proof Hugh is off the market. A few are even analyzing the details of the photo, trying to match up the bedspread to any previous photos he might’ve posted.

“Is Hugh teasing us or is this legit?!”

“Who’s the mystery person? 😍”

“This better be a joke, because I’m not ready for Hugh to be taken.”

“Okay, but does anyone else think this means something more?”

“Look at them go,” Hugh says, scrolling through the comments with a grin, clearly enjoying every second of it.

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you snuggle back into him. “You really love to mess with people, don’t you?”

“Only a little,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. His tone shifts slightly, more sincere now as he adds, “But it’s also nice having something just for us, you know? Something that only we understand.”

Your heart swells at that, knowing what he means. The photo is out there, shared with millions, but the truth behind it—this quiet, peaceful moment between the two of you—belongs solely to you. No matter how much they speculate, how many wild theories they come up with, only the two of you know what it’s really like, tangled up in each other’s warmth on a lazy Sunday morning.

Hugh chuckles again as another flood of notifications rolls in. “Should we tell them the truth?” he asks, though you know he’s not serious.

You shake your head, smiling against his chest. “Nah, let them wonder.”

And with that, you settle back into the sheets, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. The world may be buzzing with questions, but in here, in this moment, it’s just you and Hugh, perfectly content to keep your little secret just a while longer.

As you scroll through the flood of comments on Hugh’s Instagram post, a sense of pride swells in your chest. Each message filled with speculation, jealousy, and admiration only adds to the thrill. You’re the one lying beside him, tangled in his arms, enjoying these quiet mornings. You’re the one he reaches for when the world isn’t looking. It might be a little evil, but there’s a certain satisfaction in watching the world try to guess, knowing that it’s you who gets to be with him, hold him, laugh with him, and experience the parts of him no one else gets to see.

You toss your phone aside before you turn back to Hugh. He’s still lounging on his back, his arm propped behind his head, his phone forgotten beside him. He’s only wearing his underwear, the fabric resting low on his hips, and the sight makes your pulse quicken. His sculpted chest rises and falls with his slow breaths, and your gaze drifts over the contours of his muscles, the familiar curve of his collarbone, the light dusting of hair across his chest. It’s impossible to resist him, especially when he’s like this, completely relaxed, utterly unguarded, and all yours.

Without a word, you shift, straddling his waist, your thighs bracketing his hips as you settle yourself on top of him. Hugh raises an eyebrow, his expression teasing as his hands instinctively come to rest on your hips.

“Well, hi there,” he says, his voice deep and playful. “What are you up to?”

You just smile down at him, your fingers already tracing slow patterns across his chest. The feel of his skin, warm and smooth beneath your touch, sends a ripple of heat through your body. You let your hands roam, sliding over the hard planes of his pecs, down the ridges of his abs, before coming back up again. You’re deliberately slow, savoring the way his breath catches, how his muscles tense ever so slightly under your caress.

“Nothing,” you say, the innocence in your voice a stark contrast to the way your hands are moving over him. You lean down, capturing his lips in a slow, lingering kiss, your fingers curling into his chest as his hands grip your waist a little tighter. His lips move against yours with an ease born from countless kisses, his stubble rough against your skin in a way that makes you want more, makes you crave the feeling of him against you.

Just as you pull back, your hips start to move, a subtle grind against him that makes a low groan escape his lips. The sound sends a shiver of pleasure through you, and you press down a little harder, feeling the way his body reacts to yours.

Hugh chuckles, though his voice is rougher now, laced with desire. “Hmm, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up your sides, holding you in place but not stopping your movements, “don’t forget, we have to go to that award show tonight.”

You roll your eyes, not breaking your rhythm. “Yes, tonight,” you echo, your voice soft but edged with playful defiance. You lean down, brushing your lips against his ear, letting your breath fan over his skin. “Or… are you planning on fucking me all day?” you whisper, the words a teasing challenge as your hips roll again, pressing against him just right.

A sharp breath escapes him at your words, and his grip on you tightens. His fingers dig into your hips, his body reacting to the way you’re moving against him, to the teasing promise in your voice. His eyes meet yours, dark and full of heat as he smirks.

“Maybe yes,” he answers, his voice low and husky, full of that teasing edge that always drives you wild.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you down to him as his lips find yours again. This time the kiss is deeper, more urgent. There’s nothing gentle about it now, nothing slow. His mouth moves against yours with a need that matches the way your body is pressing against his, the way your hips are grinding down on him, making both of you groan into each other’s mouths.

You can feel the tension building between you, the heat of his skin against yours, the way his body is responding to your every movement. The award show is hours away, and for now, the world outside doesn’t matter. Right now, it’s just you and Hugh, the only sound in the room the soft rustle of sheets and the quiet moans you’re both trying to keep from getting too loud.

You can’t help but grin against his lips, feeling the delicious pull of tension in the air, the way his hands are roaming your body with an increasing urgency. "Maybe we could skip the show," you murmur, your voice a little breathless as you pull back just enough to look into his eyes.

Hugh raises an eyebrow, his smile full of heat as his hands slide down your sides again, resting firmly on your hips. "Tempting," he admits, his voice rough and teasing, “but you’ll look so damn good tonight, I want everyone to see.”

His words send a thrill through you, the promise in them just as enticing as the feeling of him beneath you. But you can’t resist teasing him just a little more. “Well, if we’re going to make it,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear again, “we better get started on something now, don’t you think?”

A low growl escapes him, his hands tightening on your waist as he rolls you over, pinning you beneath him with a playful grin that makes your heart race. "Oh, I think we’ve got time,” he says, his voice full of that confident, teasing charm that only he can pull off. “Plenty of time.”

Hugh’s grin is slow and wicked, a knowing glint in his eyes as he hovers over you, his hands planted on either side of your head, holding himself up effortlessly. His chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths, but you can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body is coiled with desire. His face is close to yours, and you can’t help but be mesmerized by the way his eyes roam over your features, taking in every detail like it’s the first time he’s seeing you like this.

“Plenty of time,” he repeats, his voice dropping even lower, a rough edge to it that makes heat pool in your stomach.

His lips brush against yours in a teasing ghost of a kiss, and you arch your back, instinctively pressing yourself closer to him. But he doesn’t kiss you right away; instead, his mouth hovers over yours, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath but not close enough to close the gap. It’s deliberate, and the way he holds back only makes you want him more.

“Hugh…” you breathe, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the hard muscles beneath your fingers as you try to pull him closer, but he doesn’t budge. His smile grows, enjoying the way you’re squirming beneath him.

“What’s the rush?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jaw, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that sends little sparks of pleasure racing through you. He kisses down your neck slowly, his mouth soft and warm, the contrast between his rough jaw and tender lips driving you wild. His hands, large and warm, skim down the sides of your body, tracing the curve of your waist, before coming to rest on your hips, holding you in place as his mouth continues to trail lower.

You can barely form a response, too focused on the way his touch ignites every nerve in your body. You arch into him, wanting more, needing more, but he keeps that slow, deliberate pace, savoring every inch of you.

“Hugh…” you say again, this time more pleading, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently.

He chuckles softly against your skin, his voice deep and thick with amusement. “Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your collarbone. “We’ve got all day.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words, and the low heat between your thighs intensifies, the idea of spending hours tangled up with him sending a flush of anticipation through your body. You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and he takes it, his mouth trailing along the curve of your neck, down to your chest.

He finally moves lower, his lips skimming over your breasts, just barely grazing the sensitive skin there before he shifts, pressing his body down against yours. You can feel the hard length of him through the thin fabric of his boxers, and the sensation makes your hips instinctively buck up against him, seeking friction.

Hugh groans, low and deep in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he rocks against you once, slow but firm, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back as the heat between you builds.

You’re lost in the feel of him, the way he’s teasing you with slow, deliberate movements, making you want more, driving you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips. You press up against him again, your body moving in sync with his, seeking more, desperate for the friction that will send you both over the edge.

Hugh’s breathing is heavy now, and his restraint is starting to slip. You can see it in the way his muscles tense, the way his control wavers as he presses harder against you, his movements becoming less measured and more urgent. His lips find yours again, this time with no hesitation. He kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he grinds against you, making you both groan into each other’s mouths.

The heat between you is electric, the room filled with nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the quiet moans you can’t hold back, and the soft rustle of the sheets beneath you. Every touch, every kiss, feels like it’s setting your skin on fire, the intensity of the moment wrapping around you both, pulling you in deeper.

As your hips move together, the friction building with each roll of your bodies, you can feel the tightness coiling in your core, the pressure mounting as you both get closer. Hugh pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he fights to keep control.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and full of awe, like he still can’t believe he has you here, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. His words make your heart flutter, and you reach up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down into another kiss.

“Hugh…” you murmur against his lips, your voice breathless and desperate, “I need you.”

He groans, the sound deep and full of desire, and in one swift motion, he flips you both again, pulling you back on top of him, his hands guiding your hips as you go down on him. The shift in position only amplifies the friction, and you both moan as you start to move against him, your bodies perfectly in sync.

You’re lost in the moment, the world outside forgotten as you focus solely on him—on the way he feels beneath you, the way his hands grip your waist, urging you on. The award show, the fans, the comments it all fades away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

Hugh’s hands slide up your thighs, gripping them firmly as he gazes up at you, his eyes dark with want. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice rough with need.

You lean down, capturing his lips in another searing kiss as you move your hips down harder against him, and you can feel the tight coil of pleasure in your core begin to unravel.

Hugh came first and you felt his thick hot cum inside you and finished soon after. You got off him and laid next to him panting. “Let’s get ready” Hugh said, and you looked up at him with wide eyes. “Damn already?” you asked and he laughed “next time you should go to the gym with me.” “no thanks, I’d rather work out like this” you replied and laid back down as Hugh got up to get ready.

As you slip into your stunning black gown, a mix of nerves and excitement stirs within you. The dress is a masterpiece: form-fitting with a low, open back that grazes the curve of your spine, the fabric smooth and sleek against your skin. Delicate gold accents line the edges of the dress, shimmering subtly as you move. The slit, daringly high, runs up the side of your thigh, revealing just enough skin to turn heads without being too provocative. It’s a statement dress, designed to be remembered.

As you stand in front of the mirror, the reality of the evening sinks in. Tonight, you’ll be walking beside Hugh, the world’s eyes watching every step you take, every gesture, every look exchanged between you two. And it isn’t just any event it’s the first time you’ll be seen in public as his girlfriend.

The age difference has always been something you and Hugh took in stride privately, but you know it will draw attention tonight. Thirty years younger than him, you can already picture the headlines, the gossip columns buzzing with whispers. You feel your heart rate quicken, the nerves tightening in your stomach as you imagine what people might say.

But then, you remember the way Hugh looks at you, like you’re the only person in the room, the only one who matters. That thought alone is enough to steady your breathing, even as you glance at the clock and realize it’s almost time to leave.

You decide, at the last minute, to skip wearing any underwear beneath the gown. It’s an impulsive decision, one spurred on by the teasing and intimacy you shared earlier. A secret only the two of you will know about as you face the cameras, the flashing lights, and the scrutiny. The thought of telling him right in the middle of the chaos makes your lips curl into a sly smile. You know how much it will drive him crazy, especially with so many eyes watching.

By the time you’re finished with your makeup and hair, sleek waves that cascade over your shoulders, highlighting the open back of your dress, you hear a knock at the door. Your heart skips a beat, and you feel that familiar thrill of anticipation.

Hugh stands at the doorway, looking effortlessly handsome in his tailored black tuxedo. The suit fits him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame, the crisp white shirt beneath highlighting the strong lines of his chest. His hair is slightly tousled, adding to his rugged charm, and the smoldering look in his eyes when he sees you makes your pulse race.

“Wow,” he murmurs, taking a step toward you, his gaze sweeping over you with obvious admiration. “You look… breathtaking.”

You blush, biting your lip as you take him in. “You don’t look too bad yourself,” you reply, your voice soft but playful.

Hugh steps closer, his hands gently resting on your waist as he pulls you into a slow kiss. His lips are warm, soft, lingering just long enough to make you wish you had more time before facing the world outside. But the car is waiting, and the event beckons.

As you break apart, he looks at you with a mix of pride and affection, sensing the nerves beneath your calm exterior. “You ready?” he asks, his tone gentle but encouraging.

You nod, though your heart pounds a little faster with each passing second. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The ride to the event is filled with quiet conversation and stolen glances, the two of you sitting close in the backseat of the car. Hugh’s hand rests on your thigh, a reassuring presence, his thumb tracing soft circles on your skin as you stare out the window, watching the city lights blur by.

As you get closer to the venue, you can already see the flash of cameras in the distance, hear the excited murmur of the crowd gathered around the red carpet. Your heart hammers in your chest, the enormity of the night fully hitting you as the car pulls up to the entrance.

This is it.

When the door opens, Hugh steps out first, offering you his hand as he helps you out of the car. The second your heels touch the pavement, the cameras go wild, the sound of flashing shutters and photographers shouting Hugh’s name filling the air. The energy is electric, overwhelming, and for a brief moment, the nerves spike.

Hugh’s arm slides around your waist, pulling you close as you walk toward the carpet together. His touch is grounding, and with him by your side, you feel a surge of confidence. But as you near the photographers, your heart races for an entirely different reason.

Now is the moment.

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear above the chaos. “By the way, I’m not wearing any underwear.”

You feel Hugh tense, just slightly, his fingers tightening on your waist as your words register. His eyes widen for a split second, and he gives you a look, one filled with surprise, disbelief, and the unmistakable spark of desire. You can practically hear the breath he sucks in, though he’s quick to compose himself, his expression transforming into a smile for the cameras.

The photographers call out his name, but Hugh’s gaze is fixed on you, a smoldering heat in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. His smile, now, is different—darker, knowing.

“You’re going to drive me insane,” he murmurs under his breath, his voice low and rough, only for you to hear. The way he says it, though, makes your stomach flip with excitement.

You let out a soft laugh, your hand resting lightly on his chest as the two of you pause for photos. The cameras continue to flash, capturing every moment, the way his hand rests protectively on the small of your back, the way your bodies fit perfectly together. But only you can feel the tension building between you, the unspoken thrill of the secret you share.

“Now how am I supposed to focus tonight, knowing that?” Hugh whispers again, his lips barely moving as he smiles for the cameras. His voice is laced with frustration and amusement, but there’s no mistaking the heat behind his words.

You glance up at him, your own smile playful. “You’ll just have to manage,” you tease, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and anticipation.

The rest of the red carpet feels like a whirlwind. Hugh keeps you close, his arm never leaving your waist, guiding you through the chaos of photographers, reporters, and flashing lights. You can feel the eyes of the world on you, people whispering, wondering, speculating about who you are, about the age difference, about how you landed the heart of one of Hollywood’s biggest stars. But all of that melts away, because in these moments, it’s just you and Hugh. The world may be watching, but your secret, the way his hand grips your waist just a little tighter whenever you move, keeps your focus on him.

As you pose together for one final round of photos before heading into the venue, you lean in once more, your voice soft but filled with mischief. “Just think of tonight’s after-party.”

Hugh’s eyes darken, a low chuckle escaping him. “You’re impossible,” he whispers, but there’s no denying the glint of excitement in his eyes.

“Let’s get through this first,” he adds, his voice filled with both a promise and the hint of a challenge, “and then we’ll see what happens.”

As you both step into the venue, the chaos of the red carpet slowly fades behind you. The sound of the cameras, the shouts from fans, and the flashing lights are replaced by the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of champagne glasses. The air inside the grand ballroom is cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the moment you just shared outside.

But even here, in the elegant, dimly lit atmosphere of the award show, you can feel the weight of the attention. People glance in your direction, some with curiosity, others with envy, and a few with knowing looks as they connect the dots. You keep your head high, leaning into Hugh's side as he guides you through the crowd with a quiet confidence, his hand still resting firmly on your waist.

The room is filled with some of Hollywood’s biggest names—actors, directors, producers, all dressed in their finest, mingling and laughing beneath the glittering chandeliers. The soft glow of the lights reflects off the gold accents of your dress, casting a warm shimmer over your skin. You’re hyperaware of everything—how closely Hugh’s body is pressed to yours, how his thumb occasionally rubs soothing circles on your lower back, as if reminding you that he’s right there, with you.

Despite the luxurious surroundings, your mind keeps drifting back to the moment on the red carpet—the way Hugh’s breath hitched when you told him your secret, the heat that flared between you in the middle of all that chaos. You feel a flush rise in your cheeks, your pulse quickening as you remember the dark look in his eyes, the promise that lingered in the air between you.

But now, the evening stretches before you, full of formalities, speeches, and socializing. Hugh stops to talk to a few colleagues, introducing you with pride in his voice, his arm never leaving you. You smile politely, exchanging pleasantries, though part of you is still buzzing from the thrill of what’s to come later.

At one point, as you make your way toward your table, Hugh leans in close, his lips brushing your ear in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, “you’re making it very hard for me to focus on anything tonight.”

You bite your lip, your heart skipping a beat as you look up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Am I?” you reply innocently, though the teasing glint in your eyes betrays you.

Hugh chuckles softly, the sound deep and rich. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” His hand slides down your back, resting just above the curve of your hip, his touch firm and possessive. “But two can play at that game.”

Before you can respond, the lights dim, signaling that the show is about to begin. You’re led to your seats, a prime spot near the front, surrounded by other actors and filmmakers. The anticipation in the room builds as the host takes the stage, the crowd settling into their seats for the start of the ceremony.

You try to focus on the event, on the speeches and awards being presented, but every time Hugh’s fingers brush against your skin, your thoughts wander. The subtle, almost imperceptible way he keeps his hand on your thigh under the table, his thumb occasionally tracing light patterns, has your heart racing in ways that have nothing to do with the glamorous evening. You shift slightly in your seat, the smooth fabric of your dress sliding against your bare skin, a reminder of the secret only the two of you share.

Hugh’s attention is divided between the stage and you, and you can feel the tension building, the way his hand lingers just a moment too long, his grip tightening when he thinks no one is watching. He leans over every now and then, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers little comments about the show, but there’s always an underlying edge to his voice, a reminder that he’s still thinking about what you told him earlier.

As the ceremony continues, you feel your own excitement rising, fueled not just by the atmosphere but by the knowledge that, once the formalities are over, the two of you will be alone again. Every glance Hugh gives you, every soft touch, is a promise of what’s to come. And each time his eyes meet yours, you can see the fire smoldering there, barely contained.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the ceremony comes to a close. The applause rings out as the final award is presented, and the crowd begins to rise from their seats, conversations buzzing as people prepare to head to the after-parties or return home.

Hugh turns to you, his eyes dark with desire, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “How are you holding up?” he asks, his voice low and filled with meaning.

You meet his gaze, feeling the anticipation build between you. “Barely,” you whisper, your pulse quickening as you realize the moment you’ve been waiting for all night is finally here.

Hugh’s hand slides up your thigh, a slow, deliberate movement that has you sucking in a breath. His touch is warm, his fingers firm as they graze the sensitive skin just below the high slit of your dress. “Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks. “Because I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

The weight of his words sends a shiver through you, your heart pounding in your chest as he pulls back slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. The room around you seems to blur, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as the two of you stand, moving toward the exit together.

The moment you’re alone in the car, away from the prying eyes of the cameras and the crowd, the atmosphere between you shifts. The tension that’s been simmering all night finally snaps, and Hugh wastes no time, pulling you into his arms with a hunger that takes your breath away. His lips crash against yours, hot and insistent, his hands roaming over your body in a way that makes your head spin.

You gasp against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair as you return the kiss with equal fervor. The car ride is a blur of heated touches and stolen breaths, your bodies pressed together as if you can’t get close enough.

When the car finally pulls up to your hotel, Hugh doesn’t even wait for the driver to open the door before he’s leading you inside, his hand tight around yours as he pulls you through the lobby and up toward the elevator.

The second the elevator doors close behind you, Hugh’s hands are on you again, his lips trailing down your neck as his fingers trace the line of your dress, teasing the edge of the fabric. “You’re going to pay for that little stunt tonight,” he growls against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

You can only manage a breathless laugh as your body presses against his, your heart racing with anticipation for what’s to come. “I hope so.”

As the elevator doors open, you barely make it down the hall before Hugh has you pressed against the door of your suite.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound barely registering over the rush of blood in your ears. Hugh’s hands are on you in an instant, his fingers gripping your waist as he spins you around and presses your back against the cool wall. The contrast between the cold surface and the heat radiating off his body sends a shiver down your spine, igniting every nerve ending.

His lips crash into yours, all urgency and hunger. The kiss is deeper this time, more intense, as if the restraint he’s shown throughout the night is finally breaking apart. You moan softly into his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his tuxedo. You tug impatiently at his jacket, and Hugh pulls back just long enough to shrug it off and toss it aside.

“I’ve been waiting all night to do this,” he growls, his voice low and rough, filled with a kind of need that makes your stomach tighten with anticipation. His hands move to your hips, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin where the slit of your dress reveals the curve of your thigh. His touch is teasing, deliberate, making you ache for more.

You bite your lip, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the tension between you simmers to a boiling point. “Then stop waiting,” you whisper, your voice breathless, a challenge laced in your words.

Hugh’s eyes darken with desire, and in one swift motion, his hands are on the zipper of your dress, pulling it down with a smooth, deliberate motion. The fabric slides down your body, pooling at your feet, leaving you standing there in nothing but your heels, completely bare beneath the gown.

He pauses for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in every inch of your exposed skin. The intensity of his stare sends a flush of heat through your body, and you can see the way his jaw clenches, how hard he’s trying to keep himself in check.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration and desire. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over your bare waist, trailing up toward your breast, his touch slow and reverent, as if he’s savoring every second.

The sensation of his hands on you, after hours of anticipation, is almost too much to bear. You arch into his touch, your skin tingling where his fingers graze, every nerve on fire. “Hugh…” you breathe out, your voice a soft plea.

His eyes flicker up to meet yours, and in that moment, any pretense of restraint vanishes. Hugh’s hands are suddenly everywhere, on your waist, sliding down to grip your hips, pulling you closer until your bodies are pressed tightly together. His mouth moves to your neck, lips tracing a hot, searing path along your throat as his hands continue to roam over your bare skin, igniting a trail of heat wherever he touches.

You gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tilt your head back, giving him more access. The feel of his lips, his hands, the sheer weight of his body against yours, is overwhelming in the best possible way. Every touch, every kiss, every breath makes your heart race faster, the heat between you building with every passing second.

Hugh’s mouth moves lower, his lips skimming over your collarbone before trailing down to your chest. His hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes you moan softly, your body arching into his touch. He groans against your skin, clearly as affected as you are, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts as he worships every inch of you.

But it isn’t enough, not for you, not after the teasing and the buildup. You need more.

Your hands move to the front of his pants, your fingers deftly unbuttoning them as you tug at the waistband. Hugh pulls back just enough to shrug out of his shirt, his muscles flexing as he does, and you can’t help but admire the sight of him, the sharp lines of his abs, the broad expanse of his chest, the way his body seems to glow under the soft lighting of the room.

But you don’t have time to dwell on the sight for long, because the second his pants are off, Hugh pulls you into his arms again, lifting you effortlessly as your legs wrap around his waist. The feel of his skin against yours, the warmth and strength of him surrounding you, sends a jolt of electricity through your body.

He carries you to the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness despite the urgency burning between you. His body hovers over yours, his eyes locked on yours.

Hugh lowers himself onto you, his mouth claiming yours once again, and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, as if he’s savoring the feel of your lips against his. His hands roam over your body, caressing, exploring, while your own hands trail down his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingers.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, the tension in his body as he presses himself against you. Every movement, every touch is deliberate, driving you both closer to the edge with a slow, agonizing precision.

“Hugh, please,” you gasp, your body aching for more, the need building to an unbearable level.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark and intense as he looks down at you. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his voice rough and filled with desire, his breath hot against your skin.

You meet his gaze, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. “I want you,again”

That’s all it takes. Hugh’s restraint snaps, and he captures your lips in a searing kiss as he finally gives you what you’ve been aching for all night.

Hugh’s fingers slide between your thighs with a deliberate, teasing slowness, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly over your already soaked core. The anticipation that had built up all night is now electric, and you arch into his touch, a soft gasp escaping your lips as he pushes one finger inside you, then another. He moves with expert precision, finding that sensitive spot deep inside you almost immediately, his fingers curling in a way that sends a shockwave of pleasure through your entire body.

“Oh, Hugh…” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body reacts to the overwhelming sensations. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, steady circles while his fingers work you deeper, hitting that perfect spot that has you seeing stars. Each thrust of his hand is deliberate, measured, but relentless, building your pleasure in layers, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re so wet for me,” Hugh growls, his voice low and rough with desire as he watches you fall apart beneath him. “I’ve been thinking about this all night… watching you in that dress, knowing no one else knew what I was going to do to you.”

His words make your pulse quicken, the heat between your thighs intensifying with every thrust of his fingers. You can’t speak, can’t form a coherent thought as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly. All you can do is cling to him, your breath coming in short, ragged bursts as your body races toward its peak.

Hugh’s fingers press deeper, and he hits that spot again, harder this time. The sensation is overwhelming, and your body reacts instinctively, arching into his touch as a rush of pleasure explodes through you. You cry out, your hips bucking against his hand as you come, the intensity of it stealing the breath from your lungs. Your entire body trembles, your muscles tightening around his fingers as he rides you through the wave, his eyes locked on yours, dark and intense.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do that since the award show,” Hugh groans, his voice thick with desire as he pulls his fingers from you, glistening with your release.

You’re still catching your breath, your body shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm, but his words send a new thrill through you. “Why didn’t you?” you ask, your voice breathless, teasing, as your hands slide down his chest, eager for more.

Hugh leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Next time, baby girl.”

“Promise?” you ask again, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes searching his, a playful challenge in your gaze.

His lips crash against yours in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth with a heat that reignites the fire between you. “Promise,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and heavy with the promise of what’s to come.

Before you can respond, Hugh shifts, positioning himself between your thighs, his cock pressing against your entrance. You’re still sensitive, your body still humming from your first orgasm, but the feel of him against you sends a fresh wave of arousal surging through your veins. He teases you for a moment, rubbing himself along your slick folds, making you squirm beneath him, desperate for more.

“Hugh… please…” you whimper, your voice a desperate plea as your hips rise to meet him, seeking the release you already crave again.

Hugh groans softly, the sound deep and guttural, as he finally thrusts into you with one smooth, powerful stroke. You gasp, your body arching into his as he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that feels both overwhelming and perfect. He pauses for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips as he lets you adjust to the feel of him inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes, his voice filled with raw, unfiltered desire. His hips pull back slowly, and then he thrusts into you again, harder this time, and you cry out, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure crashes over you in waves.

Hugh sets a brutal pace, each thrust deep and forceful, driving into you with a precision that has you gasping for air. Your body responds instinctively, your hips rising to meet his with every powerful movement, your nails scraping down his back as you cling to him for dear life. The bed shakes beneath you with the force of his thrusts, and you find yourself gripping the headboard, steadying yourself so you don’t hit your head against the bedframe.

“Hugh… oh God…” you gasp, your voice ragged and breathless as he fucks you harder, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress with every thrust. The sounds of skin against skin, of your shared moans and gasps, fill the room, mingling with the raw heat of your bodies moving in perfect rhythm.

His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he pounds into you, his pace unrelenting, driving you closer and closer to the edge once again. The pressure builds inside you, faster and more intense this time, and you know you won’t last long. Every thrust pushes you higher, every movement driving you deeper into the overwhelming pleasure that threatens to consume you entirely.

Hugh’s head dips down, his mouth finding the soft spot on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he groans against you. “Come for me, baby,” he growls, his voice thick with lust as his hips slam into yours with unyielding force. “I want to feel you come around me.”

His words are all it takes to send you spiralling over the edge. Your body tenses, your muscles tightening around him as a powerful orgasm crashes over you, your vision blurring as you cry out his name. Your body trembles beneath him, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you cling to him, lost in the overwhelming pleasure that consumes you completely.

Hugh groans loudly, his hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he comes deep inside you. The sensation of him filling you sends another shiver down your spine, your body still trembling from the intensity of your release. He collapses on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, his body warm and heavy against yours.

For a long moment, the two of you lay there, your bodies still entwined, your breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. The room is quiet now, save for the sound of your heartbeats, still racing from the intensity of it all.

Hugh rolls onto his back, pulling you into his arms, and you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as it slowly returns to normal. His fingers trail lightly up and down your arm, a soft, soothing touch that makes you feel safe, cherished.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, his voice soft, filled with a mix of awe and affection.

You smile, your lips brushing lightly against his skin as you snuggle closer. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you tease, your voice playful but warm.

Hugh chuckles softly, his chest rumbling beneath your cheek. “I’m serious,” he murmurs, his hand gently tilting your chin up so you can meet his gaze. “You’re everything.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart swell, and you can’t help but smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I could say the same about you.”

For the first time that night, the world feels perfectly still, as if nothing else exists outside this moment. It’s just you and Hugh, wrapped up in each other, the intensity of your connection stronger than ever. And as you lay there in his arms, you realize that no matter what happens outside this room, no matter what the world says, what the headlines write, you’ve found something real, something worth holding onto.

taglist (dm if u wanna be added): @ermlady @elloredef @haytchee @melaninjoys @megangovier @blue2jay @hearts4suri @narniabusinessbitch @jadenlyday25 @getmeoutofhell @rockytheluver @stark-ironman @shellbilee @kurcoswife @ru-kru @corvusmorte @devilslittlehelper @theoraekenslover

[onlyforyoukook]

what love left behind

— 005 i just want to talk

The campus is already buzzing with energy when you arrive, the usual morning chaos amplified by the latest gossip. You can feel it before you even step through the gates the lingering stares, the quiet murmurs, the not so subtle glances thrown your way. It’s suffocating, but you school your features into indifference. You’ve dealt with worse.

Yuqi walks beside you, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie as she sighs dramatically. “You do know that everyone thinks you and Haechan are fake dating, right?”

Haechan, on your other side, scoffs. “Excuse me, fake? The way I see it, I upgraded Y/N’s reputation. Now everyone thinks she has taste.”

You roll your eyes. “So, you’re saying you upgraded me?”

“Exactly.”

Yuqi snorts, nudging you with her shoulder. “I hate to agree with him, but you did post that picture out of spite. The execution was flawless, but c’mon, babe, you could’ve at least kissed his cheek or something. Give the illusion some life.”

“I would’ve let her,” Haechan adds smugly.

You ignore him, focusing on the pavement ahead. “It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.”

Yuqi side eyes you. “Chenle and Rheya made it a big deal. That picture of them went everywhere. The moment you posted with Haechan, people lost their minds. And now—” She gestures vaguely at the students around you. “You’re basically the main character of campus drama.”

You don’t respond.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. It was just a petty response. A way to even the playing field, to show that you were fine. That you weren’t affected. That you weren’t still thinking about the fact that you had blocked Chenle on everything and left without a word. That you weren’t still reeling from what you had been too much of a coward to tell him.

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag.

“Alright, this is where I leave you,” Haechan announces as you near the front of the main building. He grins, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much, babe.”

You shove him off with a scoff, and he laughs before disappearing into the crowd. Yuqi lingers a second longer, studying your face with a knowing look.

“You good?” she asks, quieter this time.

You nod. “Always.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. “Text me later.”

And with that, she heads off, leaving you alone.

You exhale slowly, adjusting your bag before making your way through the courtyard. You can feel the eyes on you, but you ignore them. You just need to get to class. You just need to—

“Y/N.”

Your feet halt.

It’s like a reflex—like your body knows that voice before your brain can even process it. A voice you haven’t heard in so long. A voice that used to feel like home.

You don’t turn around. You start walking again.

Chenle steps in front of you before you can get far. His presence is so sudden, so familiar yet foreign, that you almost stumble. He looks the same, yet different his sharp features framed by slightly messier hair, his usual self-assured expression now laced with something unreadable.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

You stare at him, heart pounding. It’s been too long since you’ve seen him this close. Too long since he’s looked at you like this.

You don’t say anything. You move to step past him.

“Y/N.” His hand catches your wrist, and for a second—just a second—you freeze.

It’s the smallest touch, barely there, but it sends your mind spiraling back to every moment before this. Before everything fell apart. Before you left.

“Let go,” you say, voice quiet.

He does. But he doesn’t back off. “You blocked me on everything. You disappeared. And now you—” He exhales sharply, eyes searching yours. “Can you just listen to me for a second?”

Your fingers curl into fists. You can feel the weight of everyone watching, feel the way the entire campus has come to a silent standstill. People are taking pictures. Recording. Waiting to see what happens next.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you see her.

Rheya.

She stands just a few feet away, perfectly put together, her gaze cool and unreadable as she watches the scene unfold.

Something in your chest snaps.

You don’t wait for Chenle to say anything else. You turn and walk straight toward the nearest building, shoving open the bathroom door the second you get inside. You grip the edge of the sink, breathing hard.

Outside, Chenle is still standing there, jaw tight.

Rheya steps beside him, watching you disappear into the building before turning to him. “Who is she?” Her voice is smooth, almost pleasant.

Chenle doesn’t even hesitate. He exhales, shaking his head like the answer is obvious.

“No one.”

His voice is steady. Believable.

But Rheya doesn’t look convinced.

Instead, she pulls out her phone and texts her friends, to look everything up about you.

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- taglist ; @serenedreamscape @haechology @spacejip @chenlesfeetpic @413ktz @galacticpurpl3 @slayhaechan @bananinhazz @jaeminnanaaa17 @flaminghotyourmom @iraa567 @toroufriteh @vrsexles @joneborder

[woozisguitar]

scoups and slut! by taylor swift please…

requests for 200 celebration post: open (but slow updates!)

warning: mentions of panic attacks, use of words like slut and whore, some shitty people, one very vague reference to sleeping together

Flamingo pink Sunrise Boulevard Clink, clink Being this young is art the pink evening sky glimmered over the high-end street of your apartment complex. when you first moved here, sunrise boulevard was a dream. now, the same streets feel fake with no real passion or life in them. being a young actress, with success kissing your feet from the very beginning, people often gave you unsolicited advice. be it about your acting roles or the stardom in general, they always treated your youth like a piece of art they wanted to have their name engraved on. ‘it’s a vicious town. they’ll eat you alive unless you learn to feast first,’ your old co-actress once told you, lighting her cigarette as you waited for the set to be ready. and now, standing in a crowd of people with flesh-colored glitter masks and coy smiles, clinking their champagne glasses with foes and friends alike, you understand what she meant.

Aquamarine Moonlit swimming pool What if all I need is you? when you saw him, the world seemed to stand still for a moment. there was something about him, something you knew you’d spend your whole life trying to decipher. maybe it was his eyes that sparkled under the moonlight, or the easygoing smile that made his beautiful dimples pop. you were never one to believe in love at first sight, not one to give into the fantasies you often starred in, but god, he made you want to believe in it. he was wearing black slacks, a white shirt with an apron, serving the people around you. you didn’t even see what he was serving, just taking one when he approached you and gave you the same damn smile. call it delusion, who cares, but you knew you had to know him. his name, what he liked, disliked, all of it. a thought popped in your mind, ‘what if all that was missing in this life was him?’

Got lovestruck, went straight to my head Got lovesick, all over my bed Love to think you'll never forget Handprints in wet cement

now, you weren’t exactly known for making good decisions. often listening to your heart more than your brain, your reputation preceded you. what you thought was love in the past had disguised itself as a snake in butterfly wings to bring you down. still, the heart wants what it wants. your brain, riding on the oxytocin high, or as the locals would call it, was ‘lovestruck,’ decided that it was a great idea to ask the host about the contact information of the catering service she used. making up a sad excuse of the staff’s lovely personality and great food, you flattered her enough to get the email and phone number from her. now with the name of the company, it was quite easy to track them down and find where they were located. luck seemed to be on your side because they had their employees listed on their webpage along with their photos. scrolling through the list of names, you found the picture of the same man you saw last night. next to his picture was his name, choi seungcheol, in bold. a small, reasonable part of your brain tried to convince you that this was a stupid idea, but you were too lovesick to care.

a quick email about seungcheol’s lovely service, followed by a subtle name-dropping and sweet-talking, ended with the company agreeing to meet you, bringing him along. sure, you had to drop the sudden house party notice on your team and the fact that you reached out to catering yourself, but you were far too deep in this to back out now. tomorrow you were going to meet seungcheol, and that’s all you cared about.

Adorned with smoke on my clothes Lovelorn and nobody knows Love thorns all over this rose I'll pay the price, you won't the next day, you found yourself sitting in a cafe reserved by your team, looking outside the window waiting for seungcheol and his manager to arrive. you tried to get seungcheol’s contact information from them but couldn’t—company policy or something. either way, the devil on your shoulder convinced you to hatch a plan to try and get seungcheol closer. you looked over at the faces of your team members and for a second felt bad because they had no idea that this was all a caprice to fulfill the desires of your lovelorn heart. the bell above the door rang, snapping you out of your thoughts. you saw him enter along with a man who looked like he was in his mid-forties. the manager introduced himself to you and your team, but you were too distracted by seungcheol to pay proper attention. clad in a simple white sweatshirt and blue jeans, this man looked more beautiful than any other celebrity or model you had met. your team went over the plans with his manager while you stole glances at the gorgeous man who stuck to the sidelines.

while your team was discussing the various options, you announced that you would order everyone something, asking seungcheol to accompany you to the counter, which made you earn a few confused glances from your team. ignoring them, you made your way to the counter, finally getting a moment of privacy with seungcheol. “hi, i’m yn,” you exchanged a smile. seungcheol’s lips quirked up in a teasing smile, “i think everyone here knows who you are, miss y/n.” “you don’t have to call me miss, just y/n is fine,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks warm up in embarrassment. way to go y/n... “alright, just y/n. i’m seungcheol, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he smiled, giving his order at the counter. you quickly followed his cue, giving the order for your team and made your way to the pickup counter with him by your side. the shy smile wouldn’t leave your face no matter how much you tried to fight it off. “so i’m guessing you will be in charge of catering at my house,” you said, looking up to see him already staring at you. “well, you specifically asked for me, so yes i will,” seungcheol replied, the stupid teasing smile not leaving his face. “right, so i was thinking wouldn’t it be easier for me to contact you if i had your number…?” you trailed off, looking at him with hopeful eyes. “shouldn’t your team contact me, y/n?” you flushed yet again at his teasing, trying to come up with a reply. seungcheol laughed and reached out, pointing at the device in your hand. you unlocked and gave it to him, watching as he opened a new contact page and filled in his details. “here you go,” he said, giving you your phone back. “by the way, you really suck at flirting,” he leaned back, taking his order and walking back to the team.

But if I'm all dressed up They might as well be looking at us And if they call me a slut You know it might be worth it for once And if I'm gonna be drunk Might as well be drunk in love the past two weeks or so had been eventful. you saw seungcheol every day at your residence, from tasting the various items off the set menu to deciding on the outfits for the staff, he was present for it all. the night when you first met, you spent hours debating whether to text him first or not. then around 11pm you decided to bite the bullet and sent him a small ‘hi, this is y/n’ text. his reply came quicker than you had anticipated, which read ‘hi, just y/n.’ you never knew a simple text would have you feeling so many butterflies. while your conversations were strictly professional, you couldn’t help but look forward to every notification from him. having seungcheol so close and around only resulted in your feelings increasing for him. when the day of your party arrived, you wore your prettiest dress, partially hoping for seungcheol to take notice. and boy, did he take notice, with his jaw slightly dropping as his eyes raked over your form. you took this moment to have a proper look at him too. dressed in dark gray dress pants, a white button-up, and maroon tie, seungcheol ditched his apron as the current stand-in manager. “done staring?” he asked, the same teasing smile gracing his face. “are you?” you flirted, terribly so, and pushed past him.

while the party was a success, you realised pretty late that the attendees took notice of you, in the wrong way. sure, you did have a reputation with dating, labels and names like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ commonly gracing the headlines with your picture on the front page. you always decided to look past that, telling yourself it's just the media and this is the curse of success. but now, it felt a little ridiculous because it involved seungcheol. plus, it wasn’t like you kissed him in front of everyone. all you did was make conversation about the various foods and laughed at his joke or two. when your publicist told you about the article, your hands were itching to text seungcheol, asking him if he was alright. even after a warning of not contacting anyone, you decided to fuck it and text him, perhaps it might be worth being called names for once. nursing yourself to a bottle of wine, you were long passed out when your phone pinged with an ‘i’m fine but how are you? :(’ text.

Send the code, he's waiting there The sticks and stones they throw froze mid-air

you saw the text from seungcheol. texting back an ‘i’m alright, don’t worry,’ you decided that you might as well shoot your shot. it was now or never. you texted him a quick ‘hey, i have to confess something, do you think you can meet me today? my place?’ seungcheol’s reply came a second later, just a ‘yes, i’ll see you there,’ to which you replied with ‘dinner’s on me :)’

seungcheol arrived right on time and you let him in. “i ordered chinese. i didn’t know what your preference was, so i hope you like it,” you said, giving him a nervous smile. he smiled back reassuringly and said he loved chinese. you showed him your living room just as your food arrived. there, now sitting next to each other with chinese takeout in between the two of you, you decided it was the right time to confess to him. “so, i want to tell you something,” you started, and seungcheol put down his food, giving you his undivided attention. you took a deep breath and started, “i really like you, really, really like you, and i know it’s silly and stupid because we’ve barely known each other for two weeks, but i do. and i completely understand if you don’t like me, i get it, truly. this life and dating me comes with a lot of drawbacks and secrecy, so i understand if it’s too much. i just really had to let you know this,” you finished, feeling breathless from your rant. you looked up to see seungcheol smiling at you. he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “i know. plus, if i didn’t want this, i wouldn’t be sitting here with you.” he simply leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth.

Everyone wants him That was my crime The wrong place at the right time And I break down, then he's pullin' me in In a world of boys, he's a gentleman

the next few months were absolute bliss. seungcheol was everything and somehow more than you could’ve asked for. you found out that this catering business was actually his part-time job to help put himself through grad school. yet never once did he care about your status, money, or fame. whenever you were worried things might get too much for him, like when a new hate article was released, you were shipped with a co-actor, or whenever people recalled your past relationships having no idea about what went on behind closed doors, all seungcheol would do was hold you close and tell you that he didn’t care. all he wanted was you, just y/n, no one else, he would say, recalling your first conversation. then the news broke. someone spotted the two of you holding hands and walking in the dead of night. with no one in sight, you made the stupid mistake of not hiding yours or seungcheol’s face in public. when your pr team asked if you wanted to go public to simply make the public scrutiny easier, rather than them trying to pry into your life, you could confirm and ask them to back off. seungcheol’s opinion, when asked, was simply ‘whatever works best for y/n, i’ll be happy with it.’

the confirmation announcement had alright responses. not good, but not bad either. but the worst always happens behind closed doors. with seungcheol in the spotlight, every other actress in your vicinity wanted their hands on him. whether it be sliding into his dms or straight-up trespassing at his job, demanding him to be present with other staff members, trying to sink their claws into him somehow. one of your so-called friends invited you to a party and unbeknownst to you, hired seungcheol and his catering for the same. when you saw seungcheol along with the other staff members, she tried to make a spectacle of your boyfriend, trying to insult both you and seungcheol. she thought he would cave in and was doing you a favor by revealing his ‘true form,’ but when seungcheol saw your trembling hands, unshed tears, and shaking form—all signs of the impending panic attack he had become so well-versed in handling—he didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything. he just held you close, in the middle of the now-quiet party, and whispered if you wanted to leave. when you nodded yes, he held your hand and walked you out of the door, leaving his apron by the patio. he held you close as you tried to even your breathing, humming softly under his breath to distract you from your thoughts. slowly drifting off in your car, you sent a small thank you to the fates for finally sending you a true gentleman.

Got lovestruck, went straight to my head Got lovesick, all over my bed Love to think you'll never forget We'll pay the price, I guess

the next day, the headlines went crazy. pictures of seungcheol embracing you in the middle of the party went viral everywhere, and that’s when you realized, he also made sure to shield you completely from all sides so none of the pictures showed your tearful, panic-stricken face. seungcheol had just sent a resignation to his job when you walked into your living room, eyes welling up with tears. seungcheol saw your phone in your hand, fearing another horrible headline. you, however, hastened over and buried your face in his chest, murmuring a small thank you. seungcheol buried his face in your hair, basking in the moment of quiet. when your pr team called to discuss how you wanted to handle this, you told them to announce your short hiatus, wanting a break from everyone and everything. both of you knew relationships, in this life, came with prices to pay and yet decided to jump in headfirst.

But if I'm all dressed up They might as well be looking at us If they call me a slut You know it might be worth it for once And if I'm gonna be drunk I might as well be drunk in love

seungcheol told you about his job the same evening you told him about your hiatus. “why don’t you move in with me?” you suggested, which surprised seungcheol. “what?” “yeah, i mean it makes sense. you’ll save up on rent, which means you don’t have to take another job, and i get to have you around so i don’t spiral whenever a new article pops up. it’s a win for both of us.” seungcheol hesitated for a second, as much as he loved being with you, he felt like he was taking advantage. when he voiced his concerns, you absolved them by reminding him how much you wanted this and how having him around would be more of a favor you’re doing for yourself than him. slowly, seungcheol moved in and notified his landlord, officially taking his place in your home.

Half asleep Taking your time In the tangerine, neon light This is luxury You're not saying you're in love with me But you're going to

with seungcheol moving in, mornings definitely had its perks. the soft tangerine orange glow of sunrise slowly gracing his sleepy features while he cuddled himself closer to you was a view you would not be able to forget even in death. on his off days, you would spend late mornings in bed, slowly waking each other up with kisses, and you realised no comfort in the world would compare to this luxury. the same bed seungcheol unravels and puts you together every night was witness to the first time he murmured that he loved you. a kiss on your forehead every morning, and you knew you were irrevocably in love with him too.

Half awake Taking your chance It's a big mistake I said it might blow up in your pretty face I'm not saying do it anyway But you're going to

but your days weren’t all in blissful warmth. sometimes, your insecurities would get the best of you, and you’d ask him if all this was a big mistake and if you were really worth taking such a big chance. “this could blow up in your face, seungcheol!” you yelled after a long and difficult night of overthinking and doubting. “so be it,” was all he said, and the sheer determination in his eyes made you realize he would never leave you, no matter how hard it got.

And if they call me a slut You know it might be worth it for once And if I'm gonna be drunk Might as well be drunk in love

five months later, you decided to go back to the industry. by now, time had played its part and the general public was on your side. you steered clear of places and gatherings you knew would only cause you harm, opting to spend the nights cuddled with beloved boyfriend. every time he gives you the same damn smile, you know it was all worth it again and again.

a/n: happy new year <3

[kinopio-writes]

A/N: Decided to answer these two in one go. Screenshotted, lol. 3rd POV and the reader is referred to as they/it like last time. Also, I’m gonna be honest with you, after the last Adam post, I started to find his relationship with Sera and Lute intriguing. They both make an appearance (separately).

I just found out. Apparently, Sera and Emily are sisters (just with huge age gaps)? Well, I never viewed them as actual mother and daughter, but I was leaning more towards motherly-figure Sera. Kept it vague.

Words: 1,404 (not including the bullet points)

Warnings: Swearing (surprisingly not as vulgar as pt.1)

———

More Adam w/ a Child!Reader

• to solidify my statement that Adam wouldn’t just give the child away to someone else—along with the points I said in the previous Adam post—is because he didn’t want to seem incapable and, God forbid, ask for help?

• uh-uh. No way

• also, I don’t really see their first word being “papa”

• because of Adam, the kid cursing as their first word seems pretty on-brand

• not to mention that I don’t think they were with many people other than Adam, Lute, possibly Sera, and maybe his friends, too

• if he even has any

• and this isn’t even slander (when Charlie said, haven’t you had a night of drinking with friends after a rough night, he neither confirmed nor denied it. Not exactly the most reliable proof, but I take whatever I get)

• so, yeah, they were stuck with Adam’s vocabulary, unfortunately

• but for the sake of it, I’ll do “papa” as their first word (“fafa”, actually. You’ll get it when you read it)

Also, uh, heavily focused on Adam. Again. I mean, you can’t really do much with a child!reader in regards to personality, so.

———

Adam sat comfortably on his chair outside his balcony, his hand carrying Adam Jr. while the other was mindlessly plucking at his wings’ loose feathers. He would let them fall onto the floor after collecting a pile of them on his lap, finding that to be the only source of entertainment he could do without his kid crying.

Before he was going to push his feathers off his lap, a gust of wind blew them off for him and they flew over the edge of his balcony. All of his previous feathers slipped through the railing’s gaps as well.

His hand lingered mid-air as he looked up to see Sera land next to him. “Holy shit.” He instantly became more animated, a grin forming on his face as he stood up. “Y’know, I keep forgetting that anyone can just waltz in here.”

“Good evening to you, too, Adam.”

He bit back from replying rudely, instead choosing to place his hand on his hip while he held Adam Jr. closer to him. “Yeah, whatever.”

Sera then went on to dramatically stare down at the scenery above the city of Heaven, hands folded in front of her as Adam waited for her to say something. He got impatient after a few seconds.

“What’s up your ass?”

She turned her head to face him and furrowed her brows. He only rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching downward into a grimace as he slightly turned his head away from the head seraphim. Her attention was instantly directed to the baby in his arms. “Do you mind if I hold it?”

Adam jerked back at the sudden ask. “Uh, weird request…but you do you.” When he didn’t attempt to move, Sera leaned down and took the sleeping child from his secured arms, standing back to her height as she observed their peaceful slumber.

Quite a surprise, frankly. She didn’t think Adam was capable of handling something so fragile as life for more than a day, let alone a whole year.

The feeling of a baby in her arms made her reminisce about the time when Emily was just as little.

“The concept of birth is astonishing…”

“ʼKay…?”

“Having a child is one of God’s greatest blessings...”

“Uh-huh.”

“You must be very proud…”

“Uh, yeah…sure…”

“It even has your wings.”

“Y’know, this is starting to feel a little one-sided right now.”

“What I’m trying to say is—” Sera seemed to have gotten out of her sentimental trance and narrowed her eyes at the man below her, “—you are fortunate to have this child, Adam.” She slowly returned the child to its father and watched as Adam held them back securely in his arms. “Children grow up faster than you think. Spend your time wisely. It’s not as if you’ll get any older yourself.”

“Mhm, yeah, got it.” The seraphim only hardened her gaze. “Okay! Fatherhood is the best thing ever, time is faster than the speed of light blah blah blah.” He swayed his head from side to side to emphasize each word, shoulders slumped. “Sheesh. Don’t have to be so sensitive over a kid that isn’t yours.”

Sera tightly shut her already parted lips and deeply breathed out through her nose, turning her back on the man and pushing the hair that strayed on her face. She didn’t say anything more and simply stared at the view on his balcony again.

Adam only raised a brow at her unusual behavior.

“So, not that I care or anything, or about your weird touchy-feely icky vibes, but you never told me why you’re here, so, if you could just tell me what I need to know and leave, that’ll be really great—”

“Adam.”

“Okay. Fine.” He held up a hand and lifted his shoulders. “Wallow in your melancholic—whatever this is. It totes ruined my vibes. I’mma dip.” Adam flapped his wings to get himself on the railings as the head seraphim watched him gently fly down with his child.

Sera speculated he would most likely come back after ten minutes. That would hopefully be enough time for her to have a composed mind to have a discussion with the first man.

———

“Say, ‘fuck’.”

He was told that it was smart to teach his kid how to start speaking at this age with pictures and shit. Adam, however, went with his method and sat Adam Jr. and himself on the carpet floor, repeatedly saying what he wanted it to say. He’d been like this for half an hour.

“Fafa!”

He blinked.

“That’s not what I fucking wanted you to say, but, close enough.” He shrugged. “Now say, ‘di—”

•••

It was only after Lute came over that he realized what his kid just said.

“Yeah, so my kid just called me his dad. First words,” Adam spoke with drawled-out speech, inspecting his lack of nails. “Pretty dope,” he accentuated the ‘p’ in ‘dope’

“That’s not what we were talking about, Sir.” Lute had her hands on the edge of the table as they both sat on the carpet floor.

“Uh, does it look like I care?” He had his kid on his lap, playing with it by holding its hands in his and making them punch thin air. “ʼSides, we still have a week to finish this shit.”

Lute only deadpanned at her leader going off-topic to talk about his kid but said nothing more, deciding it was best to let him run out of things to say so they could get some work done without interruption.

———

“Yeah, you little piece of shit, slash ʼem!” Adam’s maniacal and obnoxious laughter bounced around his living room space as Adam Jr. punctured the heads of hand-made figures of sinners with their fake angelic spear (he couldn’t get a real one, unfortunately. They’re only obtainable during the extermination).

Lute happened to walk in on the scene. Adam always left his balcony door open. His neighbors, despite being come-and-goers, continually complained about his loud guitar sequences. He always responded with something about how he was being generous and that they should be happy—heck, blessed that they were getting a free concert without having to pay.

He hasn’t had those arguments lately, though.

She observed him sitting on the cardboard-littered floor with his HolyPhone in hand, assumably recording his child slaughtering the wretched sinners.

He had the biggest smile she’d ever seen on his mask.

“Sir, what are you doing?”

“AH!” he released a guttural yell as he snapped his head over to the source of the voice. “Jeez, Lute—what does it look like I’m doing?”

The lieutenant immediately answered, “Playing with your offspring, Sir.”

“I’m not playing! I had tons of cardboard lying around from my fan mail, and throwing them all away’s a bother.” he defensively retorted. “And, ew, don’t call it offspring. It’s Adam Jr. now. Check it.” Adam clumsily messed with his phone, muttering curses until he found the video he was looking for in his endless album of blurry photos. He showed the screen to Lute, not realizing it wasn’t even playing. “This kid will grow up to be such a badass!”

“But it isn’t meant to be an exterminator, Sir.”

“Uh, so what?” He placed his hands on his hips.

Lute missed a beat when countering, “Sera won’t allow it.”

“Pftt, what? No.” Adam refuted with a wave of his hand. “She so would. I have the proof.” He lifted his phone and shook it for emphasis. “And it’s my extermination, so I do whatever the fuck I want.”

Lute turned her head away momentarily before perking back up. “When it grows up eventually, it’s a possibility.”

“Ah, what? I can’t wait that loooong,” he whined, slumping onto the floor. “Bummer. I mean, imagine a tiny cunt-born exorcist! How cool is that? The first in history!”

She nodded. “With it under your wing, I know that it can learn our ways just as quickly as we slaughter those wretched sinners.”

Adam tapped a finger on his chin, face scrunched in thought before he placed his hands on his hips as he kneeled on the floor. “Hmm, yeah.” He spread out his wings, too lazy to stand up on his own two feet. He then plucked Adam Jr. from the floor by their armpits, deciding to bring them along without much thought. “Let’s go pitch the idea to Sera. And let’s get takeout on the way.”

“Right beside you, Sir.”

[messiahzzz]

You’re one of the most annoying people on this site. And that really says A LOT because WOW! Shut the Fuck up about Gale wanting to be a father or not. He never says that he doesn’t want to be one. You projecting things onto him doesn’t make it Canon.

on a serious note: i’m certainly not the one that continuously brings up this topic unprompted. i personally really don’t understand the entire controversy around the topic or why fandom feels the need to rehash this conversation almost weekly. i truly believe that there’s nothing more of value to learn from it, to address, or add to it… yet fandom won’t let it rest.

to once again clarify: what i mean by “gale wanting to be a father isn’t canon” is that there is no evidence/neither hints anywhere in any of the dialogue that support the contrary. characters like h*lsin, w*ll and la*’zel have entire adoption subplots. all of them mention their children explicitly during the epilogue:

narrator: *your soul warms thinking of lily aurora ravengard, your adopted daughter. a treasure of a girl, found at the entrance of the open hand temple - one grey eye, one brown.* w*ll: ah, the girl could melt the staunchest heart. she might even have brought a smile to old withers' face! w*ll: but tonight is for us - and lily's only four months of age, besides. i promise, the temple will keep her in good care.

player: and our little hatchling? is he safe? la*'zel: of course. i have complete trust in our newest allies. xan is in fine hands tonight. la*'zel: what a wonder he is. he will be a fine warrior, if he chooses. or a poet, or an explorer, or a scholar.

h*lsin: being away from it... i cannot help but worry how they will fare in our absence. player: we'll be back before they know it. h*lsin: i hope so. the children shall miss their bedtime tale tonight - though perhaps i can glean a few new stories from our friends here, to make up for it.

even shad*wh*art has a line where she briefly mentions that children might be a possibility for her in the future.

shad*wh*art: and i get to see my parents almost every day - i need to make every moment with them count, after so much was stolen from us. but they're doing well, [...] shad*wh*art: who knows? perhaps they'll have grandchildren before long.

gale in comparison? he has none of that. he remains childfree during the entirety of the game + epilogue. in fact, his line in the epilogue that addresses the topic of grandkids is this one:

tara: this is why mrs. dekarios and i will be waiting an eternity more for grandchildren. nodecontext: self-pitying gale: psst! shoo, tara. nodecontext: shooing away tara like one would a naughty cat.

i already wrote a post about this entire discourse here [x] but to repeat myself once more: all of the dialogue that vaguely addresses the topic of children in any way in regards to gale are these snippets

player: gale… how would you feel about having another person in our relationship? gale: what, like a child? i’m not quite sure i’d consider myself father material, plus our current lifestyle isn’t exactly what i’d call settled…

gale, upon spotting oliver during their game of hide and seek: ah, i have you! just a shame i don’t want you.

gale treating the children the group comes across with respect isn’t an indicator either. this is a courtesy gale extends to everyone he meets. he’s a character that approves of a protagonist who systematically commits good deeds. whether it’s sparing animals, helping without compensation in mind, or aiding children. wanting children to be cared for… and you know… for them not to die is common etiquette that every adult should extend to a child in need. those are not “dad goals!!!” it’s quite literally just basic human decency. gale is genuinely kind and caring to everyone he meets, there is no reason why this also wouldn’t apply to children.

i often see fandom mention his encounter with mol at last light and how excited he is to talk to her. which i think greatly misinterprets the context of the scenario since he didn’t have much of a reaction to mol before either — gale is ecstatic about lanceboard. again evident by his reaction to the party finding the life-sized board during the wyrmway trials, and how he immediately offers to give tav pointers. explaining different approaches to them in enthusiastic detail if they allow him to. the man just really likes lanceboard… as well as being the smartest person in the room.

gale: ah, lanceboard! why, this might just be the highlight of our misadventures to date.

gale: lanceboard happens to be a game with which i have more than a passing familiarity. might i offer a suggestion? nodecontext: gale's a badass lanceboard player, anticipating showing off

if you want to headcanon your tav and gale raising a big family together that is more than fine and no one is stopping you. whatever you want to happen to these two after the storyline of the game is up to your respective fantasies. no one is policing you on what you should do with your own character. go wild and create whatever fan content you wish, no justification required.

yet once again, as there is no mention in canon anywhere — neither in the main game nor the epilogue — that this is something gale would ever want (whether that may mean immediately or somewhere down the line) gale wanting to be a father remains a headcanon. while gale being childfree is explicitly shown in the game, in strict comparison to other companions that either have children by the end of the game or voice the desire to (eventually) have them.

my personal preferences are of no relevance here whatsoever. i care about accurate and correct characterization and will point out inconsistencies/false information no matter the topic. i, for one, want to appreciate these characters in the way they're written, not how i ideally want them to be.

[cranberrymoons]

that old black magic

prompt: magic au (@steddieholidaydrabbles) word count: 1,000 rated: t tags: fortune telling, witch/appalachian eddie, post-season 2

welcome to Day 20 (!!!) of the fic advent calendar – bite-sized fics posting every day during the month of december. enjoy!

The cards don’t actually do anything.

See, he waves his hand around and says some fancy words over some very old looking cards with very old looking art on them, and people assume that’s where the magic is – and the cards are old! And so is the art! But they just don’t actually do anything.

No, the magic sits in him. It always has. That’s always been the secret.

His mother had it, and his grandmother before her and her father before that and on and on, all the way back as far as the eye can see, right up the family tree to that one person at the top who made a deal with something in the woods one night, something as old as the hills themselves, that lurks behind trees and makes offers to desperate passing travelers.

But all that was hundreds of years before Eddie’s time. 

These days, there are psychics on TV and people who do tarot readings in over-perfumed salons while they sit on a throne made of cheap velvet and clatter around with their bracelets and bangles and shawls. There are people who read palms and sell incense and run little bookshops that sell mass-produced spellbooks. Crystals and incense and moon charts, the whole world awash in fake magic. All of it, all of it, noise.

But Eddie’s one of the rare real ones. He doesn’t exactly go around advertising it, but give him a set of cards and enough money? Sure, he’ll do a little fake fortune telling for you, maybe even give you a real answer or two, nudge something in the right direction so you feel like you got your money’s worth.

All that to say, the first time Steve Harrington finds him after class, one day right before winter break, and takes a furtive look over his shoulder, Eddie’s fully prepared to do the usual song and dance.

“Um, hey man,” Steve says in a low voice. “I heard you uh –” He clears his throat, shuts his eyes like he can’t actually look at Eddie as he says it. “That you can sort of see the future? Or tell people what’s going to happen or whatever.”

He opens his eyes, and Eddie studies him for a moment, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “And?”

Steve makes a face, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. “There’s some really weird shit going on,” he says, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. “It’s kind of hard to explain but basically… there’s something that I really hope is over, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to ask or whatever but –” He lets out a breath. “Is it actually over?”

“Harrington, that’s –” Eddie shakes his head, running a hand back through his hair. “So fucking vague. How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“Okay, just –” Steve lets out a breath. “If you could like… I don’t know, just give it a general look, see if I’m…”

As he continues rambling, Eddie tunes him out in favor of flipping through his timeline like a mental rolodex, just to see what he’s working with. Just to see what he can spin out of King Steve’s future, but –

“What the hell did you do?” he asks abruptly, cutting across Steve halfway through blabbering about something to do with someone named Justin or Dustin or – “There shouldn’t be blank spots, Harrington. Why do you have blank spots?”

Steve blinks at him. “I –” He frowns. “Blank spots?”

“Past and future, you’ve got these weird –” Eddie flaps a hand around in the air, lost for words, because – “Blank spots. I’ve never seen that before.”

Steve’s face goes blank with surprise. “Wait, like… you can actually see my future?” he asks. “Like right now, you’re seeing it? What are you seeing?”

“I’m… just –” 

Eddie shakes his head, shuts his eyes to block out the feedback loop his brain seems to be caught in, because alongside the blank spots – and there are blank spots; what the fuck – he keeps seeing himself standing with Steve, which must be his brain trying to fill in the weird gaps? 

Maybe? 

How the fuck is he supposed to know? He’s never seen anything like this before.

“Did something happen around Halloween?” he asks finally, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath. “That’s where the first gap is, and then the next one is in like… a year or two from now? It’s kind of hard to tell.”

Steve’s expression drops, and his shoulders slump. 

“The tunnels,” he says. “That’s – Halloween. I was in the tunnels at Halloween.” He says this as if it explains anything, but Eddie honestly feels twice as lost as he was thirty seconds ago. “So it’s going to happen again, then.”

Eddie makes a face, sort of aiming for – sympathetic? That seems like what Steve needs right now, probably.

“If it’s any consolation, you’re going to survive.” He shrugs. “There’s stuff after, a long life. I keep –” He takes a breath, considering not saying the rest, but Steve is going to ask for more details if he doesn’t. “I can’t really see a ton of it, because I think the blank spots are messing with me. I keep seeing myself there in your future stuff, but I’m sure my brain’s just filling in the gaps. It’s not like –”

“Like you’re part of my future.”

“Right,” Eddie says. He laughs. “Yeah, that would be –”

“Yeah.” Steve lets out a relieved little breath, and – sure. Fair enough. “Anyway, um – thanks, man. This is… not exactly good news, but I feel a little better, you know?”

“Yeah,” Eddie echoes. “Uh– anytime.”

Steve starts like he’s just remembered, and he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. “How much do I–”

“No, just–” Eddie shakes his head. “No charge. Just get home safe, okay?”

Steve nods, smiling a little. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

[also on ao3]

[ynbabe]

Fake texts au- pt.14 bffs with the rookies+ Halloween is sacred

Okay so even though Y/n is kinda sorta related to Fernando and is a Brit, there are no descriptions on readers race, characteristics or anything that takes away from Y/n being Y/n, and i'll try and keep the pics as faceless as possible. Love yall. Mwuah 🥰

| Masterlist |

October 31st, Halloween, the only day of the year that mattered, screw birthdays and screw anniversaries, Halloween was where it was.

That is exactly why you had forced your friends to change significant aspects of their physical appearance.

"Stop, whining," You scolded Logan as he kept hissing as you pulled at his hair, trying to brush it back into a small ponytail. You had a vision, you see, while on Tumblr with Arthur on your stream a few months ago, you had witnessed the greatest post ever.

Okay maybe not the greatest but it was pretty close.

The post showed all the drivers and the character the most looked like and when you saw Logan being compared to Anakin Skywalker, you knew you had to tell all the barbers he went to blacklist him.

That boy was going to grow his hair, whether he liked it or not, and he didn't like it, but he also didn't have to tie up his hair every day, so really it should have been you complaining.

"You are so lucky to have me," I smacked his head, as he shook his head, making all the hair fall out of my fist, it wasn't long enough to manoeuvre into a ponytail properly but Logan had refused to wear a headband, saying 'it hurt'.

"Bruv, if you keep movin' your damn head, imma smash it in with my knees," You yelled once again, your British accent thickening making him laugh and throw his head back to look up at you.

"Okay, I'll go cut my hair then," He shrugged looking straight at you.

"Noooooo," I whined and got back to working on his hair as he finally let me work on it instead of wriggling around.

We were sitting in his driver's room, he was sitting crisscross on the floor and you sat on his bed, letting your legs rest leaning on his shoulders. There was some random song playing in the background and you were finally able to struggle his beautiful blond waves into a itty-bitty ponytail.

"Fuckin finally, mate," I made him turn around and looked at him, Tada!" I smiled at my masterpiece, he looked amazing, I couldn't help but keep looking at him, how could eyes be so blue?

"Uh- Am I interrupting something?" Alex called out, breaking me out of whatever was happening, I really had to start sleeping more.

"N-no, Do we need to go?" Logan stuttered.

"Yeah..." He said, still looking at both of us with a weird expression on his face.

Logan walked out soon after grabbing a few things around his room.

.xXLogan's P.O.VXx.

"You are horrible, bro," Alex said as soon as I shut the door, "Down bad,"

"Wait, wait, what are you talking about?" I asked him confused, making him laugh.

"You can't be that oblivious, mate," He stopped in front of me, shaking me by the shoulders, "You literally have heart eyes whenever you are with her-" He stated, was he crazy?

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about?" I tried not to be annoyed by what he was saying.

"Also when anyone speaks of her, or when you're looking at her or when you get her texts, which is all the time by the way," He rambled.

I tried to say something back but I got a text from Y/n, "Oh my GOD!" He yelled, laughing, "Do you have a separate ringtone for her?" he asked making my face feel warm.

"I don't like her okay?" I said, trying to change the conversation, beginning to walk again.

"Mate, you grew out your hair for her, you make her tie your hair every day even when you don't need to tie it, the tie's already fallen out!" He screamed yanking a strand of my hair, making me wince, and alerting a mechanic who was walking by.

We sheepishly waved at the man, finally reaching where James' was waiting for us, thankfully ending the conversation once and for all.

.xXY/n's P.O.VXx.

You could hear Alex screaming vaguely in the hallways but you chose to ignore the fellow Brit, right now, you had very little time to get to your next destination- Mclaren, and your next victim, Oscar or as the post had decided- Peter Parker.

Well the post had said Spider-man for both Oscar and Lando, calling out the weird twin-like situation they had going on, but Lando had refused every bribe and blackmail you could manage, stating he and Carlos had already planned something, so made Oscar grow out his hair, yes you were the leader of the men with long hair agenda, so what?

"Oscarrrr, hiii!" You yelled as you jumped next to him as he lounged on his bed, scrolling on his phone, he moved so I could see his for you page as well.

"Oh, he's proper fit, isn't he?" I said, making him cringe.

"Who- MICK SCHUMACHER?" He yelled, making me jump up and try to shut him up, these walls were thin man, way too thin to be yelling like this, "WHAT IS IT WITH YOU AND BLONDES-" He continued but I used his pillow to stop him, but it was already too late.

"Ooooh- who do we like?" Lando ran in, this happens every time!

"NO ONE," I would say no one,

"MICK," someone would say whom and then Lando would somehow get the message to them, how did I know?

"Niceee, is this the Gavi situation again?" He teased, wriggling his eyebrows, that was a very awkward, Instagram conversation which made you almost run the Brit over with his own car, hey but atleast you'd gotten new friends over it.

"No, it's not- not another word, Piastri," I smacked him with the pillow.

"Okay, anyways, we gotta leave," Lando spoke, beckoning Oscar to leave.

"Okay, but Oscar you know what you have to do right?" I asked, making sure everything was set for the party on the 31st.

"Yes, y/n," he assured me before leaving with Lando. It was only the Free Practices so I was only on Paddock to skip uni.

I face-timed Arthur, who was currently busy with his F2 work but would be coming to the party as well, I had planned his costume too, making him grow his hair out and make him dress up as Flyn Rider, and he had decided to darken his hair, out of his own volition, totally not me begging, crying and complaining to Lorenzo about it.

It had been an hour since we got on call but I had to leave once I got a message from an unknown number.

You brainstormed for more than half an hour about Halloween costumes with someone you knew for the same amount of time.

You both finally landed on Stu Macher (For the obvious similarities in their names) but you were still unsure about what you would go as. He had suggested Tatum but it seemed too simple of a costume for being the host of the party.

Happy with his choice, you both finally got off chat.

You kept thinking about what you could go as but nothing came to mind, You could go as Rapunzel, or Padme or Gwen or even Tatum, but it just didn't feel right...

You knew the drivers had a break right now, so you texted the one person you always went to for advice.

"tío!! Cómo estás??" (Uncle! How are you?) I spoke into the phone.

"Que hiciste ahora?" (What did you do now?) His voice came through and I could hear him sigh at the end.

"NOTHING!" You defended, quite offended at the insinuation that you always got into trouble. Well you did, but you wouldn't get caught so easily!

"Kiddo, the last time you said that, you lost your licence," He countered, why did he always have to make a point?

"Okay, totally ignoring your valid point, what should I be for Halloween?"

"Esto... es por eso que me llamaste?" (This… is this why you called me?), he asked in disbelief.

"Well, it's my party, oldie, i'm not gonna be boring!" I sighed, if he couldn't help no one could.

"You are crazy, you know? Sorry, Diabla, I have to go, you'll figure it out," he reassured me but as I listened to what he said for maybe the first time in my life.

The party was going to be fucking ace.

The weekend ended sooner than you could imagine and it was finally time for the party, it was a local club it was private but not exclusive and a lot more people showed up than you imagined.

Logan looked amazing as Anakin, you'd also convinced him to braid in extentions to make it more like a cosplay than a costume and man, did it look good.

Arthur looked so much like Flynn Rider you had to do multiple double takes, how that man was still single was beyond you.

Oscar was the perfect Peter Parker, the muscles he'd bulit cause of F1 made the costume look much more belivable.

Lando, Carlos, Charles, Max, George, Alex, Esteban, Lance, Zhou and many others were there too, you'd spoken to them for a few minutes before they paired off with one and other and lost themsleves to the music and alcohol.

You were a little tipsy too, but you were still waiting for Mick.

You were adjusting the horns on your head, when you felt someone tap you, "Hello, Sidney," A rough voice called out making your skin crawl and immediately turn to the source.

“Oh my god! You scared me mate,” you hugged him.

“I’m sorry but it was just so tempting,” he laughed as you passed him a beer.

“Glad you could make it, Mick,” you smiled at the man in front of you, leaning in to hear each other over the loud music, “Nice costume you got there,” you remarked, he was wearing a compression shirt and black pants and had a ghost face mask on.

“Yeah, I know right? Came up with it all by myself,” he smirked making you smack him in the arms.

“Yeah yeah, come on, let’s go meet the others and get the party started!” You yelled pulling him along to meet the rookies.

You waited at the booth for the other three to show up, “Your costume is amazing, by the way,” he complimented, making your face feel warm.

“Thank you, people say I’m the devil so often, thought it’d be fit,” you laughed, twirling to show your She-Devil costume.

“Yeah, I saw the comments, people can be so stupid,” he shared.

“Right? I mean-” you began but were interrupted by Logan and Arthur running up to the two of you with Oscar trailing behind with a plate for of shots.

“WOOH LETS FUCKING GOOO!” You yelled, passing out shots to your little group of five, starting the night off with a bang.

its_y/n_love

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Tagged: @/arthur_leclerc @/logansargeant @/oscarpiastri @/mickschumacher @/landonorris @/georgerussell @/lancestroll @/estebanocon @/maxverstappen @/charles_leclerc @/zhougyanyu @/yukitsunoda @/pierregasly @/nyckdevries @/danielricciardo @/carlossainz

its_y/n_love HALLOWEEN 23' yall are so welcome for long hair lolo, osc and Princie! Also everyone say hi Micky!!

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username MOTHERR IS MOTHERINGGG I FEAR

username Literally all the drivers were there girly pop is living her life!

username everyone say thank you y/n for getting our pookies to grow their hair 🤭🤭🤭

username frfr Logan as anakin making we wanna get a green card 😫

username IS THAT ARTHUR WITG THE REDBULLS????

Its_y/n_love He pre-gamed so hard he forgot which side he played for 💀 Arthur_leclerc You literally only had redbulls?? don't try to be charlies favourite it wont work 🙄 Its_y/n_love oh PUH-LEASE 🙄 I'm already his favourite and Lorenzo's too cry abt it 😘 Arthur_leclerc I'm getting nando🔪 Username chat?? is this real?

username MICK!?!?! EXCUSE ME WHILE I BARK

username FORGET HIM LOOK AT Y/N!! MA'AM DO YOU NEED A DOG, A MAID, A CLOWN? username now I know y'all not ignoring oscar spiderman piastri and Arthur freaking prince eugene Leclerc

username how'd she get her paws on Mick Schumacher??? Run man run!

username fr the manipulation this chick does must be fucking studied 😭 username omg i know its halloween but will y'all get over dead shit? username why yall so jealous man??? username KEEP MY WIFES NAME OUT OF YOUR DAMN MOUTH

Username THE NICKNAMES 😭😭😭 I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR

Is it anywhere near halloween? nope, do I care abt the timeline, also nope. hope yall liked this one!!!

Taglist: @dark-night-sky-99 @cashtons-wife @i-wish-this-was-me @thehufflepuffavenger1 @eugene-emt-roe @fangirl-dot-com @landosgirlxoxo @aquangxl @sachaa-ff @tyna-19 @assholeinatrenchcoat @allenajade-ite @megatrilss1885 @squirreljoe

[aranarumei]

about hanzawa's older/younger sister

so! people who follow me might know I've expressed confusion regarding hanzawa masato's sister. what can i say... she's just interesting to me. anyways, i came up with a really fun theory about it, so if you'll trust me and follow me under the cut, we can learn quite a bit about hanzawa's family! even if you don't believe in my conclusion, perhaps you'll have something new to consider...?

(heads up—any mangacaps used in this post are taken from the fantrans of the manga, for ease of reference)

The Situation: 

We know Hanzawa’s family consists of two brothers, and one sister. They make an appearance within ch 28 of Sasaki to Miyano, in this page right here: 

Hanzawa’s two brothers are pretty easy to spot there, but his sister is a bit more obscured—she’s just at the left edge of the right panel. From the -Graduation- Sasaki to Miyano guidebook (some might know it as the 2nd anime guidebook), we know that the older of his two brothers is Masaomi, the younger one is Masaki, and he has a younger sister named Masako. 

…And if you’re as crazy about Hanzawa as I am, that might have raised some flags. Because—wait, doesn’t Hanzawa have an older sister? In ch 19 of Sasaki to Miyano, which, by the way, is the first chapter that Hanzawa Masato is named, we see him say this: 

This isn’t the only reference to his older sister—in ch 22 of Sasaki to Miyano, Kuresawa mentions that Hanzawa’s older sister is the same height as him, and Hanzawa mentions sending a picture of Miyano to her, though he doesn’t specify older/younger here. 

So… that’s weird, right? But, you know, this is one of Hanzawa’s first appearances. Maybe it’s a retcon, maybe Hanzawa is using older sister here in a not-actually-related loose way (though that seems unlikely), maybe the guidebook is wrong (also seems unlikely, for reasons I’ll get into later), maybe there’s some kind of explanation for why Hanzawa’s got a younger sister and not an older one. I chalked it up to early-installment weirdness. Admittedly, this does feel out of character for a mangaka who’s consistently drawn characters like Shirahama and Karasubara into the background long before they have any real scenes or dialogue. But whatever, we can move on from that, it’s not like Hanzawa’s going to mention his older sister again— 

Except. Well, if you’ve seen this tweet recently:

There, in the bottom left corner, is Yashiro and Hanzawa discussing the outfits they’re wearing. Because it’s cosplay, you know. Much like that older sister we know Hanzawa has. Which is who they are, indeed, talking about. And my grasp of Japanese is terrible, but Yashiro is definitely calling her Hanzawa’s older sister. 

The Theory: 

So, the reference of Hanzawa’s older sister—it’s not a mistake. How could it be a mistake, when she’s not an offhand mention in ch 19, but brought up again in ch 22, and again in this art? She’s intentional—but the guidebook isn’t wrong, either. 

(guidebook images provided courtesy of @sunnnfish)

Hanzawa Masako’s appearance in the guidebook aligns exactly with the little we see of her in the flashback in ch 28. Here’s another thing about Hanzawa Masako that we learn in the guidebook: she’s definitely shorter than Hanzawa Masato. So that doesn’t line up, either. 

Two sisters, but there can only be one. How do we explain that? Is Hanzawa talking about an older sister in a vague sense of just… an older female friend? He’s got a lot of those, after all. This just seems a bit implausible to me, though—it feels like a stretch for him to refer to someone that way, and it’s also a kind of unsatisfying answer. Then what? Is he lying about having an older sister? Is all of that stuff just his, and he’s made up an older sister to make his makeup skills and knowledge of crossdressing way more plausible? Is it just some kind of mistranslation / misunderstanding on my part? Sure, that’s always a possibility. 

But… you know who is the same height as Hanzawa Masato? Who is his family? Who is older? Yeah—Hanzawa Masaomi. 

I’m being completely serious. If we accept that Hanzawa Masato, when bringing his cosplay outfits to the school, is simply obscuring the truth by referring to his older brother as his older sister—well, it makes a pretty good amount of sense. 

The Defense: 

I’m aware this isn’t a theory that’s got a lot of evidence behind it. What it does have, though, is a lack of evidence to contradict it—and a lot of stuff that aligns with it in a fun way. It’s a fun answer, is what I’m getting at. Is it the right one? Maybe not, but let’s investigate some of its parts, anyways. 

Eagle-eyed readers might notice that Hanzawa’s sent a picture of Miyano to his older sister. Wouldn’t this older brother recognize Miyano, then? Not true! Miyano covers his face with a folding fan when Hanzawa first takes pictures. And, for obvious reasons, Hanzawa Masaomi has never turned to the camera and gone “By the way, I’m not an otaku, and I don’t cosplay.” Honestly, if he did that, I’d be more suspicious, because it’s so damn specific. Really the only other thing we can bring up is that Hanzawa's older sister messes around in his uniforms, but that's easily explained—he wears a different uniform style when compared to his older brother.

With that settled, there isn’t any other information that I think would contradict this theory, considering how little we know about Hanzawa’s family in the first place. Now, what do we know about Hanzawa that makes this theory plausible?

Hanzawa actively lying about anything isn’t really well-documented, but we do know he’s well-aware of societal norms, and prefers being… normal, let’s say. In ch 28, we see his brothers both come out, and once Hanzawa (awkwardly) says he prefers girls, he feels oddly about his mother’s relief. There’s a few ways to interpret this. #1: he’s straight, the question just caught him off guard, and his uncomfortable feeling was due to the fact it was clear that, despite his mother’s casual acceptance of his family, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows for gay people. #2: he’s aromantic, and said he liked girls because of course that’s what you do, and maintains that fact into the present day, as either a conscious or unconscious lie. #3: he’s gay/attracted to not just women, and said he liked girls because of course that’s what you do, and maintains that fact into the present day, as either a conscious or unconscious lie. 

If we take Hanzawa at face-value, it’s #1 that’s the truth… but like, why would I do that to someone like Hanzawa, who’s all about mystery. I personally prefer a mix of #2 or #3, both of which point to the idea that Hanzawa might, indeed, lie to make people feel a little more comfortable. To not obviously stand out. In the 2nd dvd extra, Hanzawa reveals that his hair is dyed black, and mentions its beneficial to act like a straight-laced student. He’s got a crazy amount of piercings, but he only wears them outside of school, too. I mean, he’s literally the president of the disciplinary club. Clearly he knows a thing or two about propriety. There’s a lot of evidence in the manga to show that Hanzawa’s over-concerned with a presentation of normalcy, and I’d argue that’s not because he dislikes deviance, but because he understands deviance is disliked. (I’d add more, but it’s enough for an entirely separate post, you know? You’ll just have to work with me here.) 

All that said: Is it easier to say that you’ve got all of these women’s cosplay clothes because you’ve got an older sister who’s an otaku with interesting garments (and you won’t even say cosplay, you’ll let Miyano make that connection himself), or is it easier to say you’ve got an older brother who’s an otaku that crossdresses? 

Probably the former. And it’s an easy lie to maintain—who are you inviting to your home? If you call him your older sister, the fondness and a lot of the truth stays the same. I’d thought it wouldn’t be possible because I thought there was some kind of reference to the clothing being originally fitted for a woman’s body, but all that happens is that in ch 22, Hanzawa says that Miyano, along with Kuresawa, has quite the shoulder span on him, and thus a kimono-style outfit was the right choice. All that suggests is that this outfit fits his shape best—not that Miyano, a guy, has to have this outfit altered because his shoulders are a lot broader than Hanzawa’s sister, who’s not a guy. Even if it was true that Kuresawa or Miyano’s shoulder spans were a bit much, if we look at ch 28 again: 

There’s Hanzawa and his older brother. Heights are about equivalent, but those shoulder spans? Hanzawa Masaomi is decidedly slimmer. …That’d probably help, if he wanted to crossdress in any kind of cosplay. In ch 28, after he gets called Maa-kun in public, Hanzawa tells his older brother to watch what he says in public. Here’s a small moment of Hanzawa wanting to seem… you know, cool, in public, and then getting embarrassed by his older brother, as is the right of siblings. But it also, once again, demonstrates Hanzawa’s awareness of the public, and his older brother’s dismissiveness of it—right after this, he just outright asks Miyano if he’s Hanzawa’s boyfriend. Like… Miyano seems like he’s a nice kid, but at first meeting? That’s not the easiest thing to ask someone, even casually. 

I think it just adds a fun dimension to things that are already true about how I feel about Hanzawa and his family… that he likes to present himself as “normal” when he isn’t, and that this is probably in response to some of his siblings being much more obvious in their strangeness. As sad and practical as it is, he understands the benefits to concealment and conformity. He avoids letting Tashiro count out the number of piercings he has—and he’s got more of them than any other “bad boy who’s not really a bad boy” (Hirano, Sasaki, Ogasawara) in this cast, despite being the least outwardly a delinquent. Considering how little we know about Hanzawa, is it really so hard to believe that this might be one of many a carefully-kept secret?

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s6 episode 1 "the beginning" thoughts

season 6!!!! my goodness, how the time sure has flown!! i started this whole project in may of last year, and now we are in january! so much has changed! but other things have stayed the same. 

i have heard mixed things on s6, so i am a bit nervous. but i am excited to be reunited. 

i am also curious to see where exactly the movie was set after the finale of s5. has it been a while, or only a few days? has our little friend gibson been missing this whole time? what about diana- did she pull through? will we get to know more about her?

we need to microchip gibson so we never lose him again. 

(i felt vindicated when people told me diana isn’t a fandom favorite, LMAO. i’m usually the girl that goes to BAT for overhated female characters, but she just seemed too intentionally antagonistic towards scully)

so… this episode shall deal with our agents going on a hunt. well, they had best be careful! there are a bunch of different aliens and beasts on the loose!

(post-episode thoughts: my fury at mulder is 75% normal juni rage and 25% enhanced by me being sick and emotional, a fact i only put together the morning AFTER i took all of these notes. you have been warned....)

anyway. let us begin!

(previously, on the x files)

(and i STAND by my opinion that CSM has a very soothing voice, okay?!? googling this man so i can see if he narrates any audiobooks)

man, i forgot about mulder pushing spender up against the wall and their feud. ah, spender. i feel bad for him, but that doesn’t mean i LIKE him. 

OH, WE GET TO SEE CLIPS FROM THE MOVIE IN THIS RECAP!! and they are in such high quality in comparison to the DVD i borrowed!! wow. when i watch it again sometime in the future- hopefully not on a DVD from 1998- i cannot wait to see everything so CRISP.

NOT THE KISS BAIT BEING INCLUDED IN THE RECAP LMAOOO

but now let us begin the adventures of s6!

NOOOOO! roush!!! the evil biological company! their truck is out in the desert. and their guys are pissing. 

well. this happens.

sandy is sweating. bro does NOT look good. i know his ass is not making it through the night.

when sandy gets home, he cranks the heat up to 80 in arizona, which is WILD. then he goes to lay on the couch and shiver. 

AUGH!!! his hand is JELLY???? it’s see-through!!! i did not want to look at all of sandy’s veins!!!

is he having an alien baby, too?!?!

his work buddies come to fetch him later. we see a bunch of photos of him in his house wearing a lab coat and doing doctor-y things.

AWW, his coworker called him sandman. don’t make me feel bad for the dude who works at the evil alien biotech company…

BLEURGH. he DID have an alien chest baby virus infection thing. OH, this other guy is SHOCKED!! AND HE HEARS THE ALIEN HISSING AT HIM!!!!!

HE’S GETTING EATEN!!!!! NOOOO!!!! 

RIP this guy :(

YAAAY, the intro!!! felt weird not having it with the movie!!!

and it was shortened, but okay. i’m getting used to that.

ahhh, look at this computer on which mulder is examining something. is he looking at micro film?

OH, the sweet boy, he’s restoring the fragments from the x files!! this makes me sad!! does that mean there isn’t a huge box of floppy disks somewhere containing all of them? because it is the responsible thing to do, making sure you have all your files saved in multiple sources! well, we’re only a few minutes into the episode. there’s still time for one of those to be found

and now he is presenting before a panel. he says the x files were destroyed “several months ago”, which places us on a vague timeline. scully is here!!!!

“i see your renowned arrogance has been left quite intact”, says this dude on the panel, and HEY! mulder literally isn’t even being arrogant at THIS MOMENT, OKAY? plenty of other times he is. but not now, as he is submitting his report on this alien spaceship!!

“i didn’t see men in black” “well it’s a damn good movie” <- LMAO they are BULLYING HIM!!!

scully looks pained. 

NOT THEM GETTING ON HIS ASS FOR THE TRAVEL EXPENSES STOOOOOP BEING MEAN!!!

OHHH NOOOOO!!! he says that scully can prove the whole thing, but she can’t. cut to them fighting in the hallway.

mulder… you’re pissing me off. SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT THE VIRUS IS OR HOW IT WOULD MAKE ALIENS!!!!!! maybe you should have brought a camera to the arctic. don’t you BRUSH INTO HER SHOULDER AS YOU WALK AWAY!!! you were going to KISS HER like a few weeks ago!!! i won’t tolerate this disrespect. 

CSM is debriefing the syndicate on the arizona alien deaths, saying he made up a cover story and it’s called “blaming it on Native Americans”. classic CSM, world-renowned great guy /s

so, he thinks the arizona guy who gave birth to an alien chest baby accidentally injected himself with the virus, and now the alien is on the loose!!! 

man, the presence of well-groomed man is missed. RIP. this other guy is here, though. so that’s good. i guess.

CSM says he is managing the situation. will he be sent out to test his sniping skills?? can you snipe an alien?

skinner is coming down to see mulder on the computer… NOOO, he breaks the news that his reassignment on the x files has been denied!!!!! 

mulder's all angry, and skinner tries to clarify he’s not arguing with him, but raises the question: “when will you accept that no amount of pressure or reason will bring to heel a conspiracy whose members walk these halls with absolute impunity?” <- ohhh, a very good point…

so they reopened the x files, then denied his reassignment? are they going to assign them to someone else? or just close them again?? will they keep scully on them?

skinner said that the vote was unanimous… he must have been trying not to blow his cover as mulder’s biggest supporter… but i'm sure this still made mulder very sad

so he gets all his stuff up and starts to leave. BUT SKINNER WANTS TO HELP HIM FIND PROOF??? SO HE CAN PROVE THE OTHERS WRONG??

i told you!!!! that man is my uncle.

he says there’s a file on his desk in the old office……. and sure enough, there is.

is this season much darker in terms of screen brightness?

OH SHIT…. why is spender down here in mulder's old office? WITH DIANA??? “diana, back on your feet. i guess that’s the only way you can stab me in the back” <- damn. he's pissed.

woah, what? okay, i was imagining scully staying on the project and spender taking his place, which would obviously be awful, but diana taking his place is like, worse. so now is it going to be spender and diana? instead of mulder and scully? ew.

jump to CSM lighting up in front of a no smoking sign… he’s just fundamentally a bad boy. he’s walking in where some sort of surgery is taking place!!!

he says he needs the patient bandaged and dressed, even though this might kill them. OH SHIT! IT’S GIBSON!!! and he must be in the middle of surgery!!!!!

EAIGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THEY HAVE HIS BRAIN OPEN………….

good lord, i nearly passed out. again, i repeat my grounding mantra: shoutout to the props team.

and he was awake, too………..

poor baby. 

AWWWW, THE AGENTS ARE DOWN IN PHOENIX to investigate the case that skinner left them the files on, and scully WILL remind him that they are violating state laws regarding contamination of a crime scene (she lets out a deep scully sigh, asking “why do i bother?”) yeah. idk either queen.

he sees claw marks on the walls!!! that does not look like it came from some bare hands. scully is not fooled by this claim in the evidence report. 

ooooooo, he finds a claw!!!!!!!!

“is that an animal?” “ain’t rupaul” <- LMAO I’M CRYING????????? 

mulder, i knew you were an ally ✊

(listen, both of those agents are bisexual to me. and maybe ace, too. depends on the day. THAT'S MY OPINION!)

(he hands the claw to scully very carefully <3)

feels wrong to see him in what i think is a polo, but it is hard to tell because the screen is so DARK.

oh yeah, let scully calculate the gestation rate of this hypothetical alien baby. under 12 hours!!! damn!! that is… quick. and also? how could a baby do all this, she wants to know? well. some babies are more equipped for violence than others. i guess. 

oh no! CSM IS HERE!! AND POOR BABY GIBSON, BLEEDING THROUGH HIS BANDAGES!!

please someone lay him down and let him watch spongebob. NOW.

gibson announces that "it" (alien baby) isn’t here. and that he knows CSM wants to kill him if he can’t find the creature. poor sweet little dude. they drive off.

mulder emerges into the daylight, and he does, in fact, have a polo on. but he is asking scully why she won’t believe him. MAYBE IT *WILL* TAKE AN ALIEN BITING HER FOR HER TO BELIEVE, BUDDY!!! DON'T RAISE YOUR GODDAMN VOICE AT HER!!

OHHH, SHE GRABS HIS HAND?? “listen, mulder, you told me that my science kept you honest. that it made you question your assumptions; that by it, i’d made you a whole person”

(okay girl, stay with me here now, but i think he meant YOU made him a whole person, not your science…….. but maybe she had to compartmentalize after nearly kissing him)

“if i change now… it wouldn’t be right, or honest” oh, scully <3 he has never deserved you or your kindness...

he’s being a whiny baby. like, i get it, and i understand. they're taking the x files away! and he needs to prove they are correct about aliens! but “i’m sorry scully, but this time your science is wrong” and walking away… 😒 which problem did that solve?

idk!! i see both of their points!!! this fundamental and ancient conflict is once again playing out, but can we focus less on the hows and whys of the situation and more on the “we need to get our jobs back and be bestest friends forever and ever, and also save that missing little boy and find some answers along the way”? please. consider this viewpoint. for me!

oh, let's go off to a nuclear power plant. again, very dark. noticing a theme here. it’s outside arizona. is that where the alien wants to go?

did they call the guy homer as a simpsons reference…? i see what was done here. well, something in the power plant is off. 

don’t send homer loose into the dark!!! the alien will eat him!!! especially while vague splattering noises are heard!!

CREATURE EATS HOMER……….

agents mulder and scully are on the scene. but so is spender!!!

UGH, he’s so ANNOYING: he basically says “i’m gonna get skinner censured for telling you some guy was murdered, now LEAVE” SPENDER!!! you are PISSING ME OFF!! 

(it made me think of that line from sharkboy and lavagirl: "mr. electric, send him to the principal's office and HAVE HIM EXPELLED!" <- that's what your whiny ass sounds like, spender)

and diana won’t let them in either, saying that it was "just a work accident". oh, so much for caring about the x files, huh? like you claimed in the last episode. you sound REAL invested now /s

scully gets him to come back to the car after he spits some venom at diana (“i hope you know whose errands you’re running”).

however, he says to give him the keys and tells scully to get in the car, and she gives him the most DIABOLICAL side eye LMAO. she is so suspicious of his shenanigans!!!

OH MY GOD, THERE WAS A REASON FOR THAT: SHE FINDS GIBSON IN THE CAR????? he’s out cold and she’s holding his head, calling him “sweetheart” oh my GOD????? 

wait. hold on. i’m emotional. hold on.

they take him to their motel, and she’s trying to smile at him while she trims off his bandages. he IMMEDIATELY READS HER THOUGHTS AND SAYS “frankenstein? really?” and DESPITE KNOWING HE CAN READ HER THOUGHTS, SHE TRIES TO LIE AND MAKE HIM FEEL BETTER.... OHHH, SCULLY

(this is still making me emotional. lying to the kid that can read minds because she doesn't want to hurt his feelings or scare him... knowing that she is the doctor that has to try and make him better, so he cannot know she thinks he looks to be in serious danger...)

he has some infection because they didn’t change his bandages and a fever, ohhhh this poor CHILD

so he ran away when they weren’t thinking about him!!!

scully, do you have antibiotics on you? is that a doctor-ly thing to have in your purse? please fix him. 

OHHH SNAP, HE CALLED HER OUT: “they were using me. because i can communicate with it” “communicate with what?” “you already know. you just don’t want to believe it”

actually such a fascinating narrative choice to have a child psychic call out her own internal lies… he’s too young to blunt his words, so we know they are the truth… getting to see inside what scully truly believes, even if she cannot admit it to herself, through the lens of this sweet angel with his poor infected skull...

(mulder nods his head to the side, indicating to her they must go talk privately)

he wants to take gibson out to find the Creature, but scully says he needs to be in bed under constant medical supervision; he is the evidence for the x files that can prove to the panel that everything they research is real!!

lowkey pissed me off that this boy is suffering in front of them so horribly and mulder wanted to go on an alien hunt.

so, they’re going to sneak him off somewhere. maybe to an alien hunt and then the hospital. but alas, who approaches them in the parking lot?

IT’S DIANA???? she claims to be alone. CAN WE HAVE A BREAKUP LATER???

she tells mulder that she took the assignment to represent his interests, reminds him that THEY found the x files together, and says that they should go find the beast right now. sure. whatever. you go find the beast, let scully doctor the poor boy. whatever. like i care.

he agrees to do just that, which i actually do think is morally wrong, because now scully has to play single mother to this sick boy. what if she gets sleepy and he is stolen from under her, like what happened with diana?

but diana and mulder are off to the nuclear reactor. mulder thinks that maybe the alien baby needs to be warm… maybe to grow?

so scully is with gibson, and he accuses her of only thinking about herself and what she can learn from him. “i’m a very special lab rat”, he says (deep and sad scully sigh)

OHHHH… these two are giving me feelings……….

gibson just wanting to be a normal kid, and scully wanting to take care of this normal kid who is sadly being used for ulterior motives, but also knowing that if she wants to keep her job and prove the x files, that she must test upon him, too... she must have felt so conflicted... and he must have been able to sense that...

meanwhile, mulder and diana are sneaking into a nuclear reactor. i hope they don’t kiss. i don’t wanna see that shit. 

do they have guns? like, good guns? what are they going to hunt the alien with?

he finds a sticky trail… while spooky music plays…. and the wrench from homer (RIP)

bro needs to stop touching mystery fluids.

EUGH he pulls out… guts??? 

but scully calls!!! they found evidence of the virus that she was infected with in gibson’s system!!!

is diana here to just snitch on their progress… with his gut haul…..?

NOOOOO!!! THE DOCTOR APPROACHING GIBSON IS GOING TO HURT HIM??? HE IS KIDNAPPED! AGAIN!!!!!!

SCULLY IS GOING TO YELL AT SOME DOCTORS ABOUT IT!!!!! THREE CHEERS FOR MAMA BEAR SCULLY!!! DON’T TELL HER TO CALM DOWN!!! GO FUCK YOURSELF!!!

the evil guy is taking him away in an ambulance while mulder and diana track the beast. and again, i’d like to know what their game plan is once they find the thing.

gibson is brought to the nuclear power plant as well, being forced around by his kidnapper, who wants to use him to find the alien. and i can barely see what is happening because it is so DARK. 

gibson is being brought into what i think is the nuclear core, where he declares that "it" is here. 

i’m gonna need this gibson fellow to make it through, okay?

mulder is POUNDING ON THE DOOR, telling the evil guy to open it NOW, you SON OF A BITCH!

diana wants to find another way in, maybe, idk, i don’t trust her!!!

AUGH, the alien EATS the evil guy!!! well. deserved, tbh. will the alien please NOT eat gibson, though?

and it seems that diana DID snitch on him??? she pulls her gun on mulder as the cops suddenly arrive??

IT’S TOO DAMN DARK, I CAN’T SEE IF GIBSON WAS EATEN OR NOT!!!

skinner is absent from the hearing in which the agents are being told they must not go near the x files at all, or else they will be immediately dismissed!!! and they are moved to assistant director kersh!!! 

who is this man.....?

i expect mulder to just hand in his resignation papers now.

EW, CSM IS HERE TO SEE SPENDER??? he says he doesn’t want to see him. but CSM congratulates him on handling mulder. and he calls him “son”. 

“simple but extreme solutions” bro is offering to kill him??? no... he says this will not do in such a situation

spender asks if he’s killed men... IJBOL! that is his whole thing, buddy. welcome to this show.

CSM says you cannot kill what a man stands for, unless you kill his spirit. can mulder's spirit be killed?!?!

mulder is back to investigating the scraps of paper from the x files. “it would help if you’d shut the door; it’d make it harder for them to see that i’m totally disregarding everything i was told” <- LMAOOOO

oh scully, always pushed to the side in his mad ahab quest: “everything we were told, mulder” <- YEAH, YOU TELL HIM!!!!!!!!

she thinks that diana is throwing him under the bus (her report makes no mention of gibson!! and lies about the body they found!! also, i think she literally pulled a gun on him when the cops rolled up??), but he INSISTS that she is doing this out of the goodness of her heart 

“and though it may not say it in her report, diana saw it too. and no matter what you think, she’s certainly not going to go around saying that just because science can’t prove it, it isn’t true” 

wait hold on… i’m emotional… that was so mean… why am i genuinely tearing up…?

scully just wants him to trust her…. and he won’t take her files, because he's being stubborn, but they are literally TEST RESULTS that prove his theories to be true……..

the claw matches the DNA from the virus and the DNA from gibson…. 

if it’s true, that means everyone is a little bit of an alien?? oh scully…. look at her…….. sciene geek...

back at the nuclear power plant, it’s GIBSON!!!!! he sees the alien going for a swim in the nuclear water!!!!! yucky. 

it’s hatching………… oh.

the end.

man.

i don’t know if i’m emotional on this fine evening, but i nearly cried at mulder disrespecting scully. how can you say that about someone, that they make you whole, and keep you honest, and then treat them like that? how can you just toss her to the side the minute someone else says what you want to hear?

like. what the fuck! i can’t tell if this is purposeful character development leading up to something or if he is truly being an awful guy. how can he go from trusting her with everything he is- his life and even his death, over and over again- to having a hissy fit because she can't prove the virus was alien? it's not like SHE is the one taking them off of the assignment! she is not the corrupt government! in fact, she knows better than anyone the reality of the corrupt government, considering they 1) KILLED HER SISTER and 2) TRIED TO KILL HER WITH TERMINAL CANCER THAT DAMN NEAR SUCCEEDED?

shakes my fist angrily… i think scully should get to bite him.

she NEVER blows up at him!! even when he deserves it!!! and he has!! a million times over!! but she doesn’t!! it’s his stupid alien nonsense that got her sister killed and nearly killed her!! why does he act like he is the only one who can see some bigger picture?? oh wisest of all men, mulder, enlighten us with your alien theories??? bitch!!! if i was scully, i would have had enough!!! i would need a break from him!!! i would take that reassignment!!!

okay, maybe i’m just really angry tonight. BUT I HAVE A RIGHT TO BE! we were making such good progress in the “telling your best friend you love them” department, that i truly cannot stand this!! you tell him anything he wants to hear and he’ll eat it up!!! sure, sure, this lady that you used to date CONVENIENTLY wants to save the project you just got kicked off of after dedicating your whole life to it. (heavy on the /s) BRO??? LET’S USE A LITTLE BIT OF COMMON SENSE.

grrrr, i’m actually gonna GROWL. i don’t CARE about your inner man angst, you HAVE TO BE NICE TO YOUR FRIENDS!!! she LOVES you and you LOVE HER, so you ought to ACT LIKE IT.

and they took my uncle skinner away from me…

oh, i just know that if i had seen this when it was airing, i would be SPITTING MAD!! i’d be on those discussion forums saying NASTY things!!!

man. i still feel angry.

scully and gibson…. she wants to keep him safe, but also wants to prove her theories, and he suffers because of it… poor baby… how she held his unconscious head, calling him sweetheart; how she screamed at the doctors who ignored her…. god…

see, normally i’d say “give them both a baby”, but right now i’m mad as hell at mulder, and he does not deserve baby privileges.

poor gibson… i hope he makes it out of that nuclear reactor.

also. spender. the most pathetic nepo baby of all time. is he not at all suspicious about why his absent father is suddenly making a reappearance? hello? and the way he just pushes people around with his newfound power? do you think CSM will just use him and then discard him like he does everyone else????

wow. much to contemplate. for now, i must sleep off my rage. stupid mulder in his stupid polo…

spender and diana are literally scully and mulder from shein.