#the way i spent too much time writing this.................

[littledes1re]

Hiii, i love your writing. Could you please do one where you and Joel just started dating. And maybe go to a little event or social gathering and he sees a lot of guys looking at you and talking to you and he gets jealous and sad. Thinking you deserve better, younger and he gets insecure. But you make sure he knows you love him. Thanks!!

My Old man

Warnings: Joel is insecure, Age gap!, lots of fluff!!!

It wasn't the first time he'd felt this way. Countless times when you two went out for dinner together or were invited to some event in Jackson, you were stared at. The staring was from young men who wanted to dance with you, who thought you were pretty, hot. But the other old men were staring too. And even the women. They spent the evening gossiping about how the hell you could have landed as a pretty young girl with an old geezer like Joel. Is he holding you hostage? Is he manipulating you? You'd heard it all.

But you never paid attention to this. You were happy with Joel, more than happy. All those other men in Jackson could never give you what Joel gives you.

But Joel still took it to heart.

The looks from others, the gossip. He knew this would happen after he held your hand and said he wanted to be with you. He had his doubts; he never thought you, a beautiful young woman, could ever love him. But you pushed those doubts away every time. You loved him more than anything in this world, and you showed him that, every day.

You saw his face. Pouting and eyebrows furrowed. Deep in thought. This event was a small dance, nothing serious. Joel didn't even want to go, but Maria insisted. Every time any of those men even glanced at you, he got jealous and had a sad face, that looked down on the ground, just thinking. You couldn't bear to look at it much longer.

"Maria, I'm sorry. I'm not feeling well, so Joel and I are leaving early."

You worried Joel with that. He immediately set off alarm bells and asked you if you were okay. When you got home, the questions continued, but you had something else on your mind.

“You mr.miller gonna sit down and we will have a little talk about something.” His face was all confused while you pushed him gently down to the couch, making him sit down.

You sat down on the coffee table in front of him, his sweet eyes never leaving you, like an obedient puppy.

“Baby. My old man. There is nothing in this world that I want more than you. And only you.” You could see his face drop and even heart drop at that.

He sighed into the room, looked at you with a certain exhaustion, and sadness. Uncertainty. "Don't look at me like that, Joel. I mean it, and you should know it."

"Sweetheart, I—I just don't know what you see in me. Heck, these guys that look at you are all fit, they can go with you to those stupid events without whining about their backs, can keep up with you and they don’t have a past.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. You sat up and gently sat down his lap, his cosy pullover hugging you just right.

“I can’t believe you think like that, joel. I don’t care about any of these guys. I don’t care about you ‘not being fit’ which is not true by the way—“ you stopped pointing at his crotch and winking, earning a chuckle from him.

“I don’t even want to go to these stupid events either, look— we went because of maria. Nothing more. Wanted to be home with my man and watch some stupid movies he loves so much.”

“Hey—they ain’t stupid.” He chuckled again.

“Yea yea, whatever. But this is what I really mean joel. Since I came to jackson you were the only one in my eyes. Didn’t care about your past, didn’t care about your back, didn’t care about the fact that you were grumpy—“

“Wait now you are putting extra things in there”

“Sh sh. Didn’t care about any other boys. I saw you and the way you handled things turned me on, your way of demanding, taking care of people, being so stubborn but also the kindest of them all. The one who came to my house because I skipped patrol one day and asked if I was okey.”

His sweet eyes turned glassy, as he held you on your hips and squeezed, letting out a little smile.

“You’re too good to me, baby.”

“Nah, it’s not being good, i’m telling the truth.” You nodded, gently stroking his hair, playing with his curls. “Of course, everything is going slower, of course there are things that you can’t actively do. But I love it just because of that. I enjoy slow evenings on the porch with you. I enjoy waking up late and drinking black coffee that tastes like poison—“ he let out a giggle.

“And I love your wood carvings, your handsome face, your white hair that suits you so much, that grumpy face you always make whenever you need to read something with your glasses.”

You looked into each other’s eyes, he leaned in and connected your lips.

“Can’t believe I have you, baby. My pretty girl.” He cupped your face softly, giving you a peck on your forehead.

“Promise me you are gonna stop having these thoughts about yourself.”

“Can’t really stop them, but I will try and do my best from letting them get me.” He whispered, nodding his head to you.

You put your forehead to his and looked into his beautiful brown eyes, the world around you going silent.

“I love you, joel.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @kyloispunk @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @cuntyhunty22

[ay0nha]

Please Forgive Me | Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch (REWROTE IT)

SUMMARY: You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

Where you and Robby explore the first steps towards Ho'oponopono.

PAIRING: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!attending!reader

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, blood, death, smoking, Myrna, ANGSt-heavy, the "Kraken" mentions (mental health is no joke, I have opinions), seizure mentions (also no joke, although used humorously), plot driven by movie magic, reader getting physically hurt, flashbacks, arguments, fluff if you squint, word vomit, therapy session w/Kiara, mentions of terminal cancer, incarcerated patient, razor blades, glass, (let me know if I missed anything, I've been staring at this too long), etc.

Inspired by @skulandcrossbones's post, @xxdrixx's post, and @sunkissedburns' post. Also inspired by Joan Didion, that one Grey's episode, and other things I can't remember, so remind me if I missed things. CREDIT GOES WHERE IT IS DUE.

A/N: So I REWROTE this part because it was just Not It for me tbh. It didn't hold the angst/vibes I wanted it to, so please forgive me (*wink*) if this is confusing or jumbled, I just felt like this fit better for what I'm trying to do. Comments are HEAVILY encouraged; they truly keep me going and motivated to write. Many thanks to @hummusforthewin, @est1887, and @sunfairyy for helping me out! Enjoy.

prologue

“They all say ‘Life doesn’t work that way,’ ‘Live with the consequences and learn,’ ‘No one can cheat the system,’ but I did.” You paused, letting the admission be a placeholder. “Why would I regret that? They want to humanize everything; they just see wanting to die as a crime.”

Kiara always started with a baseline. It helped ease you into conversations you avoided. Yet, today the air was different. You came in with vexation. You kept storing up all that anger. You hoped for it to spill over. Otherwise, you’d drown in it. 

“And you don’t?” Kiara prompted. She was subtle with her interjections, learning your habit to retreat when prodded. 

You’d already mourned what could have been, what would not be, what you couldn't save. It was a daily practice. But this, what got you here, this was different. This didn’t come with the same leverage of sadness and authenticity; this felt radical even for you.  

“I’ve seen so much life and death that it’s become one and the same.” You continued. “I’m not trying to be clever, here…I just—” Another pause before you decidedly gave up. “—don’t get it.” 

Kiara hummed. She balanced her opinions well. She never pressed you too far, but you could tell that with your little progress, she needed to be more critical. 

“How poetic.” Kiara rested her hands on her lap. It was picture professional, minus the smirk settled on her face. “Yet another doctor who thinks they can control life—death. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”  

“Administration doesn’t see it that way.” You welcomed being brought down from a pedestal. It was the last thing any doctor’s ego needed.  “Aren’t I lucky?”

“Who doesn’t?” She challenged, eyebrow perked. “You gave Gloria more paperwork, but more than that,  she doesn’t have the time—or energy to evaluate your morals, frankly.” 

“Dana—

“Please,” Kiara laughed. 

You frowned. 

There was no point in arguing; you’d fallen for the bait you’d spent weeks avoiding. Kiara saw it firsthand, eyes always finding yours when you were both on the floor of the ED. It was easy to brush off, blaming time and urgency. 

Now, you were just stuck, trapped. Your eyes fled to the clock, its slowness insulting you. 

“Everyone’s eyes are always on me, waiting for me to crack with regret, with…guilt…” You held in the bitter laugh, knowing the reaction would be scribbled down. Your humor wasn’t always appreciated. “...but—nothing. I know what I did and I didn’t hesitate.”

As the topic shifted, the spacious room felt like it was suddenly collapsing in on you. You kept your breathing even. You learned young that nobody touched you when you looked sharp, but Kiara’s gaze could see through whatever facade you felt the need to put up. 

“If Robby is who you’re referring to…” She eyed you as she pressed further. 

“Robby?” You scoffed, echoing Kiara’s humor. “Please.”

“Your anger seems pointed.”  Kiara was specific with her words, adjusting in her seat. 

The office felt awfully small.

Robby stood far away from you, leaning against the opposing wall stiffly with hands in his pockets. His hair was a mess, a clear indication of the utter frustration he was in. 

Despite the distance, the tension between the two of you was palpable. He was absolutely livid.

Deservedly so. You should have listened to him and stayed out of it, but you didn’t—couldn’t. Now you had to simply stand and take whatever he was about to throw at you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, preparing for a half-hearted apology. “I’m so—”

“You—” He straightened himself, finger pointed out in accusation, “—had one job. I asked you to stay out of it— no, I ordered you to stay out of it. And what the hell do you do? The absolute fucking opposite. The actual fuck were you doing?”

Robby’s eyes narrowed deeper, the sharpness of the glare hitting you right in the chest. You flinch. “What makes you think you can ignore the rules? Have you forgotten that I’m your attending? I—”

“Do not pull rank with me.” You snapped. So much for just standing there and taking it. “You know damn well I am just as competent as you are.”

“Competent doesn’t mean that you’re—” Robby paused, taking in a tight breath. His voice stayed level, a refusal to let his anger get the best of him. “You were reckless. Out of line. I have to pull rank if you choose to act like one of the students.  What is not clear here?”

 You can’t help the bitter laugh that burst from your lips. You had a meanness inside you, real as an organ. With a slit down your belly, it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor just so you could stomp on it. 

“You can pretend to be Adamson all you want, but this morning, you froze.” Low blow. But the ripple of emotion in Robby’s face was satisfying.“ So, sure, I’m fucking sorry for taking things into my own hands when you couldn’t.”

“This was not your patient, and you are too stubborn to understand that. Now she’s dead.” Robby kept going, “Gloria is expecting you this afternoon. You will listen to her if you want to stay here. Don’t fuck up again.”

You tried opening your mouth, but nothing came out; your face was too hot, too hurt, too full of rage. 

“I’m not angry.” A lie.

“What’s your diagnosis then?” Kiara was kind, her tone carrying her warmth. 

Just like most people in the ED, you struggled to show your appreciation for Kiara. She was always present and shared everyone’s bad days. She braved the follow-through once the doctors walked away after the patient stabilized. She not only took on the burdens of the patients, but also the doctors. 

The guilt made you prickle. 

“She was going to die anyway. By my hand or theirs.” You put it starkly. “I just made her fate more bearable…she deserved the dignity…” 

You had never addressed what you had done so directly. It always lingered as something you both just knew. Everyone knew. It was memorable. You sat in the quietness, letting your words sink in, remembering the day the Earth stood still. 

“...what I did was wrong. I was willing to lose my license—prepared even.” Your arms crossed across your chest protectively, your voice becoming hushed. “But Robby—Robby told me I was playing God..…can you believe that?”

The words came to you so suddenly, it felt like you’d lost your breath. They wrapped around you like a boa. You heard them when you slept, and they loitered until you rubbed the exhaustion from your eyes. It had never cracked down on you like this.

“And now, this—” You gestured around you. “It’s a Sisyphean act, never-ending, useless—whatever you want to call the write-up, the babysitting, the obligation, the—t-the…”

One must imagine Sisyphus happy. Robby’s words mocked you. 

“You can convince anyone that I meant well. Robby, though? You’d die trying.” You jeered. “He expects me to be grateful for keeping me here. Prick.”

Kiara was proud; you could see it in the soft look she gave you. The foundation was finally laid bare to explore. 

Yet, you recoiled at your vulnerability. At your harshness. It shocked you, how gentle a tug it took to unravel everything that you built up. Truthfully, you were petrified. The core issue had been exposed, and you felt like a child throwing a tantrum. 

However, it took many years of vomiting up all the filth you’d been taught about yourself, and half believed, before you were able to walk on the earth as though you had a right to be there. You’d be damned to forget that because of him.

—

The ED was slow. 

No one acknowledged it; everyone was too superstitious to. 

The quiet no longer felt like rest. The weather consisted of sleet that kept everyone off the streets. All that could be done was to wait idly for those who were brave enough to come in and those who had no choice but to succumb to the danger of it all. 

The snow fueled your smoke break; it was a subconscious way to find warmth and stave off the anxiety that lingered from your morning with Kiara. Neither was remedied. Instead, your fingers were stiff from the temperature, and there was no relief from how the pit in your stomach grew. 

“I could fake a seizure.” 

“Too ‘boy who cried wolf’…” You shook your head. The strike of your lighter was motivated by agitation. On the first exhale of your newly-lit cigarette, you said, “It has to be a…casual—believable lie.”

“All this for what? Feelings?” Myrna gestured at the air with mocking disgust. “I know a thing or two about a crime of passion.”

“Robby’s allergic.” Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it. 

“Oh, honey, I knew you were stupid, but not that stupid.” Myrna cracked with humor. Her insults made you feel electric. Normal. They humbled every egotistical vein in your body. “Robby looks at you with nothing but feelin’.”

“That ‘look’ is….” Disgust? Resentment? Loathing? “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’d bend him over my knee for what he did to you.” Myrna carried on with her opinions, humoring herself as she continued. “I like big butts and I cannot lie…”

Your eyes sparkled with the image. You’d pay good money to see Robby’s face painted with discomfort. His self-control irked you, got under your skin without even trying. It used to drive a competitive friction between you both, one that was light, teasing, even. But it festered to the point it controlled you; you relied on proving a point. 

“Breach of duty, my ass.” She barked. “So you were a drug dealer, so what! I know plenty. God forbid you did something about healthcare in this country.”

“Myrna,” You warned. You wish you were just a ‘drug dealer.’ Instead, you became the judge, jury, and executioner.  “When are you going to stop bringing it up?”

“When you do something better.”  

“It’s temporary, anyways.” You said more to remind yourself. It hadn’t quite stuck as a mantra, but it was enough to get you through a shift. “Family emergency? No—Robby would call my sister and that’s—

“Find an obituary.” Myrna shrugged. “You’ve got four grandparents to choose from.”

“Can’t.” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought caused your lips to tingle with indifference. Deep down, you knew nothing would change.  “Used that one not too long ago, Robby’d sniff that out…”

“You asked me how to get him off your back: seizure.” Myrna snapped playfully, not letting your eyes glaze over for too long. “Give me a few minutes, I’m sure I can start foaming at the mouth.” 

“He’s already onto us.” You didn't have it in you anymore to struggle and fight and suffer; you wanted to enjoy the quiet when you could find it. You smiled. “‘Fruitcake,’ though—that always gets me through the day.”

“Happy to oblige.”  She snorted. “Now, if you really need him gone—I can make it look like an accident.” 

A laugh bubbled through your chest. “I’ll remember that for when I really need it.”

“Listen, girlie…” Myrna gave you the least offensive nickname in the ED. It was why you passed the dwindling cigarette to her; you always played favorites. “...whatever you do, don’t bet on a losing dog.”

You hummed in response. You didn’t need to look too deeply into her words, but you knew they’d ring true when things got too quiet, when you’d want to avoid them the most. 

“I’ve made that mistake before, and lemme tell you: not worth it.” She smothered the roach on her wheelchair, flicking the remains to melt into the snow. “Sad eyes comin’ in, twelve o’clock.” 

The hospital door popped the bubble created. The interruption was overdue. 

“Everything alright out here?” Robby’s voice was traced by the cold air, cautious enough not the call too much attention but aware enough to know you weren’t.  

“Just gettin’ some air.” Your sigh was heavy. Your day was not ruined. Your world was not over. Take a deep breath. It’s just temporary. 

“Patients shouldn’t be out here.” Robby's lips pressed together. You knew he wasn’t surprised, but entirely unimpressed. 

“I don’t clock in for another…” You looked at your watch. “...eight minutes. Not my circus, not my patient.” 

“Myrna.” He greeted her. Robby ignored you, nodding to the nurse who followed him out. “Please make sure someone keeps an eye on her.” 

Before being rolled past him, Myrna winked at you. “Fruitcake.”

Robby stayed quiet, head dipping with feigned politeness. 

You looked ahead, avoiding his eyes. It gave a moment for Robby to imagine the way your fingers deftly played with your lighter. The way your side profile was traced as you exhaled the smoke. The smell lingered, and his finger twitched with desire. 

From your peripheral vision, you watched Robby rock on his heels, wanting to say something. You didn’t smoke often, so he knew nerves formed the habit. His attentiveness made you nauseous. 

“Need something, doctor?” You snapped first. 

“Nicotine lowers the seizure threshold...” He hummed. You focused on Robby carefully, watching how his disappointment fed through his body language. “...but there’s no way Myrna can smoke with those handcuffs, right?” 

“Right.” Your tone was always tight around him. Sterile. “I’ll meet you inside.”

You meant to be firm. To give Robby no option other than to leave you to the cold. However, the more you spoke, the more he lingered. 

“You’re gonna freeze out here.” His hands were deep in his pockets, as if talking about himself. “Coffee’s fresh in the lounge.”

“I’ve got a few more minutes until the frostbite kicks in.” You clicked your teeth with sarcastic resistance. 

Robby left, his attempt futile. He only got a few strides away before bursting. 

“You’ve got to stop—” Robby rubbed his palms to his eyes. “Besides it being extremely unprofessional, you’re doing my head in. You fucked up. Accept it.” 

Your eyes widened. It was early for him to be fed up with you. It usually hit after the day’s first coding, or if Gloria hit below the belt. This was new. Anger rarely settled so explicitly in Robby’s voice. 

You were always quick to retaliate. “You think I enjoy this?” 

“I’m starting to think you do, yeah,” Robby egged you on. He’d come to his boiling point. “We save lives, we work with the circumstances given to us. We strategize. We treat. We cope—

“She swallowed razor blades—” You bit. Prepared.  “—then, a lightbulb, Robby! How’s that for coping, huh?”

“She wanted a break from solitary, do you know how many incarcerated—

“She did what she did because she had to.” 

“That is not for you to decide.” Robby provoked in a low voice. Hissed. “And neither was her death.”

“She was metastatic! What difference would it have made?” Your words were weak with exasperation. Yet again, a repeated conversation. “What I did was safe and comfortable. No one deserves to go through that in prison—”

“She would have received another round of radiation—”

“She was non-responsive to chemo for years.” You laid the well-known facts bare. The patient wouldn’t have made it to the end of the month. It was a surprise that the ED was able to bring her back. “Besides, you know prisons are the first place the shortages affect.”

Robby spoke to you distinctly. Professionally. He didn’t delve into morals or politics, but standards of care, something he was usually willing to be flexible on. He was the first to put himself on the line or take the hit for perilous risks. Yet, now he suddenly remembered standard treatment: evaluations that measure the quality and adherence to established medical protocols or best practices. 

“We did what we were supposed to do.” Those textbook methods always forgot how much empathy could treat. “You went rogue.” 

“This is more than that—”  The air stilled. This was new. Things haunted. Things existed long after they’d been smothered. “—and you know it.”

You remained leaning against the brick building. It’s frigidness bled through your thin scrubs. Yet, you could feel the warmth, the frustration, in Robby’s movement towards you.  

“What are you saying?” The lines of worry between his eyebrows deepened, and hands hands pulled at the ends of his stethoscope to stop fidgeting.  Yet, they couldn’t decide to settle with irritation or confusion.  

“I doubt you would’ve batted an eye for Abbott, Langdon—Jesus—even Whitaker.” You finally confessed the truth, your anger. “They’d get a slap on the wrist. Yet, I’m not allowed to be anything but perfect; you second-guess my every breath, Robby.”

You’d noticed it before, a pattern when Robby was sinking. The days were hard, the hours unrelenting. The times that were harder than others, his inclinations, conscious or not, took control. Robby moved on instinct, but it always revealed how he saw you. 

Now, he understood. You accepted your so-called punishment. You just expected more from him. Disappointment was never a welcome feeling, and it struck Robby sharply, painfully. He didn’t move fast enough to apologize, so you did. 

You pushed off the wall, the eight minutes up. “Forgive me that losing this patient only proved my point.” 

—

Mr. Krakozhia woke up. 

The sedation wasn’t monitored. The fault didn’t fall on anyone when the ED had resources spread thin; no available beds, never enough nurses, and emergencies that required split attention. 

No one volunteered to restrain the ‘Kraken.’ Robby declined Dana’s request for assistance, merely providing a verbal order for sedation. Nurses, inexperienced learners, and you were left to haphazardly fill the gaps. All your strength combined, you still received a boot to the mouth. 

A metallic taste spread in your mouth. You tongueed at the teeth that’s nerves felt stunned. All twenty-eight were accounted for, but blood spilled from your tongue and lip. 

“Oh, he got you—you alright, kid?” Dana laughed sympathetically, pulling you up from where you’d been knocked back. “I’ll keep ‘em off your back for a little. Take a break. You know the drill: direct pressure, cold compress.” 

You had a love-hate relationship with hospitals. You thought they were always too bright with a bleak atmosphere. There were phones constantly ringing, monitors always beeping, people coughing all of the air out of themselves; everything was too overwhelming to the senses.

So, your attempt to decompress, to stop your lip from throbbing against your heartbeat, was always found in the stairwell. They were rarely used and acted as a sound barrier to the city’s whelm. 

You sighed heavily, letting your head drop. 

The tears that fell from your cheeks left dark bruises on your scrubs. Quiet, like they always do. You wiped at your eyes; your tears felt like a burden. But they wouldn’t stop until they ran out. Then, you were still and silent. Because if you opened your mouth, you were afraid you'd never stop screaming.

“Hey—” 

You hadn’t heard the door creak. Or felt the hand that rested on your shoulder. It was the first time in a long time you didn’t flinch. The words I’m fine died before you could breathe them out. Instead, Robby met you at your level, sitting on the stairs next to you. 

“Let’s take a look.” Robby’s gloves were pulled on with dexterity. Your bloodshot eyes were wide, reading worry on his expression. Robby assessed you softly. Even softer when you winced.  “Tender?” 

“Dana told you where to find me?” You exhaled slowly, the edge of defiance in your posture softening into something a little more tired.

“She could only hold me off for so long.” He pulled his gloves off, hands retreating tentatively. “Feeling dizzy, headache…did you hit your head?”

“No LOC, EOM intact, just a busted lip.” 

Your pupils were wide with stress, but they were equal and reactive. You knew Robby wouldn’t press further, but he was reading into every twitch and movement just in case he missed something crucial. But he knew not to misread your calmness, healthcare assault, accidental, incidental, or not, happened. 

For the past few shifts, you didn’t need to avoid Robby. He gave you space, still processing your last interaction. You wouldn’t admit it, as if felt hypocritical, but it was strange not having him close. Even his eyes had stopped tracking you, and it felt like something was wrong. 

It felt like your fault that one day you both woke up, no longer speaking the same language. You hadn’t heard from him since. You couldn’t translate how badly Robby wanted to tell you he knew you didn’t need to be saved, protected. That you needed to be found and appreciated. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Robby started, but you heard an undercurrent of hesitation. Nothing haunted him more than the things he didn’t say. “About what you said…”

You’d been thinking too. 

You knew he’d been trying to catch you for days. Weeks. But his irritability got in the way. Impatience for Gloria got in the way. He had trouble sleeping, and when he was awake, he was vigilant. Then, when you didn’t see him, you knew he carried his sadness to the roof.  

“Let’s not—not now, at least.” Your plea was soft. You cleared your throat, as if telling the tears that pricked your waterline to stop. 

“Okay.” Robby swallowed everything with that tight-lipped, polite smile and nod. That smile that he wore—it didn’t shine. Soft and a little sorry. It settled over guilt.

You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. Both Robby and you were slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

You were both stalling, not used to being so close for so long. You both desired one last deep breath, but the air was running out. You both didn’t know how to exist so softly. 

You heard a new tone when people asked how you were, a tone you had not noticed before and found increasingly distressing, even humiliating: these people seemed impatient, half-concerned, half querulous, as if no longer interested in the answer. As if all too aware that the answer will always be a complaint. 

You’d been trained to speak, if asked how you were, only positively. That was healthcare; you were not allowed to not be OK. You framed the cheerful responses. What you believed to be the cheerful response, as you framed it, emerged, as others hear it, more like a whine. 

Do not whine. Do not complain. Work harder. Spend more time alone, you told yourself. 

You listened. 

You did not whine when hunger sawed your body in half. You did not complain when, after you worked for hours, trying to get the sound of a sentence right. You bled politely all over Pittsburgh. 

However, the cold was catching up to you. So was the exhaustion. It weakened your senses and put your emotions at the forefront. You wanted to be held, to be cared for in ways you couldn’t provide alone. Robby was familiar with the feeling, but was better at hiding the ache. 

Now, Robby could handle your anger. Anger was good. Anger meant that there was something he could react to, challenge. But your self-restraint dwindled. The smallest gesture of affection brought a lump to your throat, whether it was directed to you or at someone else.

So, Robby stood, hand reaching for yours. He had the awkward tenderness of someone who had never been loved and was forced to improvise. 

“Ready?” For the chaos.

He pulled you gently, eyes still roaming you for discontent. It felt good, as if one thing were normal. The rest of the shift, you knew he’d be back to lingering, back to playful chiding that would burn your skin, and watching you so closely for any pain he could relieve. 

It wasn’t a long-term solution, but this shift’s abatement. 

“Yeah, yeah,” You sniffed through your words, clearing any emotions that loitered. “I want a good case after that beating.” 

Once you stood, Robby was going to release you from what he suspected was torture. Yet, your grip tightened, palm to palm. You clung to his hand so that something human could exist in the chaos. Hand in unlovable hand, you stay attached until the buzzing took over at the nurse’s station. 

Robby understood why people held hands: He'd always thought it was about possessiveness, saying, "This is mine." But you had revealed to him that it was about maintaining contact, speaking without words, and saying, regardless of everything, "I want you with me, and don't go."

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 2

Themes: homoerotic friendship turmoil... (again iykyk)

A/N: Had a free day so spent it cooking up this next chapter! Felt inspired by all the love you guys gave for chapter 1. Not sure what this says about me, but I love writing character spirals so this chapter is basically just more of that! Enjoy!

WC: 4.9K

Warnings: cussing, angst

**** Chapter 2 ****

It’s been a week since the student center.

Seven days. Five practices. Three recovery lifts. Two film sessions.

Over the summer, it was easier to pretend. They were only on campus for a few weeks of summer session—light workouts, half-empty dorms, no one really paying attention. They could get away with small talk and long stretches of silence. Could convince themselves that the space between them was just timing. Just logistics. Just a break.

But now?

Now they’re back in it. Full team schedule. Practice every day. Group meals. Shared everything. Paige is everywhere again—on the sidelines, in the locker room, just close enough to make Azzi feel the distance even more.

This morning, it’s film.

Everyone’s packed into the team meeting room—sweats, messy buns, Gatorade bottles scattered across the floor. The room smells like sweat, menthol, and the kind of focus that doesn’t fade just because practice ended. Coach is already five minutes into a breakdown of last week’s scrimmage footage, laser pointer in hand, voice rising and falling like he’s narrating a crime scene.

Azzi’s in the third row with the other sophomores, directly behind the juniors, which means Paige is in front of her. Two seats to the right, to be exact. 

Her hoodie’s oversized, sleeves pulled over her hands, notebook balanced on her thigh. Her knee is propped on her backpack like it’s casual, but Azzi knows it’s not. She’s seen the way Paige grits her teeth when she shifts too fast. The way she barely lets the trainers touch it.

And even though she hasn’t said a word to her since that morning—hasn’t texted, hasn’t liked anything, hasn’t even made eye contact—Azzi can’t stop watching her.

Because something’s different.

Not just physically.

There’s a weight to her lately, like she’s constantly holding something in. Like if she let go for even a second, the whole thing would collapse.

And maybe Azzi’s imagining it, but… Paige doesn’t usually carry herself like this. She used to sit forward in these meetings, pen tapping against her knee, whispering dumb side commentary that made Azzi snort-laugh through her water bottle.

Now, she’s quiet. Still. Watching the screen like she’s somewhere else entirely.

And Azzi?

Azzi is fully distracted.

Coach pauses the film on a defensive breakdown from last season—one of their worst games. “This,” he says, circling the screen, “is what happens when you forget how to communicate.”

Azzi hears it. Loud and clear.

She bites the inside of her cheek and looks back at the screen, but her eyes flicker down to Paige again.

She’s not even looking. Just staring at the page in her lap like she forgot how to be here.

And Azzi hates how much it bothers her.

Because Paige isn’t being Paige. She isn’t some party girl. That’s never been her vibe. Sure, they’ve all had nights—team wins, off-season birthdays, someone’s cousin visiting from out of town—but still. Paige has always been the one to know when to call it. To rally the freshmen. To lead by example. To drink water in between rounds because she knows her body matters more than a buzz.

But last Friday? Paige looked wrecked. And not just tired-wrecked. Unraveled.

Azzi shifts in her seat again. Guilt crawling under her skin like something contagious.

Because she knows what she saw in Paige’s eyes that morning wasn’t just hangover haze. It was something heavier.

And she knows—deep down, even if she hasn’t said it out loud—that she’s a big part of why.

It’s not like she hasn’t tried.

To fix it. Mend it. Reset the dial and get back to just being best friends.

But the problem is—that’s not what they are anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.

Azzi sits in her seat, eyes on the film screen but mind drifting, the light flickering over Paige’s straight hair just one row down. A highlight reel from last season is playing. Everyone else is focused.

Azzi’s not.

Her thoughts circle a moment from almost a year ago. Just a few days after that night outside Ted’s.

*Three Days After Ted’s*

She knocked before she could change her mind.

Three quick taps, then silence. Her heart already hammering against her ribs.

It had been three days since Ted’s. Three days since Paige had looked at her like she’d torn something open and then watched her walk away.

Azzi had thought about texting—typed out at least four different versions of “can we talk?”—but nothing felt right. Nothing ever did when it came to Paige.

So here she was.

Standing outside Paige’s dorm room like a coward trying to be brave.

The door creaked open slowly.

Paige stood there in a hoodie Azzi had seen a hundred times—wrinkled, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair pin-straight and tucked behind her ears like she hadn’t had the energy to care. Her eyes were unreadable. Guarded. Like she didn’t know whether to slam the door or let it all in.

Still, she stepped back.

Didn’t say anything. Just… made space.

Azzi walked in slowly, careful not to brush too close. The room felt dim and heavy—like it was still holding the echo of that night. There was music playing low from her laptop, some slow-burning acoustic song that was doing way too much. Paige didn’t bother turning it off.

They sat on the edge of the bed in silence, the way people do when they’ve already said the most important thing and still somehow left everything unsaid.

Azzi’s fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything,” she said. “But I do care. You know that, right?”

Paige didn’t look at her. Just nodded, once. No emotion.

Azzi took a breath. “I’m still figuring things out.”

Paige’s voice was flat. “Like what?”

She looked down. “Like… who I am. What I want. What this is.”

Paige’s gaze shifted to the window. Quiet. Not angry. Not cold. Just… tired. Like she was already exhausted from trying not to expect anything.

And Azzi hated herself for that.

Because she knew Paige deserved more than half-truths and safe answers. She deserved certainty. And Azzi—Azzi couldn’t give her that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Because she hadn’t come out. Not to her family. Not to her team.

Not even to herself.

And maybe her feelings for Paige were real. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were something so specific and sharp and only Paige that she didn’t know how to translate them into anything else.

But whatever they were, she wasn’t ready.

They agreed to try again. As friends. Clean. Platonic. Safe.

Azzi told herself it was better than nothing.

And for a little while, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

*The Weeks Following Ted’s*

They tried. They really did.

After that night—after the conversation in Paige’s dorm, the hard truths and half-formed apologies—they both promised to make it work. To go back to something simpler. Just friends. Teammates. People who used to be something else but weren’t anymore.

And at first, it actually wasn’t awful.

They fell into a rhythm. Small talk. Inside jokes. Shared playlists again, but nothing too loaded. They lifted together. Texted about practice.

They were in check.

Until they weren’t.

Because old habits die hard. And Paige—Paige has never had much restraint when it comes to the people she loves.

It started with the little things. A hand on Azzi’s back when she passed behind her in the locker room. A pinky brushing hers on the bench during a timeout. Standing just a little too close in the weight room. All harmless. All manageable.

But Azzi felt every one of them.

And she didn’t stop them.

She let the small touches happen. Craved them more than she should have. Told herself it didn’t mean anything if it stayed small. Told herself it was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Because the looks started slipping in again—those long, unblinking glances across the gym. And the way Paige said her name started sounding too soft again. Like it did back when they were still tangled up in each other, late at night, when no one else knew.

They were close to blurring lines again. So close it made Azzi’s chest ache.

But she couldn’t forget what Paige said that night outside Ted’s.

You don’t get to be all over me in private and then play straight for the crowd. I’m not your secret. I’m not some backup plan you get to use when it’s easy.

Even if it was drunk. Even if it was messy. It had cracked something wide open.

And Azzi knew—knew in her gut—that she wasn’t helping. That every glance, every casual touch, every almost was a slow kind of cruelty.

So she drew a harder line.

Not all at once, but in those quiet, deliberate ways that people notice even when they pretend not to.

She stopped sitting next to Paige during team meals. Started saying “I’m gonna head out” before the end of post-practice hangouts. Kept her phone face-down. Gave shorter replies to the late-night texts that always came without a question but carried too much meaning.

She pulled back from the casual touches. The after-lift stretching sessions that used to end in tangled limbs and unspoken closeness. The jokes that skimmed too close to something intimate. The looks. God, the looks.

She didn’t say it out loud. Never made some grand announcement.

But Paige noticed.

Of course she did.

And Azzi could feel it in the shift—how Paige got quieter around her. How her smile didn’t reach all the way anymore. How she stopped reaching out entirely after a while, like she’d done the math and realized what they were wasn’t adding up.

And maybe that was the point.

Azzi thought she was doing the right thing—protecting them both from another slow disaster. Giving her space to breathe while Azzi sorted through her own shit. Making sure Paige didn’t get pulled back into something Azzi wasn’t ready to name.

But the boundaries brought distance.

And the distance brought silence.

And now, they barely speak.

*Present Day*

Paige

She shows up to film early. Of course she does.

Because no matter what her personal life looks like—and it looks like a goddamn train wreck right now—she’s still Paige Bueckers. She’s still a team leader. Still the one who sets the tone, even if her own feels cracked and paper-thin these days.

She shows up. Every time. Early to film. Loud on the sidelines. Quick with encouragement even when she can barely stomach being on the bench.

Because that’s who she’s supposed to be.

The one who doesn’t complain. The one who leads by example. The one who makes it look easy, even when it’s anything but.

And maybe part of her is afraid that if she stops—if she lets the cracks show—they’ll start to forget. Forget how much she gave. Forget how badly she still wants it. Forget that she was supposed to be the one leading them to a title this year before her ACL exploded and took the whole plan with it.

So yeah, her life’s a mess right now. But her role? Her image? That has to stay sharp.

Even if the sharpness is starting to cut back.

She slips into her usual seat—second row, third from the left—hood up, notebook balanced on her lap, pen already uncapped. Her brace is tight today. The trainers told her to ease up on the stairs but she didn’t listen. Again.

She nods along as Geno talks. Scribbles a few things. Watches the screen like she’s absorbing it. But truthfully, she’s only catching about sixty percent of it.

The rest of her brain? Completely useless.

Because Azzi is directly behind her.

And Paige can feel it—like gravity. Like heat. Like something she isn’t supposed to notice anymore but still does, always.

It’s not dramatic. Azzi’s not staring holes in the back of her head. It’s subtler than that. Flickers of attention. Glances that hover and then dart away like they never happened. Paige doesn’t need to turn around to know—they’ve done this dance too many times.

She can feel it in her spine. In her shoulders. In the way her skin prickles under the weight of not being touched.

Azzi’s attention isn’t loud, but it’s deliberate. Careful. Measured in that way it always is now—like she’s trying not to give anything away, like looking too long might make the space between them collapse.

Paige swallows hard and focuses on the screen. Pretends she doesn’t feel the echo of all the ways they used to reach for each other without saying a word.

Pretends she doesn’t miss it. Even though it’s still right there. Just one row behind her.

She’s good at this—keeping her expression neutral, her body language easy, like nothing’s ever off. She’s been doing it since middle school, since before anyone knew what to look for.

But today?

Today, it takes more effort than she wants to admit.

Her notes are messier than usual. Her focus drifts more often. Her stomach clenches every time Geno pauses the tape on an old play from last season—her feeding Azzi in the corner, Azzi draining the three. The two of them moving like muscle memory.

Like something that used to be.

She exhales quietly and writes something down that she probably won’t remember later.

****

After film, someone says, “Nika’s tonight?” and that’s that.

No group vote, no discussion. Just a general agreement that they all need a break and a bad movie. Team bonding, but make it low-key.

Paige almost bails.

She’s not in the mood for snacks and sarcasm and pretending everything’s normal. But she’s also not in the mood to be the only one who doesn’t show up—especially not when she’s already spending enough time on the outside looking in.

So she goes.

She’s late. Not dramatically. Just enough that by the time she walks into Nika’s apartment, the lights are dim, the popcorn’s halfway gone, and everyone’s already staked out their territory.

She scans the room, pretending not to look like she’s scanning. Ice and Aubrey are draped across the beanbags. KK and Caroline are posted up with blankets on the floor. Nika’s curled into her oversized chair like a queen on her throne.

Only one spot left.

And of course it’s next to Azzi.

Because why wouldn’t it be?

The end cushion on the main couch. There’s space—barely. Azzi’s legs are tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, face turned toward the screen like she’s already locked in. But Paige knows her well enough to know she’s not.

She stops in the doorway, hovering just long enough to feel stupid about it. Her eyes flick across the room again, double-checking like maybe she missed a better option.

She didn’t.

She could sit on the floor, but that’d be weird. Or the counter stool near the kitchen, but that’s a straight-up exile move. Obvious. And most of the team is blissfully unaware of the behind-the-scenes melodrama that’s become her and Azzi’s lives.

So she bites the bullet.

Plasters on a neutral face.

And drops down next to her.

Azzi shifts just slightly to make room—knee brushing Paige’s for half a second before pulling away again. It’s barely anything. But Paige feels it everywhere.

She opens a bottle of water and stares at the screen like the movie’s going to save her.

It won’t.

But at least if she focuses hard enough, maybe she won’t notice how close Azzi’s arm is. Or the way her hair smells like something fruity. Or how Paige used to spend entire nights in that exact space on the couch—knees touching, shoulders warm, everything between them soft and quiet and real.

Now?

Now she’s just trying not to breathe too loud.

****

She’s pretty sure the room wasn’t this warm when she walked in.

Paige shifts slightly, peeling the edge of her hoodie away from her neck like it might help. It doesn’t. The apartment’s packed, sure—but it’s not that hot. At least no one else seems to be melting into the furniture.

Except maybe her.

Or maybe it’s just that she can feel Azzi next to her.

Not in some earth-shattering way. Just enough to make her skin buzz. Just in a too-aware-of-every-breath-she-takes kind of way. Her knee is curled toward Paige’s leg again, tucked under her like she’s trying to disappear into the couch. And Paige’s thigh is right there—barely touching, but definitely touching.

And God help her, it’s all she can think about.

Azzi shifts again and their knees bump. A soft, accidental press. Paige freezes.

Azzi doesn’t move.

Paige doesn’t either.

The movie is playing—some dumb rom-com Nika picked for the aesthetic more than the plot. Something with oversaturated lighting and too many slow-motion glances. Laughter bubbles up around the room at some punchline Paige barely registers.

She doesn’t hear it.

Not really.

Her pulse is louder than the dialogue now, steady and unrelenting in her ears. It drums under her skin like a warning: Too close. Too close.

The couch cushion shifts beside her as Azzi moves—slow, quiet, pulling at the sleeve of her sweatshirt like she’s fidgeting to keep her hands busy. Paige doesn’t look over, but she doesn’t have to. She can feel it.

That subtle give in the cushion. The warmth creeping into the narrow space between them.

Now their arms are close. Like, too close.

Not quite touching, but close enough that the fabric of Paige’s hoodie tugs slightly when she inhales. Close enough that she can feel the static tension gathering in the gap between them like something charged, alive, waiting.

She presses her knuckles into her thigh to ground herself. Keeps her eyes on the screen like the movie might anchor her.

But it doesn’t.

Because all she can think about is the fact that if she moved half an inch to the left, she’d be touching Azzi again.

And that half an inch feels impossible.

Paige inhales through her nose and stares at the screen like her life depends on it.

It’s fine. This is fine.

Just casual knee contact with your ex-best friend slash person-you’re-definitely-not-still-in-love-with. No big deal.

Then—

“Yo,” Aubrey whispers, way too loud for a whisper, jabbing Paige in the side with two knuckles like she’s trying to get her attention and restart her heart.

Paige startles—physically jolts. Her knee knocks into Azzi’s harder than intended, solid enough to make her wince. Her elbow swings wide in the process and lands—of course—right against Azzi’s ribs.

“Oh my God—sorry,” she mumbles, already pulling her arm back like it’s on fire.

Azzi lets out the softest breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just… something that says I felt that too.

Paige doesn’t look over. Can’t. If she does, she’s pretty sure she’ll combust.

“Sorry,” she mutters under her breath.

Azzi gives a tiny head shake like it’s nothing, but she doesn’t look at her.

Paige blinks, disoriented, half-thinking she’s about to see a TikTok or a meme or something equally stupid that’ll at least give her a reason to unclench.

She looks down.

And her stomach twists.

Azzi

The interruption is a relief. A welcome one, honestly.

She’s felt like she’s been holding her breath for the last thirty minutes—shoulders tight, legs folded too neatly, heart thudding in some dumb, unsteady rhythm she swears wasn’t there when the movie started.

It’s just a couch.

Just a movie.

Just Paige sitting four inches to her right, jaw clenched and eyes trained on the screen like it personally offended her.

Azzi hasn’t moved in forever. Not really. She shifted once to reach for popcorn and regretted it immediately when her knee brushed Paige’s. Light. Unintentional. But it might as well have been electric. She’s been statue-still ever since.

She doesn’t dare lean back or adjust or even uncross her ankles. Not when her skin is still buzzing. Not when her arm is close enough to Paige’s that she can feel the heat through two layers of fabric and the silence between them is doing more damage than words ever could.

It’s not like anyone else would notice. To everyone else, it probably looks normal. Like nothing’s wrong. Just two teammates watching a movie.

But to Azzi?

It’s suffocating.

She can feel Paige’s tension like it’s her own—like it’s crawling off her skin and settling in Azzi’s chest. She can feel every breath Paige takes and every one she holds. Every shift. Every twitch. Every micro-movement of trying not to care.

And she wonders—stupidly, selfishly—if Paige feels it too.

So yeah, when Aubrey leans over and jabs Paige with her elbow, Azzi nearly exhales out loud.

Thank God.

She tries not to look. Tries to give them privacy, even though nothing about it seems that deep. Just a phone screen, a low chuckle, Paige’s voice tight and unreadable.

But then Paige goes still.

Not physically—emotionally. The kind of retreat you only notice if you’ve memorized her face.

So she glances over.

Not to be nosy. Just… to know.

And that’s when she sees it.

A phone screen held between two hands. Lit up with an Instagram profile. A girl.

Dark brown hair. Sharp jawline. Smiling in cleats and turf-stained socks.

Azzi squints. She recognizes her—vaguely. From the soccer team, maybe? She’s pretty. Objectively.

Something in Azzi’s stomach shifts.

And then—like a puzzle snapping into place—she remembers the conversation from earlier that week.

Caroline and Aubrey sitting at the table in the student center, laughing over iced coffees and talking just loud enough for Azzi to catch the tail end of it.

“I swear, she’d be into her,” Aubrey had said, voice low but not exactly subtle.

“She’s cool. Chill. Doesn’t take things too seriously.”

Caroline had hummed, not disagreeing. “Paige could probably use someone like that right now.”

And then—

“Something easy, y’know? While she’s stuck on the sidelines.”

Azzi hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Hadn’t let herself.

But now? Seeing the girl’s face on the screen? Watching Paige go still?

It lands.

Aubrey’s trying to play matchmaker.

And the match?

Isn’t her.

Of course it’s not her.

Azzi shifts in her seat slightly, just enough to break the contact between their legs. Paige doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t react. That might be worse.

A tightness starts blooming in Azzi’s chest, quiet but immediate. Like a too-small sweatshirt pressing against her lungs. Like she just learned something she wasn’t supposed to hear.

Her eyes flick back to the phone. The girl’s still there—smiling like she has no idea she’s the source of the ache forming behind Azzi’s ribs. She’s pretty. Chill-looking. Effortless. The kind of girl who probably doesn’t overthink a thing. Who’d slide into a relationship like it’s just another afternoon.Who could hold her without all the questions.

Azzi looks away.

Her stomach twists.

Because the truth is, this girl probably is a better fit. Probably won’t freeze when Paige gets close. Probably won’t make her feel like she has to tiptoe around invisible landmines. Probably won’t leave her hanging in the middle of a sentence because she doesn’t know how to say I think about you all the time, but I still don’t know what that means for me.

And that’s what stings the most.

Not that Paige might move on. But that maybe she should.

Azzi presses her hands into her lap. Hard. Just to feel something else.

It shouldn’t hurt this much. She’s the one who stepped back. Drew the line. Told herself it was better this way.

But now, watching Paige stiffen beside her, reading whatever’s on that screen, Azzi wants to reach across the couch and snatch the phone from her hands. Or rewind time. Or say something. Anything.

But she doesn’t.

Because what could she possibly say?

Wait, don’t like her. I still think about you every night. I wasn’t ready then, but I miss you in a way that still scares me. Please.

No.

Instead, she stays still.

Breath shallow.

Heart splintering slowly in her chest.

Because the girl on the screen is probably good for Paige.

And then— Oh God. Derrick.

Her actual boyfriend.

She’d forgotten about him. Completely. Like, not just out of sight, out of mind—but fully erased from her mental hard drive for the past thirty seconds. That probably says something awful.

They’ve been hanging out. It’s not nothing. He’s good to her. Steady in a way that’s rare around here—especially in guys who spend half their lives in cleats and compression sleeves. Derrick’s on the football team, so he gets it. The early lifts, the pressure, the silence that sometimes follows a bad game. He doesn’t ask her to explain the way her brain works when she’s locked in season mode—he just understands.

He laughs at her driest jokes. Always walks her to her dorm, even when it’s out of the way.

It’s not fake.

Sometimes, when she’s with him—when it’s quiet, and he’s smiling at her like she’s not hard to love—she almost lets herself believe this is what right feels like.

But then moments like this creep in.

Moments where her whole body tunes to Paige’s without meaning to. Where a knee bump or a glance makes her forget who she came here with.

And suddenly, even good things start to feel wrong.

Maybe this is what happens when you wait too long to be brave.

Paige

She scrolls for a beat too long. Long enough to memorize the girl’s face even though she doesn’t mean to.

Pretty. Friendly smile. The kind of person you could sit next to in class and not feel the need to impress.

She feels Azzi shift beside her. Just barely.

But Paige feels it. Like a ripple through the couch cushion. Like a silent inhale that doesn’t fully let go.

She doesn’t look over. She doesn’t need to. 

Azzi saw. She knows that much.

And maybe—God, maybe—there’s a version of her that should be thrilled by that. That should take the tension radiating off Azzi’s body as proof. That should cling to it like a sign that not everything’s lost. That maybe there’s still a version of this story where they get to figure it out.

But all Paige can think about is how tired she is.

How long it’s been since someone touched her and meant it. Since she felt chosen. On purpose. Without conditions.

Aubrey leans in again, barely above a whisper. “I told you she’s cute.”

Paige forces a tiny, noncommittal smile. “Yeah. She’s… fine.”

Aubrey nudges her with an elbow. “She’s more than fine. And she’s chill. Pre-PT major. I think you’d vibe.”

Paige keeps her eyes on the screen, where the rom-com couple is slow-dancing in the rain. “We’ve literally never spoken.”

“So? That’s what DMs are for,” Aubrey says, like it’s obvious. “And don’t give me that look. It wouldn’t kill you to flirt for once.”

Paige huffs out something like a laugh. “I don’t even know how to flirt anymore. My game died with my ACL.”

Aubrey snorts. “Okay, drama. You’re still Paige Bueckers. You could wink at a vending machine and it would Venmo you lunch.”

That gets a real smile. Small, but real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not wrong.”

Paige shrugs, letting the phone settle in her lap. “Maybe.”

She hasn’t been with anyone since Azzi. Not seriously. Not in the ways that matter. A few flirty texts. A couple of could’ve-beens. Nothing that stuck. Nothing she wanted to.

Because how are you supposed to fall for someone else when the only person you ever really wanted still looks at you like that—and then does nothing?

Maybe it’s time.

Not to move on, exactly. She’s not sure that’s even possible. But maybe it’s time to try wanting something new. Something easy. Someone who doesn’t come with a year of silence and soft maybes. Someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s constantly waiting for a door to open that might never unlock.

She nods at the phone, even though the screen’s dimmed now. “She’s cute,” she says quietly.

Aubrey nudges her again, triumphant. “Told you.”

Paige passes the phone back with a smile she hopes looks normal.

She leans back into the couch, exhale soft, heartbeat a little too loud in her ears.

Azzi hasn’t moved. And Paige doesn’t either.

Then— A soft buzz. Azzi pulls out her phone. The screen lights up.

Paige doesn’t mean to look. But she does.

Derrick 💪🏽 One text. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Paige’s throat tightens. She turns back to the screen, blinking hard. The movie’s still playing, some oversaturated love story about two people who keep finding their way back to each other no matter what.

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and wills herself not to care.

But the ache sits there anyway. Familiar. Heavy. Right in the center of her chest.

Maybe this is what moving on looks like. Maybe it's not dramatic. Not loud. Maybe it’s just noticing someone’s Instagram profile and not looking away this time.

She pulls her hoodie tighter. Sinks a little further into the couch.

And for the first time in a long time, Paige wonders what it might feel like to be wanted by someone new—someone who doesn't already know how to break her.

[lazysoulwriter]

the wrong time of us - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro x actress!reader, slow-burn, friends-to-lovers, past unrequited love, she's dating someone else, jealousy, shifting dynamics, Oscar Isaac is the honorary best friend, mutual pining, emotional tension, fanship turned real, angsty fluff with glimmers of hope.

---

You met Pedro in the kind of cramped, underfunded theater that no longer exists in Manhattan—back in 2005, when you were just an actress with rent due and a highlighter-stained script clutched in your hands. Pedro had a crooked smile and a voice that stuck to your skin. Oscar was always late, and always carried snacks.

The three of you were inseparable from the beginning. Rehearsals bled into late-night dinners. He shared his hoodie. You shared your fries. Oscar became family, and Pedro—well.

Pedro became everything.

You were twenty-something and naïve enough to believe that something that good couldn’t possibly be just friendship. You thought the way he looked at you meant something. That the way he let you fall asleep on his chest during those early, exhausted subway rides was a sign.

But Pedro never kissed you. Never flirted. Never hinted at more. So eventually, you forced yourself to believe him.

And god, you tried so hard to un-feel him.

You dated other people. You found success. You traveled. But nothing, no one, ever quite compared. You told yourself it was just nostalgia. That what you had with him was safe—a once-in-a-lifetime kind of friendship. Something purer than love.

Then came 2024.

You started seeing someone new. A writer. Charming. Kind. He says all the right things and listens when you talk. You’re trying. Really trying. Because he’s not Pedro, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s what makes it work.

But Pedro’s… different lately.

He lingers in doorways when you say goodbye. Calls you baby more often, but his voice always dips lower when he does. He doesn’t talk about your boyfriend, even though Oscar brings him up all the time. And when the three of you go out, Pedro barely touches his drink.

“You’re being weird,” you told him last month, during a rooftop party in Silver Lake. “Since when do you care who I date?”

His answer was a tight smile and a soft shrug. Since always, it meant. But he didn't say it.

The truth hangs between you in every room now, unspoken but obvious.

And god, it hurts.

Because you spent years trying to unlearn your love for him. You buried it in your twenties, convinced it wasn’t mutual. You told yourself he saw you like a sister, a co-conspirator, his partner-in-crime. The internet noticed what you couldn’t let yourself believe: that the way he looked at you was not friendly.

“You and Pedro are soulmates,” a fan tweeted last week, under a photo of you two at a red carpet. You were laughing, his hand at the small of your back, eyes locked on yours like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

You didn’t retweet it. But you didn’t disagree either.

Oscar notices before you do. “You’re gonna break your own heart trying to make this fair,” he says one night, leaning against your kitchen counter with a beer in hand. “Just ask yourself what you want, really.”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

Because there’s too much history here. Too many years. Too many almosts. And maybe—just maybe—Pedro’s ready now. But are you?

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[tom-foolery-incorporated]

TFP Soundwave is so lean and pretty I just wanna grab his waist I don't know if you write ships or had a way to do this x reader Basically I just want someone to grab Soundwaves slutty waist and someone to caress his hips and just. Touchch himm. h

((GOD THIS ASK SOUNDS SO CORNY REREADING BUT DUDE. WHAT GAS STATION BONER PILL WERE THE TFP CHARACTER DESIGNERS ON. BECAUSE G O D. G O D .))

Shockwave caressing and guiding Soundwave’s hips as he thrusts into you <3, reader has a vagina, gender neutral and racially ambiguous, short blurb

“How do they feel?” Shockwave’s large clawed servo held onto Soundwave’s waist as he pressed his bulky body against him.

“Wonderful,” Soundwave repeated a recording Starscream’s voice in response to Shockwave’s question. You wanted to giggle but your exhausted body could barely muster a shaky moan. The two mechs had been toying with your body for hours. The teasing, prodding, fingering, and tentacles all had you sore and spent.

Shockwave seemed to like you this way and Soundwave was more than happy to encourage the ship’s scientist. His spike was half buried inside of your puffy cunt as you leaked around the massive intrusion. Soundwave’s tentacles were wrapped around your legs and folded you back to give him ample access to your intimate organs. The spiraling tentacles that made up his spike squirmed excitedly inside of you making you wiggle and whine.

“Their stamina has proved impressive,” Shockwave said lowly as he pulled Soundwave’s hips against his own. His large servo cupped the front of Soundwave’s pelvis with his digits parted to make room for his spike. Using the leverage of his position, Shockwave pulled Soundwave back then pushed his hips forward using his own pelvis.

You choked out a sob as Soundwave’s spike slithered along your walls. His servos were slapped on either side of your fucked out form as Shockwave guided his pace pulling him back then pushing him forward back into you. It was a slow and steady rhythm that had you squeezing around every inch of Soundwave’s massive throbbing tentacled spike. Your body made wet noises every time Shockwave guided Soundwave’s hips forward.

You felt the heat rise to your face when you heard Soundwave repeat your moans and the wet squelching sounds of your sopping cunt. He was teasing you, mocking you, letting you know that he was well aware how desperate the two mechs had you.

“So mean,” you grumbled throwing your head to the side.

“An inferior organic pet shouldn’t talk back to their masters,” Shockwave scolded. Soundwave only let a smiley emoticon appear on his visor as Shockwave guided his thrusts to be faster. You whined throwing your head back and smacking your hands on the table. You were being stretched to your limit and pushed past overstimulation. Everything hurt is an all too pleasing way that had you panting and begging for more.

Your voice echoed back to you making you whine in embarrassment. Shockwave’s low chuckle sounded behind Soundwave as he gripped onto his lover’s mechanical pelvis. You could feel the tight winding of your orgasm start to coil in your lower stomach. With every guided thrust of Soundwave’s cock, he tapped at that coil threatening to make it snap and send waves of pleasure through out your body. You couldn’t think of anything except the deep rolling thrusts that had you crying and wriggling in Soundwave’s grip.

“Soundwave,” Shockwave started. “Have you kept track of the overloads our pet has had?”

“Five,” Soundwave responded back with a recording of Knockout’s voice.

You drooled as you could feel Soundwave’s tentacle spike tickling deep within your core threatening to throw you over the edge once again.

“Let’s make it six,” Shockwave said lowly as he pressed his stocky frame against the much thinner Soundwave.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave responded in the voice of one of the nameless soldiers aboard the ship.

Shockwave guided his thrusting to be faster bouncing your body in Soundwave’s grip. You cried out, wailing for mercy from your lovers but never wanting them to stop. Soundwave replayed the squishy sounds of your poor pussy being fucked into and that pushed you over the edge. The idea that Soundwave recorded every session you were under him and replayed them at his pleasure was enough to have you spraying all over his mechanical pelvis.

“Well done,” Shockwave encouraged as he guided Soundwave to slow down. “Truly that was their most impressive release yet.”

Soundwave’s tentacles slithered over your body making you gasp in surprise. He didn’t stop, Shockwave didn’t guide him to stop.

Wait.

Why did he say yet?

[hopeyoufindalovelikethis]

Love Between The Lines

Hello! Thank you so much for being here and supporting me. I’ve been reflecting tonight—realizing how often I hold things in, too shy to share my real thoughts and feelings. It’s led to misunderstandings, even in love. But writing helps. It gives me space to untangle the things I can't say out loud, even when I still get embarrassed to let others read what I write about them. If you’ve ever felt the same, maybe this story will reach you too. I hope it brings a little comfort to your heart. Sending hugs 🤍

Synopsis | You spent a quiet weekend in Sylus’s office, intending to write a story—but ended up sketching him and pouring your love into your notebook. Unseen, Sylus read every word. And when you finally looked up, he was already full of the love you hadn’t meant for him to see.

The air inside Sylus’s office was calm, steady, and edged with the soft hum of holo-screens and quiet clicks from his interface as he worked. Tall windows stretched high behind his desk, painting the polished black floors with reflections of the overcast sky outside. The room held the weight of authority, draped in charcoal and obsidian tones, but somehow, with you there, it felt less like a fortress and more like a haven.

You had curled yourself up on the oversized velvet lounger that sat across from his desk, legs tucked beneath you, one hand supporting your head as you cradled a thick notebook in your lap. A pen hovered between your fingers, idle for the moment, while a half-open novel lay beside you—the same one you’d been flipping through earlier, hoping for sparks of inspiration. You had told Sylus this afternoon that you wanted to try writing something of your own, a short story maybe, after all the books you’d devoured recently.

He had simply nodded, tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear, and said, “Then write, kitten. I’ll make sure the world stays quiet for you.”

At first, your thoughts had tried to cling to fictional threads, half-formed characters and foggy plotlines, but the more you let your pen move, the more the ink on the page curved back toward him. His image formed naturally beneath your hand—strong jawline, sharp nose, the distinct slant of his brows and the way his hair always seemed perfectly tousled no matter how much time he spent in the wind or under LED lighting. You shaded in the edges of his gaze, the unmistakable ruby hue of his irises implied in deep lines and light touches, and before you realized it, you had stopped trying to create a world and simply reflected the one that sat behind the desk a few feet away.

And then the words came. Slowly at first, then faster, like a dam breaking open. You wrote about the way his silence was never empty but full of knowing. How his touch never demanded, only asked. The way his gaze could quiet your chaos without uttering a single word. You wrote about the nights he stayed until you fell asleep, the mornings he left you tea with a note, how you never had to ask to be seen because he always, always looked. You wrote until your hand ached, until the edge of the page curled under the pressure of your feelings, and still the thoughts poured out.

You didn't notice when his typing had stopped.

Sylus had been working through Onychinus network audits and protocore synchronizations, his expression impassive as his fingers glided across the glowing panels of his desk. But when the sound of your pen scratching became the only thing moving in the room, he paused. Slowly, he turned in his chair, eyes catching the slope of your brow as you leaned in, completely absorbed, unaware.

Curiosity, light as breath, moved him to rise without a sound. He approached from behind, steps silent against the plush rug. He could see over your shoulder—the precise lines of his own likeness sketched in ink. His breath hitched, an sensation unfamiliar tightening in his chest. Then the words caught his eye.

Line after line, poured with adoration so unguarded, so intimate, he felt it echo deep beneath his ribs. Each confession was an unraveling of you: soft, gentle, quiet in its bravery. He saw the way your letters slanted when your emotions picked up, how you lingered on his name, the way you described love not as something passive, but as something steady, chosen again and again.

He didn't move. He just stood there, reading, absorbing.

You, unaware, reached the final sentence. You signed the page with a faint smile, letting your pen fall gently onto the notebook. Then, finally, you looked up—toward Sylus’s desk, only to find it empty.

Your brows furrowed. "Sylus?"

A quiet voice behind you. “Looking for me?”

You startled, head snapping back as you turned on the lounger. Sylus stood just behind you, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his dark slacks, his expression unreadable at first. Then the corner of his lips curved, not in mischief, but with something richer. Fonder.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, flustered, reaching to close the notebook quickly.

He chuckled, low and warm, stepping closer. “Long enough,” he said, kneeling in front of the lounger. “Long enough for my heart to drown in every word you wrote.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him it wasn’t meant for him to read—not yet—but he reached up first, gently resting his palm on your knee.

“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he said, voice a notch lower, more intimate. “Not when your love tastes like this.”

He reached for your hand, pulled it to his chest. You could feel the beat beneath your palm, steady and full.

“I’m not used to being seen like this,” he said, gaze fixed on yours. “Even after everything I’ve built, everything I control—you still manage to bring me to my knees with a page of your heart.”

Your throat tightened. You didn't know what to say.

He leaned in, his hand slipped behind your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, and then his lips met yours. Deep. Unhurried. Full of a longing that felt like it had waited years, not days. The kiss unfolded slowly, his mouth tasting the truth you had written—your devotion, your warmth, your everything.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “More than even your words could capture.”

Your fingers trembled as they gripped the edge of his sleeve.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

The rest of the world could wait. For now, in the quiet sanctuary of his office, Sylus held you like you were the only reason he ever learned to love in the first place.

[seat-safety-switch]

One of the most fun things about buying farm implements is that there's more things to fix. And not just things that break, either. Your car has one, maybe two places to check oil. A bulldozer from the 1960s? At least five things are gonna need wacky gear oil, and everything else needs a date from the grease gun.

All this gives the aspiring hobbyist many projects in one project. That's very efficient. You can knock off a bunch of roller lubings, or hydraulic fitting adjustments, and feel accomplished for the day. Head on in for dinner and tell your family about the two hundred things you got done, which helps explain why the damn thing isn't running yet – it just needs so much more work!

That's way better than buying a car that doesn't run because you can't get off your ass to do an engine swap. All your fun would be had in that one day of block-tossin'. After that, there's no fun left. Unless you like chasing down all the bolts you forgot to put in, and figuring out where you trapped and/or melted a few millimetres of the wiring. To me, that's a much more frustrating adventure than steady forward progress.

What if you're the kind of person who lives in a city, and can't go around getting heavy industrial equipment from public auctions? Never fear. The bylaw folks are unlikely to come by and ticket your Komatsu for being parked illegally. They can't figure out how to write it up, so you'll get off with a warning.

I admit, however, that it is impractical. Once you've spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars reviving this piece of earthmoving equipment, what are you going to do with it? Maybe ram a fence post into the ground or two, and decide to sell it. That's when you find out that there's very little market for ancient excavators that some idiot has been fumbling with in their garage for the last twenty-five years every time they didn't want to go to a family dinner.

Let me put it this way: have you ever had an excuse to buy a gas axe before? Takes a long time to cut up an entire bulldozer, but I figure if you do a little bit every day, you'll feel pretty good about your progress anyway. Just don't do too much: the wheelie bins only hold about 200 kilos before the garbage man gets an unfortunate surprise.

[todayitwillrainblood]

A MALE/GN!READER ACC!! AND YOU POST FOR WHC!!! GRAAAAH /silly

Hi, hello, good day! First of all i loved your posts, omg, thank you for the meal 🫶🏻 your sieun is such a cutie i love ‘em ☹️

And since is saw your requests are open, i wanted to maybe request something too!

i was thinking abt reader who’s really into music and loves to share their playlists w sieun to listen to them together everytime they can (a little against his will /lh) That to the point of one day reader catching sieun humming to one of these songs (one of their favorites perhaps? Who knows!); love his voice ueueue

Is this too long? I hope it wasn’t ougfy but thank you for reading it, and an even extra bigger thank you if you do take my request :]! Hearts hearts

a/n: “your sieun” 😭 my heart cant take this much love (///^///) i love the request, it’s adorable!! and it's not long at all!! i’ve read your ask at least five times before i started to write this fic, thank you soo much!! you made my day and night!

this lowkey became much longer and heartfelt than i intended it to, but i loved writing it and hope you love reading it! if it's too much feels, don't hesitate to send an ask, and i'd love to write another! i adore sieun, and you would be doing me a favour by sending in an ask. :3

★ candy-cane love; my sun,

☆ masterlist!

⟲ synopsis,

despite sieun's rock solid walls, [name] seems to have started to rub off on him!

★ “you give me butterflies, you know?”

— SIEUN HAS BEEN having trouble sleeping; [name] seems to have noticed. sieun didn't say anything truly, not that he would now often wake up with horror stories to tell and the blunt taste of exhaustion.

[name], however, did not need to be told.

it had started then, the summer before high school, [name] caught on and sought the first solution he trusted, seeing as it had worked for him—

a playlist.

the very first one he ever sent to sieun was a pure mess. it was testing the waters, trying to determine what sieun enjoyed; the latter had refused to be any help, by the way...

it ranged from pop, r&b, jazz, rap and even music that was practically softcore porn.

sieun was defeated, exhausted, but for [name]'s sake and his efforts, he sat through the two hours of the playlist. sometime between it, [name] had found him drifting deep into sleep on his apartment porch while waiting for [name] and listening to the songs he sent.

that was a very successful accomplishment, so he continued.

while sending him stray songs during the last month of vacation they both had left, [name] was making a couple more long playlists.

he felt prone to take care of sieun, look after him. truth to be told, [name] often found sieun's docile face to resemble a porcelain doll, and taking care of something as fragile as that came with that odd feeling.

"did you wait long?" sieun asked, walking up and begrudgingly into the embrace [name] offered outside their school gates.

[name]'s cheek squished against sieun's head as he rested his face on it, content to finally hold sieun, "no, i thought i was late, though. i was worried you'll be waiting."

sieun had extra duties lately, as his homeroom teacher barely trusted another student to carry them out. "how was your trip?"

"it was fine," silence, "i brought you souvenirs, let's go to my house?"

[name] lived alone with his sister, who spent all morning and afternoon in classes and all evening in internships; ergo, he was more or less always alone, except for dinner on occasions.

sieun hummed softly, burying his face as far as it would go into [name]'s chest. the warmth was welcoming, he almost found himself agreeing...but stopped.

"can't," he peeked up at [name], "i have class."

[name] pouted, upset in the way he was when he doesn't get to be with sieun every breathing moment—meaning, all the damn time.

he stared at sieun, debating his options, would he rather get yelled at by sieun now and get to spent the next couple hours with him. or part ways now and not get to see him until tomorrow (he was jetlacked so his option of sneaking in the middle of the night to see his boyfriend was off the table, unfortunately)?

you can guess which he chose.

he locked his arms under sieun's knees, picking him up and throwing him over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

sieun groaned, thrashing as much as he could with the grip [name] had on him, "let me go...! ugh!"

was he successful? well, he had a pen, but loved [name] too much to use it, so no, he was, in fact, not successful.

[name] grinned happily as he presented a box of mixtapes to sieun, "for you!"

they were very last century, but god, were they romantic.

"i spent hours picking half of these, and more hours making the other half," he admitted. half of the mixtapes in the box were old and of people who lived before them. a couple of them ([name]'s favourites) belonged to couples, they were adorned with department store tapes that were completely drawn over with hearts and other adornments.

"i couldn't find a walkman for these, but i replicated all of them digitally, so i'll send them to you soon!"

sieun was...speechless. he had gone through very unfortunate times just a year ago, and he was broken from that trance by a case of airpods and a boy with a smile of a thousand suns. he could hardly believe, sitting right now in front of [name], talking to him like they were married for decades, holding a worn box of mixtapes that might no longer have an outlet, but spoke to him like they were made for the both of them.

[name] was made for sieun. i mean, he had to be right? what other force could bring someone like [name] to sieun's dark life if not fate itself?

the other half. sieun was just left registering that he wasn't the only half.

he didn't mean for it, but his smile turned upside down the way it does when he's overwhelmed, and his eyes reddened, unshed tears filling them up.

[name] panicked, immediately coming to sieun's side and pulling into a hug where he could softly sob without being heard.

he didn't ask what was wrong; sieun would tell him when he thought best. he just stuck to rubbing warm circles on sieun's back, muttering so just he could hear, "shh, it's okay...i'm here, i'll protect you..."

sieun hated to be looked at while he cried, so [name] placed a kiss on every surface he could without lifting his face, every surface he could reach. he brushed back sieun's hair over and over, trying to envelope sieun in his warmth.

they ended up lying down, and sieun had fallen asleep after completely draining himself.

"don't cry anymore, i hate it when you cry..." [name] kissed the tear streaks on sieun's face, salt filling his mouth and his stomach disappearing in an endless pit of worries.

sieun had not yet told [name] why he had cried like that, truthfully, he wasn't sure how to put it, but he knew that—"i owe you my life and i'm not sure how to pay you back."—did not cut it.

so he secretly began learning all of [name]'s favorite songs. that was a language sieun knew would reach [name]. sieun was not the best singer; that was a painful fact. [name] always joked that his pretty face made up for it. and that was coming from a man who once sat through three hours of sieun singing; he was just too prideful to admit how cute he found it, and also because he believed sieun would stop if he did.

ding!

[name] had sent him another playlist. complete transparency, sieun had found [name]'s habits very annoying at the beginning, even though they had helped him sleep. at one point he was very close to strangling [name] because of the pure frustration he felt, that had amused [name] so much that that day he sent sieun another seven playlists just hoping to see his at-that-time-crush make that face again. (he was not successful, though...)

he downloaded it as soon as he got it, knowing [name] would whine later if he hadn't.

"idiot," he mumbled, a deep flush on his ears and neck as he gazed lovingly on the screen.

he continued the math problems he was solving, the soft scratching sounds echoing in the silence of his room, until his phone rang.

he had a special ringtone set for [name], a song he had loved from the very first playlist he had gotten, so he clearly didn't have to check and blindly picked up the phone.

"hello?"

—"are you free? i was gonna order takeout, but i can take you out to eat."

sieun sighed, "you eat out too much." he clasped shut the pen and began packing up, sticking the phone between his shoulder and ear as he talked into it, "i'll make you something, come over."

he could practically hear [name] immediately brightening up.

— "yeah! i'll bring us drinks and that ice cream we had last time. you liked it, didn't you?"

sieun tried biting back a smile, even though it was probably visible in his voice, "...yeah. do that, you'll be okay with miso soup? i have a few leftovers, too." he spoke softly, leaning against his desk as he continued to talk, completely relaxed.

— "okay! i'll be over soon, love you!"

— beep!

and the line cut.

how odd, having love like this and still believing it to be a dream.

as much as [name] liked sieun grumpy, he didn't do anything to annoy him while he was cooking. well, for obvious reasons, sieun had a lot of weapons at his disposal: fire, scorching utensils, flammable gas, and easily breakable glass.

[name] was a man swooned, but he was afraid when it was due. (plus, watching sieun cook for him like his little wife positively melted him.)

and thats when it happened, sieun believing [name] was on the couch watching that corny show, when truly it was just background noise at this point. [name] had abandoned it long ago and was just a counter away, watching sieun cook food for him.

[name] made him so comfortable that he had let down all his guards...and started humming????

it was a song [name] knew all too well, it was one he had on various occasions pointed out that he liked—loved.

he had sung it when confessing his love to sieun, guitar in hand, a microphone; the whole she-bang.

he also sang it, purposely terrible, when taking showers with sieun around.

his eyes widened, and he bit back a squeal. last thing he wanted was for sieun to realise he was so close by and stop again.

who cares if sieun can't sing well, who cares that he is so off tune that he once made [name] cry from laughter (that was a bad move by the way, sieun stayed angry and pouting for a week, sure it was cute, super, but he was so lonely without the hugs and kisses and cuddles, he swore never to do it again.), who would care when he looks like that. blushing like that, whimpering like that, and groaning like that (in privacy, however, [name] doesn't share.) [name] does not care.

he tiptoed back to his spot. the food was almost ready after all.

throughout the night, [name] fed mouthfuls of rice and miso soup to sieun, enjoying his puffy cheeks and soft, weak protests.

he grabbed sieun, pulling him so his back was to [name], and held him down to stop his thrashing, "i swear i'll tickle you!" a baseless threat.

"no!" sieun yelped out, immediately shutting his eyes and ready to accept all the nourishment his amazing boyfriend was giving him.

"sheesh, i swear you're so frail you'll just fall over one day, and who'll pick you up, huh? me! eat more!"

he stuffed another mouthful into sieun's mouth, and until the bowl was empty.

"phew, who needs cardio when i have a boyfriend like you?" [name] jabbed playfully, slumping against the soft cushions, sieun still on his lap and glaring back at him over his shoulder.

"and who needs enemies when i have you with those e—hey!"

sieun lunged at him with a throw-pillow, "i'll kill you!"

[name]'s laughter echoed throughout the otherwise empty apartment, dying when he noticed that their bodies had twisted and turned until sieun was on top of [name] (who was lying down), pillow still in hand.

sieun fumbled, his grasp weakening, and he moved to pull away, knowing he would that [name] grabbed onto his wrist and waist, pulling even closer.

"what's on your mind, baby?" he questioned, his voice butter. of course, he noticed, how could he not?

sieun looked away, letting the silence hang there for moments before he found the courage to speak, "i...never thanked you..."

[name] let out a noise, somewhere between confusion and puzzlement, "why would you ever do that?"

sieun, against his best wishes, pouted, "for helping me sleep."

quite short, but he really can't thank the man for saving his life, now c'mon.

[name] chuckled, "back then, your way of saying thank you was almost choking me?"

sieun actually gasped, "i told you to forget about that!"

believe me, the voices and faces [name] brings forth from him are beyond comprehension for sieun.

he hit against [name]'s chest, "i'm thanking you, because i owe you... everything," he admitted, voice barely there, despite the determination in his eyes.

[name] grabbed onto sieun's face, bringing him closer so their noses were touching, "you did thank me. you're dating me, loving me, and humming my favourite songs while cooking food for me. what more could i ask for? i have happiness in the form of my human right here."

sieun coloured so deep, he thought he would pass out, he buried his face in [name] chest, fisting his shirt and mumbling 'idiot' over and over.

sieun had the sun to himself, and he was being praised for being the moon; how amusing.

[remarkablebookbean]

soo like in Sasha archivist aus that I have been seeing it’s always like Not!Jon but that just doesn’t feel right to me in a way, so I propose to you, Not!Martin

Like… a man who always hides how he really feels in order to be liked and feels so alone in this world and cares and cares and cares for other people would be such a good target for the stranger. Martin spent so much time fading into the background that when he was replaced no one noticed (yes I know that’s how the NotThem work but stick with it for the Themes).

it also gives such potential for Jmart and more tragedy, like Jon just can’t rationalize why he cares so much that Martin died because for god’s sake he hated the man so why does something just feel so missing and wrong and he just goes through the paranoia spiral because he can’t let the monsters get the best of him again and if he knows everything about then they can’t hurt him, it’s like Mr spider all over again, it could’ve been him, it should have been him and he knows it.

Eventually Jon dies around the time of the unknowing in canon but I can’t decide how he will, another potential option is Jon gets Magnused and that leads the way into Sasha’s whole “Jonah Magnus is stealing people’s bodies” but that might get a bit too strangery for one story

and it leaves Tim and Sasha all alone again, and I think Sasha would be more spiral aligned especially because she didn’t see what was right in front of her twice, with Jon and Martin and now anything could be lying to her face, I think she’d be besties with Helen and or take Helen’s place as it goes on as keeper of the doors, like she gets kidnapped by nikola and then Michael’s door is locked but she opens it herself and becomes the new (somewhat unwilling) manifestation of the distortion

tim has always been a social person and he’s losing everyone and I think that the lonely wouldn’t really take him but I’m always fond of Desolation!Tim so that would probably be how I do it in this au for him

I might be writing for this au in the future so keep a look out :)

[writingpandagoth]

I hope you still take a request, because i have one. 😁

Severus x fem reader. They've been together for a while, Severus never undressed in front of her because he was embarrassed. One time she accidentally walked into his bathroom when he was undressed and saw all his scars. From his father, from the Death Eaters and she saw his dark mark. At that moment, she realized how he must have suffered everything and how much he deserve to be loved.

Hey!

I still do take requests.

I have been just putting them off a little since I started to work on my new story but now that I am taking a small break from it to clear my brain I am back to writing the Requests.

Here here it is I hope you all enjoy!

Underneath Your Skin

You arrived at Hogwarts with ink on your fingers and the scent of parchment clinging to your clothes. The library had always been a kind of home for you, and now it was—at least in the hours between breakfast and curfew. Madam Pince had finally retired or self-exiled to a remote, book-protected cottage, as one student whispered, and you were her replacement.

It wasn’t an easy post—not with students who treated books like tissue paper and a castle that sometimes shuffled its own shelves out of spite. But you handled it with grace. Quiet firmness. A gentle hand.

He noticed you almost immediately.

You weren’t loud. You didn’t try to be charming. But you spoke to the books like they were people, like you believed they had their own quiet magic, too. And when you smiled, it was soft, not showy. The kind of smile that lingered, like a page you didn’t want to turn just yet.

Severus Snape wasn’t known for his warmth. Or his curiosity about people. But he came into the library more often after your arrival. At first, he claimed to be looking for rare alchemical texts. Then for teaching reference. Eventually, he stopped pretending.

You always had a stack ready for him.

One afternoon, you found him standing in your usual reading nook near the restricted section, thumbing through a worn copy of Ars Poetria in Potion Theory. You approached quietly, holding out a mug of tea.

“I noticed you never finish yours at dinner,” you said.

He looked at it like it might bite him. Then looked at you.

“It’s always cold by the time I remember it,” he said.

“This one’s not,” you offered. “Not yet.”

That was the first time he smiled at you. Barely—a flicker. But it counted.

After that, things shifted.

You spent time together. Not planned, but frequent. Shared hours cataloging books that had magically duplicated themselves. Quiet chats in corners of the library, comparing passages from old texts and rolling your eyes over particularly pompous authors.

He was sharp, sarcastic, occasionally scathing—but never with you. With you, he was... careful.

And when your fingers brushed as you passed him a book, neither of you pulled away.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But it was something. Something soft and slow and growing between the pages.

He left things for you sometimes. A rare pressed flower between the pages of a herbology tome. A handwritten note correcting a detail in one of your catalogs—with an added "You're still more accurate than any of the students." 

And once, a copy of a novel you’d mentioned offhand as a childhood favorite. The inscription inside said nothing more than: Figured it belonged here.

He wasn’t subtle, but he was shy in his own way. Guarded. Careful not to cross lines he assumed were there.

And still, you found yourself watching him too long across the Great Hall. Lingering near his office under the excuse of delivering returned books. Smiling when he offered his arm to walk you back to your quarters after staff meetings, even if he said nothing on the way.

It was like courting without confession. A push-and-pull of two people terrified of naming something already alive.

Then, one evening—when spring had started to warm the halls—he lingered in the library after hours. You didn’t ask why. You were cataloging donations. He joined you. You didn’t speak much, but it was comfortable.

When you finally put down your quill, he cleared his throat. “May I ask you something... personal?”

You nodded, heart suddenly loud in your chest.

“I was wondering,” he said, smoothing the edge of his sleeve with practiced tension, “if you would... like to have dinner. With me. Outside the castle.”

You blinked, then smiled. “You mean a date?”

His jaw tensed. “Yes.”

“I’d love to.”

It was awkward, and lovely.

He picked a quiet place tucked into a wizarding neighborhood you'd never heard of. You both dressed a little too formally. He opened every door. Pulled out your chair. Looked almost painfully uncomfortable until you reached across the table and said, “You know you don’t have to perform, right?”

That made him exhale—like he'd been waiting for permission to relax.

The conversation just happened. Easy, natural. You told him about your childhood obsession with magical fairytales. He told you about an old Potions journal he’d written in as a student that had since vanished—probably devoured by the Room of Requirement. You both laughed more than you expected.

He walked you back through the quiet castle corridors, hand brushing against yours like he wanted to hold it but couldn’t quite bring himself to ask.

When you reached your chambers, you turned to him and waited. He didn’t rush.

“I don’t usually do this,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said.

He paused, then: “May I kiss you?”

You nodded.

And when he did—careful, reverent, like he thought you might vanish—it felt like the end of something old and the start of something you hadn’t dared to hope for.

The relationship didn’t burst into flame. It glowed.

Slowly. Steadily. Night after night, moment after moment, building something that felt... sacred. You spent your free time together—always in quiet spaces, always just the two of you.

He brought you rare books and careful compliments. You brought him tea and silence when he needed it. There was something unspoken between you, but never uncomfortable. Just... waiting.

When he touched you, it was gentle. When he kissed you, it felt like he was learning the shape of your mouth by heart. But there was always a line he wouldn’t cross.

He never undressed in front of you. Ever.

Not a shirt off in the dark. Not even a sleeve rolled past the elbow.

Not even when things got heated.

You didn’t question it at first. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he wanted to take his time. You respected that. You didn’t need him bare to feel how much he cared for you.

But as time went on, it stopped feeling like modesty and started feeling like an unspoken rule.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you—you felt it in the way his hands lingered at your waist, in the way his breath hitched when your lips ghosted over his neck.

But when things began to build—when your hands trying to slip under his shirt, if your hands lingered at buttons, he caught your wrist and he’d kiss you, distract you, pull you under until your mind was blank with want.

To make you forget the question you hadn’t asked out loud.

Weeks passed. Then months.

One night, you tried to push gently. Just a little.

You were in his quarters, tangled in bedsheets, half-dressed and breathing hard. He was kneeling over you, still fully clothed.

His mouth was on your skin, hands steady, touch familiar. You reached for his shirt and undid the first button.

and just like all the times before his hand caught your wrist—soft, but firm. Absolute.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him. “Why not?”

His eyes met yours, and in them was a flash of something that looked like panic—before he dropped his gaze and leaned in to kiss you before moving down your body, using his mouth for distraction instead of answering your question.

But it didn’t go away.

You started to notice the way he always made you feel seen, but never let himself be. The way he touched you with complete devotion, and yet never let you return it. There was love in it. But also a kind of shame.

You didn’t push again.

But a part of you started to ache—not from rejection, but from the sense that he couldn’t believe he was hiding from you.

And that hurt more than anything.

You’d thought about what to say. Rehearsed it, even—quietly, as you walked the familiar corridor toward his chambers. Not to confront, not to demand. Just to talk. To ask him to let you in, really let you in.

You knocked gently, as always, and let yourself in when the door opened with the usual charm keyed to your presence. His rooms were dim but warm, familiar in their quiet scent of herbs and aged parchment.

You stepped in further, brow furrowing. The main room was empty. His armchair, half-drunk tea still steaming faintly. The bedroom door cracked slightly open. Light spilled from under the bathroom door.

“Severus?” you called, voice soft.

Then—a crash.

Glass? Porcelain?

Followed by a sharp, muffled, “Bloody hell—!”

You moved quickly, heart leaping.

“Severus?” you said again, crossing the room. You knocked once on the bathroom door before opening it. “Are you—?”

He stood barefoot on the tile floor, wearing only a pair of dark trousers, torso bare, a shirt clutched in his hand like he’d been about to put it on. His eyes met yours instantly. Wide. Stunned. Terrified.

Scars covered his body like a map of violence—some sharp and surgical, others jagged and brutal, carved long ago and never healed right. Some faded, some angry. Some you couldn’t name. Across his left forearm, the Mark stood dark and unmistakable.

You’d known it was there—of course you had—but knowing was different than seeing.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but no sound came out. Slowly, almost without thinking, you reached out.

He flinches like your hand would burn him alive.

“Don’t—” he rasped, voice shredded. He turned away from you, curling inward slightly, shirt clenched against his chest like a shield. “Don’t look at me.”

You saw the tension in his shoulders. The way he braced for the sound of the door. For your retreat. For confirmation of every terrible thing he believed about himself.

“Severus…”

“Please.” His voice broke on the word. “Just leave.”

“How—No. I can't just leave,” you said, tears stinging your eyes now, voice shaking.

His back rose and fell with shallow, panicked breaths.

“You don’t understand I'm broken,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t have seen this. I didn’t want—you weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

You stepped forward, carefully. “But I would have never judged you. I want y—”

“Stop,” he said, almost begging. “Please, just… go. Don’t make this worse.”

The shame in his voice hit you harder than anything else could have.

“I’m not leaving you,” you said softly, stepping forward.

You reached out again, fingertips brushed the scar at the back of his shoulder, and again he flinched, hard.

“Please, just leave so we can forget this happened,” he said.

You stepped in again, close enough for him to feel your breath and leaned in.

Kissing the scar gently.

He went completely still.

You kiss another—one that ran across the curve of his upper back, just beneath his shoulder blade.

“I will not forget this. I don't want to. You are not broken, and you never need to hide yourself from me,” you whispered.

He let out a rough breath, like it hurt to hear.

“This body,” he muttered, voice low and bitter, “is a record of everything I failed at. Everything I am. My father. The Dark Lord. My choices. It's ugly and this—” He gestured at the Mark. “This is not something you should ever have to look at. Everything about me is unworthy of you.”

You reached down and slowly, gently, traced your hand along his arm. “Severus. I love you. Nothing can change what I see when I look at you.”

“And what is that?” he asked, almost mocking. “What do you see?”

You kissed the base of his neck. “I see someone who chose to protect others despite being treated badly by them.”

Another kiss, just above one of the deeper scars. “Someone who has never been granted kindness but still gives the kindest and most purest form of love in return”

Your hands slowly urged him to turn—he resisted for a moment, and then let you. Let you see all of him.

You kissed a jagged scar near his ribs. “You are not ugly.”

You kissed the Dark Mark. “You are not your past.”

You placed a kiss right over his heart. “And you will never, ever be unworthy of me. It's me who is not worthy of you.”

His breath hitched hard, and his hands hovered at your arms like he didn’t know whether to hold you or push you away.

“How could you say that,” he said, voice shaking.

Your fingers brushed one of the older scars on his side—a long, thin line that looked like it had been made by a curse he never dodged in time.

He tensed slightly, watching you.

You traced it gently. “These scars…aren't just yours.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You looked up at him. “Some of these weren’t from your own mistakes. They are what you took on for other people. For the ones you protected. The burdens you carried so they wouldn’t have to.”

He opened his mouth to object—but nothing came out.

“These marks,” you whispered, “aren’t just wounds. They’re proof of what you’ve endured. Of what you chose to endure. And when I see them, I don’t see failure, Severus. I see someone who stood in front of the fire, again and again, because no one else would. So how could you ever be unworthy?”

His eyes met yours then—wet, wide, full of fear and disbelief. But also something else.

Hope.

And then, finally, he dropped the shirt. Let it fall to the floor like something that didn’t own him anymore.

You stepped into him, wrapped your arms around his bare skin. He clung to you like he didn’t know how to stand otherwise.

He wasn’t crying, not exactly. But his breath trembled, uneven and frayed like fabric pulled too thin. He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stay in his own body. Like being seen was something he wasn’t built for.

You reached up and touched his face. Gently. Just your fingertips to his cheek.

“I'm here,” you whispered.

And he nodded—but just barely. Like even that much agreement cost something.

So you didn’t ask anything of him.

Instead, you stepped back, laced your fingers with his, and guided him—slowly—out of the bathroom. He followed. Silent. Shirtless. Barefoot. Stripped down in every way.

You brought him to the edge of the bed and sat, pulling him down with you. He hesitated. Looked at his own hands like they didn’t belong to him. But then he lowered himself beside you, stiff at first, unsure what to do.

You shifted. Pulling him gently back into your arms, letting his head press against your chest. Let him feel what it was to lean without being left.

Your arms came around him, steady and warm, and slowly—slowly—his body began to soften.

Your lips brushed his forehead.

“You’re safe.”

Another kiss, on his nose. “You’re wanted.”

You pushed him gently, slowly, so he was facing you more. So he could see your eyes, and you could see the way his were fighting to believe you.

You kissed the space over his heart.

“You’re loved.”

His arms came around you then—not hesitant this time, but full. Gripping. Not because he thought you would disappear, but because he finally believed you wouldn’t.

You stayed like that for a long while. No rush. No need to move beyond this. Just holding. Just being held. Letting your hands trace the lines of a body that had never been treated like something to be loved.

Eventually, he leaned his head against yours, breath slowing, fingers loosely tangled in yours.

“You really still want me?” he asked quietly. Not accusatory. Not sarcastic. Just… fragile.

You nodded. “More than ever.”

And for once, he let that truth settle. Let it fill the spaces that shame had hollowed out long ago.

[myokk]

Hello! I see your art come across my for you page all the time but I just realized I don't know much about your MC! 2, 8, & 15 for Eloise?

Hello ‼️🥹♥️

Eloise is just a little historical fashion barbie for my art BUT the reason I love her is truly for her personality and how I write her🥹 thank you for the questions🫶

2: What’s your MC's favourite subject? What do they like about it? Anything they dislike?

Eloise has two favorite subjects: Arithmancy and Transfiguration. She is very much a person who is trapped inside of her own mind, prefers thinking and theory, and gets a HUGE sense of accomplishment over successfully doing something complicated. & because Arithmancy is numbers-based and she DOES like being able to predict the future somewhat (divination is TOO wishy-washy).

The only subjects she truly hates are Beasts😔 (animals TERRIFY her which makes sense if you’ve read my fic) and the flying class because it is very un-ladylike to wear pants and fly😒

8: Once your MC graduates Hogwarts, what will be their best and worst memories? What will they regret?

Eloise will always associate Hogwarts with positive/bittersweet memories of learning who she is and how to advocate for herself. She makes lifelong friends who like her for her, and grows from a very quiet, self-conscious girl into the woman she was meant to become. But these things don’t come easily for her at all😣 she will always fondly remember lazy afternoons by the Black Lake, excursions to Hogsmeade, her classes…she will NOT miss the quidditch matches though😤

She will regret never being able to repair the relationship with her brother Leonard before he dies though😭😔😔 his death is why she wants to research it as an Unspeakable😔

15: Wildcard: Tell us the funniest/most bizarre fact about your MC

AHHHHHH THIS ONE IS SO HARD BC SHE IS QUIET AND SERIOUS AND MAYBE KIND OF BORING😭😣

She spent five years at a muggle finishing school so thst she could at least give her family more connections with the muggle world and was actually betrothed to be married to a wealthy muggle landowning family (her parents just see her as a way to make connections as we see later on in my fic too😣).

Eloise HATED living with the muggles, they all thought she was so weird bc she CLEARLY came from money and yet they’d never heard of her family, she didn’t even know who Queen Victoria was or the popular composers or authors or ANYTHING😭😭😭 but, ever since that time she has always harbored a deep love for muggle literature and playing the piano♥️

THANK YOU FOR THE QUESTIONS🥹♥️♥️♥️

[pazzi5351]

PART 5

Paige x Azzi Highschool au

Basketball Paige x Dance team Azzi

Word count: 897

AN: guys I really hate that I can’t write in school when I’m 30 times more productive than at home😪😪 here’s pt 5!! Hope yall enjoy!!!

————————————————————————————

Paige got to school a little earlier the next morning. Much earlier than her usual arriving at the bell. She didn’t say much to Nika at their lockers that morning, didn’t even bring up the DM between her and Azzi last night. But, knowing Paige so well, Nika clocked her energy immediately.

“Why are you grinning like that P?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Paige glared at Nika. “I’m not grinning.”

“Paige. You literally, like literally, look like you got drafted to the W and asked to prom in the same twenty minutes.”

Paige rolled her eyes and deflected, but her mood carried her through the morning like she was floating. She had third period off, and typically, she spent her time in the gym or the film room, but today… she may have drifted past the dance team’s bulletin board outside the auditorium. Just to take a glance. Or two. Or maybe three.

On her way to the gym, she saw Azzi coming down the hallway in the opposite direction. Slick back bun, leggings, oversized hoodie, headphones on. She hadn’t noticed Paige yet. Paige had half a second to decide whether to be totally cool or duck into the nearest bathroom.

She chose cool (chaos).

“Captain,” she said, loud enough for Azzi to hear, but quiet enough for it to be just for them.

Azzi turned, surprised, and moved one side of her headphones off her ear. “Hey Paige!”

“Hey,” Paige’s heart fluttered. “so uh.. I thought.. uh I was thinking you should totally teach me that spin thing sometime.”

Azzi smirked. “You got the footwork for it Bueckers?”

“Try me. I’m the best dancer you’ll ever meet. My dougie is down -pack.”

They locked eyes and stared at each other for a beat too long.

Paige’s mouth tilted into a grin. “You busy after practice later? I mean, if you don’t mind waiting for my practice to be over.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking for a lesson, or…”

Paige shrugged, suddenly shy feeling her cheeks getting hot, she absentmindedly rubbed the back of her neck. “I dunno. Whichever gets me more time with you. You know if.. that’s…ok.”

Azzi giggled, “Smooth.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.”

They walked off in opposite directions. Both turning back, seconds too late to catch each other. Both smiling. Both counting the hours until practice, and until practice was over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige hadn’t told anyone— not Nika, not Coach, not her dad, and especially not Drew — that she had a “dance lesson”. It wasn’t even an official thing. It came through a look Azzi gave her from across the gym when everyone started leaving. A slight nod. A slight tilt of her head towards the mirrors in the far corner of the gym.

Paige knew basketball. It was something she felt like she knew before literally anything else. But right now, in front of Azzi, under the dim after hours lights of the gym? She couldn’t figure out what to do with her hands. Forget even knowing her own name.

“Okay,” Azzi said, standing across from her, fixing her hair, “your ‘spin’ move is mostly body control and timing. You’re athletic enough to keep up, it shouldn’t be hard!”

“Wow,” Paige said, mock offended, “just say I have rhythm.”

Azzi exhaled a laugh, “that’s… to be determined.”

Azzi stepped forward, taking Paige’s arms gently and repositioning them. Paige felt Azzi’s touch rush to the tips of her ears.

“Ok when I say go, keep your arms like this and push off onto one leg and turn this way.” Azzi continued, her hands lighting brushing Paige’s waist as she shifted her. “Make sure to use your core to support your back. Don’t try to use your knees too much.”

Paige’s “spins��� were mostly total fails, with her falling way too many times for someone so athletic. Azzi laughed at her everytime, but still picked her up off the floor and encouraged her to keep trying. Their laughter filled the gym, and for a second after, the silence in the gym didn’t feel so big.

Paige tried again, and landed this time, throwing her arms out in celebration. “Boom. I told you, I’m the best dancer ever.”

Azzi nodded. “Sure!… You are, however, still pretty stiff.”

Paige let out a groan. “Are you kidding me? That was my best one! These are harder than any of my drills.”

“Yeah, but you’re way cuter to watch.”

Azzi said it so casually that she and Paige both had to pause. Azzi looked down, eyes wide, blushing. Paige’s face was almost identical to a tomato.

“So you’re sayin’ I’m cute to watch, captain?”

“Maybe, but you’ll have to show me better next time.” Azzi’s voice softened at the last part.

Paige raised an eyebrow, “Next time?”

“I mean,” Azzi shrugged, “we have a month of this. We may as well make a dancer outta you.”

Azzi went to grab her bag and sling it over her shoulder. “See you Friday, Miss. Baller.”

She turned to go, but as she reached the doors, she looked over her shoulder back at Paige that was still frozen in her spot, with a look on her face that Azzi couldn’t quite place.

Paige stood there, still frozen, watching Azzi go. A slow smile widened across her face. This was the best thing to ever happen to her.

————————————————————————————

AN: what do yall wanna see in the next pt? Lmk😝

[balrogballs]

My scheduling button is broken and my WIP Wednesday post didn’t go out, but enjoy it anyway. Short snippet of the Prayers spinoff oneshot focusing more the relationship between Maedhros and Fingon, which I’m writing through Finnu’s Gaze™️ because frankly he’s as unwell and obsessive as the rest of them, it just comes out in a more, er, Catholic way than the Shia Fëanorians. Enjoy the first few paragraphs, aka their first meeting as children!

Sultan of Sultans (snippet)

Before the CH Overpass scraped an arc out of its sky and the CSI Complex turned it into a boxing ring for a dozen mutually-indistinguishable bakeries, Mananchira Square was most known for its enormous freshwater pond with a salt-crusted shore. The pond was initially built in the fourteenth century to serve as a bathing pool for the feudal ruler of Kozhikode, the Zamorin. Zamorin was not the name of a single person or family, but rather a title taken by the ruler, much like Sultan, or Shah, and beginning in the thirteenth century they consolidated Kozhikode into a small kingdom and introduced it to the world.

Conveniently located right upon a wide, straight section of coast without crags or rocky shallows, our Kozhikode swiftly became a globally renowned trading port ruled jointly by the Zamorin Hindu feudal lords and their admirals, the Mappila Marakkar, a Muslim seafaring dynasty. It was referred to as the City of Spices in the literature of the time—with the cloth calico said to be named after Kozhikode’s Anglicised name, Calicut—and it was the most prominent city in Kerala until the seventeenth century, after which it fell into middling irrelevance in the grand scheme of things.

That was where Russo and I first met in 1915, by a pondside alcove where Thomas-uncle’s very-unofficial sweetshop used to stand. We were around four or five years old, and from that day on we crept quietly through the rest of our lives together like halves of a single breath. He was very beautiful, then and always. His mother used to say he was carved from the cloth of the Sultans of yore—Kujanli Marrakar the admiral, or perhaps even the Zamorin himself, a displaced resurrection in a family of Muslim artisans. I was much older when I realised such a comment had not been simply an ode to his beauty. Russo’s every footstep was a verdict, every laugh of his was a blade, even then. Unfortunately of course, the flip side of resembling the Sultans of yore, was that it would be very easy for certain labels like, say, terrorist, to stick.

“You know,” he told me that first day, pinching me instead of saying hello like a normal child. “You know the Zamorin was thirty feet tall and just as wide? And that he ate people? Oh, and do you know this pond has a massive crocodile who lives in the middle?”

“You shouldn’t pinch people,” I let him know. In hindsight, it was probably saying such things that made me such a pinchable child. “It’s not a good habit.”

Obviously, he pinched me again. He was very fair, I remember, because he was too young then to have spent much time running about in the sun as he does these days. He pinched people for no reason except that he could, had oddly light eyes (the colloquial term for them was poocha-kannu, cat-eyes, possibly because the general light-eyed population in Kozhikode at the time were an introduced species who seemed to have the ability to see their best only in darkness) and a vaguely commanding air to him that I didn’t at the time realise was the result of being a first-and-doted-upon son.

And so, initially I assumed he was one of the British sahib children with an extraordinary grasp of the local dialect, and just stood there silently, not wanting to even cry in case his father strode out and shouted at mine. Then his mother called out, telling him she’d eat him alive next time she caught him pinching people he’d only just met (as if it was fine for him to pinch people he knew well), and realised he was, unfortunately, one of our own. He pinched me a third time, irritated that his mother had caught him at it, and I cried then, because it was safe to and also because being pinched thrice for existing in this horrible little boy’s vicinity was too much for my five year old self to bear.

“Don’t you want to know why the Zamorin was so tall and wide?” he asked, as I followed him across to the pond because I didn’t want to play with my baby sister, though I was still crying because he had pinched me. He started out explaining about the Zamorin but midway through switched to an equally untrue story about a crocodile that bit off his little brother Maglor’s leg, recounted with such vicious delight I feared it was less an overactive imagination and more just wishful thinking. And at some point he must have gotten tired of my hysterics however, because he shoved a whirling palm-frond toy into my hand, watched me wave it about and told me I could keep it if I got a grip on my whining.

“But don’t play with it too much,” he informed me kindly, patting my shoulder. “I found it near the public toilets. You could get sick and die. You know cholera?”

As if cholera was his close personal friend.

[almstinluv]

hopeless

pairing: fem idol!reader x hyunjin

genre: angst

wc: 2.2k

summary: everything was perfect, until it wasn't. she still yearned for him, but hope could mask even the cruelest truth.

sina's note: hello, everyone! this is my first time posting on tumblr, so i'm still trying to get a hold of things. be patient, please! this one is written in 3rd person but all my next writing will be in 2nd. this fic was inspired by hopeless by halsey, i hope you enjoy it <3

The first two months were wonderful. Perfect, even.

They had dates every week. Even though they had very little time to see each other in between their busy schedules, their dates were the most important events of the week. It could be anything, from going to a café in a secluded area of town, the foggy drink the only one to witness their intimate conversations, or playing sports in the backyard of his building, their laughter filling the summer air for hours on end. Their favorite thing to do, though, was to just enjoy each other’s company in the privacy of his room. In those days, Hyunjin spent the afternoon trying to paint her while she danced to soft music around his balcony. The night would come and they would make love under the neon lights of his bedroom, promises of staying together forever while they cling to each other like the world is going to end if they ever separate.

If (Y/N) ever heard her phone ringing at 3 a.m., she could be sure it was a text from Hyunjin saying he loved her. He’d do it every single night before bed, no matter how much he just wanted to bury himself in the pillows after a long day, he couldn’t sleep without talking to her. Similarly, the first thing he did after opening his eyes the next morning was send her another text, wishing her a good day even though he was late for practice.

Besides their busy lives and the never ending fear of having their relationship revealed to the world, they were happy. They made it work. Hyunjin showered her with love every little chance he got, and (Y/N) couldn’t remember the last time she felt so at peace with someone. Hyunjin was her safe place. The way he made her feel like she was the only girl in the world was reason enough for her to want to spend the rest of her life with him.

Everything was perfect. Until, one day, it wasn’t.

It started out slowly, unnoticeably. (Y/N) was getting ready to go to the dorms to watch a movie with Hyunjin when, suddenly and without a proper reason, he canceled. They did not see each other that week. Maybe she should’ve read in-between the lines, asked if there was something wrong. She should’ve noticed something was going on, even if to this day she still doesn’t know what happened. But everything felt so good. She wasn’t about to be paranoid over the first good thing that happened to her in a while.

So she let it pass. She let it pass when he stopped texting, because he must have been too tired to be on his phone, and he deserved to rest. She let it pass when he stopped putting up effort to plan their dates, and she let it pass when they stopped going out. She let it pass when he started to be rude over nothing. She let it pass when his love turned into coldness and he couldn’t even look her in the eyes anymore.

She let it pass because, deep down, she loved him. She really did. Hyunjin was the only person in her mind, the one that still made her stomach twist and her toes curl every time he smiled. The boy appeared in all of her dreams, and even thinking about letting him go was too much to bear. Even though it hurt to see Hyunjin becoming more and more distant, it was still more comforting to incompletely have him than not having him at all. She couldn’t let go.

That’s why she stayed. That’s why she is now sitting in her hotel room alone, phone illuminating her features while tears start to form at the corner of her eyes. She was in Europe to perform at a KPop Festival on the weekend, having arrived a few hours before. Fortunately, Stray Kids would perform too, giving (Y/N) and Hyunjin the perfect excuse to see each other.

Well, not so fortunately. Despite promising to meet her, Hyunjin was 3 hours late. She had called him 2 hours before, but was greeted with a “I’m gonna call you back in five”. He obviously didn’t call. He wasn’t coming. Instead, she received a photo from one of her members, Hyunjin side-hugging some stupid female idol she couldn’t remember the name while he smiled at her the way he used to smile at (Y/N). The two were talking with the rest of his members, everyone seeming to have a lot of fun while (Y/N) laid in bed, sobbing her heart out.

She knows she shouldn’t make more of a fool of herself, but she couldn’t care less as she opened her messages’ app, deciding to text him one final time before taking off her makeup and going to bed, alone.

where are you? weren’t you coming to meet me today?, she typed shortly, her eyes starting to sting again.

Surprisingly, Hyunjin answered in no time.

sorry, babygirl, but i can’t tonight.

And just like that, she felt her heart sinking more and more, until it seemed like it wasn’t there at all. After going through so much, the pain started to feel numbing. Sadness started to become too familiar. Although she wouldn’t like to admit it, suffering started to feel way too close to her identity. Feeling her tears soaking through her shirt, (Y/N) buried herself even more in-between the sheets, hoping the bed would swallow her whole and transport her to a world where everything was still fine and she was still happy. A world where Hyunjin was still hers.

[...]

The swift motioning of the covers woke her up. Barely being able to open her swollen eyes, (Y/N) stared at the clock in the nightstand: 4:16 a.m.

Turning to her other side, the girl was greeted with Hyunjin’s tired eyes.

“Where were you?”, she managed to whisper, her sleepy brain still trying to process what was happening. She found it hard to picture Hyunjin in the darkened room, but his breath was right at her face, smelling like the mint gum the boy liked to have before kissing her.

“I was hanging out with the boys, babe. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

Hyunjin reached for her waist underneath the covers, pulling her closer to his figure. His hands were cold against her body, causing goosebumps to raise all over her skin. The sensation somehow made her blood boil, her peaceful sleep interrupted just because Hyunjin wanted to say his lame apologies before bed. (Y/N) was so mad. She wanted to yell at him, and she could already picture all of her resentment flowing out of her at once as she made Hyunjin feel the same way she did a few hours before. The same way he made her feel so many times before. She wanted him to feel just how hurt she was for once. She hoped it would hurt him too. But just as she was about to decline his apology, their eyes met.

Having finally adjusted to the lack of light, she was greeted by his puppy gaze, all of the angriness inside of her dissipating in a minute. It transported her to a time in which those eyes felt like home. They had made her feel loved so many times. Maybe he really was sorry, because how would his eyes be so sincere if he wasn’t? How would his eyes feel like the very first night they got together if he wasn’t? It was easy to forgive him. It was always easy to forgive him.

Nodding, she rested her head on his chest, tiredness already forcing her eyes close as his heartbeats lulled her back to sleep. Fighting the urge to just fall into unconsciousness, she whispered again:

“Who was that girl you were hugging earlier?”, she felt his pulse pick up its pace, but her foggy brain couldn’t come up with a reason why.

“Dayeon?”, (Y/N) finally named the idol in her head, humming in agreement as she remembered the girl was part of a group from Pledis Entertainment. “She’s just a friend from my trainee days. I’ve known her for, like, my whole life”.

“Hmm”, she murmured again as she finally went back to sleep, Hyunjin’s warmth bringing her comfort as she was able to feel him close for the first time in a while.

[...]

The chilly air of autumn made her cheeks ache a little, but it was refreshing to walk outside for a change. After 5 weeks of promoting their latest comeback, (Y/N)’s group finally had a few days off, and she couldn’t be more relieved to be spending some time taking care of herself. It also felt incredible that Hyunjin had just called her over to his place. She couldn’t even remember the last time they just chilled in his room in each other’s embrace, so she almost ran from her dorms as soon as she read the message.

Taking the elevator to his floor, the girl made sure she looked presentable. Her lips were a little dry, but nothing some kisses couldn’t take care of. She felt happy. Hope was slowly but surely blooming in her heart, and it felt amazing. The colors were more vibrant than ever, and life started to make sense again. It was nice to see herself genuinely smiling again.

She almost couldn’t contain her excitement as she walked to his door, the butterflies in her stomach making a mess. Knocking one, two, three times, she could hear all the boys talking at once inside, and no one came to the door.

Trying the doorknob, she noticed it was open and welcomed herself into the apartment, smelling pizza in the air. Her stomach churned, and the girl laughed to herself.

Inside the apartment, it was pretty obvious her group's latest comeback was playing in the living room, and all the boys were talking altogether. She felt happiness bubbling in her chest again. The song had been the first her group wrote and produced without help from the company, and they were extremely proud of how it turned out. Listening to it always made her feel good.

Getting close to where they were, she could finally understand what they were talking about, and she immediately stopped in her tracks.

“Gosh, this song is so annoying. Someone turn it off!” Jisung's voice could be heard clearly, making her eyes start tearing up.

“Right? I can't believe they had 7 wins with this trash”, this time it was Minho the one to voice his opinion.

“Did you notice (Y/N)'s dancing, too? It looks terrible, I feel like she put on a little weight and can't coordinate herself”, at this, the tears were already flowing freely through her face. It only made things worse that Hyunjin was the one to comment on her body, one of the few people whom she trusted to be naked with.

“I noticed it too. You guys don't even look that good together anymore, you're too much for her”, they all made it look so simple, so easy to hate her. Hate her music, hate her body, her personality. Thinking Hyunjin looks better without her. It made her heart hurt more and more, the sensation becoming unbearable the more time passed.

Ignoring all this, she entered the living room, lips trembling and face still wet.

“Hyunjin, we need to talk.”

[...]

Hyunjin stared into her eyes, waiting until she felt ready to talk. The air was thick with the truth of it all hanging between them, but the girl couldn’t bring herself to let out a word. More tears ran freely through her face, and her boyfriend finally took the initiative to dry them.

“What is it, kitten?” He asked, choosing to completely ignore the fact he knew exactly what happened. She took a big breath, closing her eyes.

“Hyunjin, do you still love me?” She whispered, fighting to get her voice to sound understandable. She was tired. So tired.

“Of course I do, baby. I’m sorry, ok?” He cupped her face with his hands, standing impossibly closer to her. “The boys are idiots, you know that. You know I love you more than anything.” He started to kiss her cheeks, leading the way until he pressed his lips to hers. “Please, don’t cry anymore. I’m here now.”

She chose to hide herself in his chest, the warmth of his body working to relax her nerves and throwing everything they said into the back of her brain. Hyunjin held her tight, running his hands through her scalp. She just wanted to forget, distract herself until it stopped hurting. The girl breathed in his scent, his favorite cologne mixed with soap. She had missed him so, so much.

“Let’s lie down for a bit and watch a movie, hm? What do you think?” She nodded, feeling the boy tuck her into his bed. He hugged her from behind, letting her choose what they would be watching, leaving kisses in her neck.

She knew there must be something real still in him. In their relationship. She just couldn’t help the way Hyunjin had made her. Good, compliant, dependent. He was everything to her, and she couldn’t help but think her life was not worth living without him, even if it felt as though he was killing her slowly. She could only hope. Hope that hopeless would change overtime.

She drifted to sleep and, for a while, everything was fine again.

[florvaine]

— heavy is the crown !

It’s not often Bakugo gets a minute to rest, especially since he started travelling.

fantasy au: bakugo x kirishima x fem!reader warnings: fluff/general, not much dialogue it's a lot of big words SORRYY a/n: this is me doing a bit of worldbuilding for a bigger fic i'm writing lol

w/c: 1.1k

(art by @/milmil on twt!)

For the first few weeks it was strange being nomadic.

Bakugou was not accustomed to being on the move having been coddled by his father to try to find an outlet to his anger and held close by his mother as she showed her inflexible way of ruling their Tribe. Though she had her strange way of showing it, Mitsuki cared for him and deep down he knew that.

She had sent him and his Dragonborn - Kirishima - on his Trial later than he was expecting. For centuries, those seeking Furtherance took their leave from the tribe towards the backend of winter to try to complete the journey before the next hit.

"You're taking control of this clan once I depart, you'll need to be prepared for the fervor of a volcano," She had muttered whilst holding his face, thick paint of flora and fauna staining her fingertips.

The sun beat down heavily, especially in the kingdom of Draconix, when Mitsuki had seen him off with a kiss to the crown of his head and a blessed amber amulet hung around his neck. The Singe fur on his cloak quickly became troublesome throughout the start of the journey, sweat clinging to his forehead and along the contours of his torso.

Along the way, they encountered someone else, a stray traveler trying to get to a faraway village to complete their own mission. At the time you had been fighting tooth and nail to escape a group of bandits you had already roughed up. With a single activation of his magic, Kirishima scared them scampering into the throng of deciduous trees.

It only took you passing out from a hit to your head from before and Kirishima's nagging to convince Bakgou to take you along. The place you mentioned to be traversing to was along the way to where they were planned to be, so at the next stop he reluctantly spent more of his coin to get more rations of dried fruits and meat.

With every sunset you got closer, meeting old and making new friends who shared stories about the blonde in so much detail you felt as if you had been beside him his whole life.

Between the inn rooms that the three of you yearned for, Bakugou wouldn't hesitate to take the longest shift of night watch in fear of Kilmonges, thieves or worse. He'd keep his ungodly hefty swords on either side of him and refused help throughout the day. He took the burden of navigating by map, noticing if anyone strayed off the given path.

But you could see it.

The usual confident steps became sluggish and slow-tempo, the furrow in his brows just the slightest bit too taught. His shoulders hung with the heavy weight of being, ultimately, responsible for not only Kirishima but another person who he hadn't even predicted to join the voyage. Sometimes he was so deep in thought that you could practically hear his doubt and nonsensical strings of words.

It came to a head just after everyone had narrowly escaped a hunting hoard of spruce spiders. Nasty, colossal species of arachnid with hair-like quills that could dwarf half-grown spruce trees.

The sun had begun to retreat behind the horizon of towering trees and sprawling mountains. In the distance ahead, a collection of cliffhanging houses light up as people strike runes for thir lanterns.

The temperate forest you had all settled into was home to the fearful - spineless pixies and fanged deer who refused to harm others. The leaves ranged from dusty cool tones and tough bark, roots crawling over the edges of a path created of multicolour sea glass. The fleeting rays remaining from the sun reflect off of each coloured crystal and refracting in a mesmerising flow like silken robes dancing in the wind.

The grass was stocky here and had a strange adaptation, as the sunlight was often obscured by the thick overhang of unwavering trees, and were near transparent to the point they were blue from taking in water and minerals. Picking a blade would release a small pocket of potable water.

Dinner was fire-smoked salmon, sparkling sourdough bread with ghoulberry jam and a wide array of fruits - blackberries, starstriked strawberries, blood oranges and crisp apples. You didn't mention the way Bakugou picked at the bandage around his upper arm, over the protective band of warm ink.

Smoke tickled your nose as you took in the familiar scent and cooling breeze, a much accepted respite from the direct contact with the sun in Rokopi. You and Kirishima had been babbling away from either side of the now dwindling fire, flames flickering to dormancy a while after the moon had awoken.

The diminishing flames highlighted the contours and protruding structures of each others visages, foxy colours cast over the high points of Kirishima's nose, chin and lips and the cheekbones and lowered forehead of Bakugou.

"Is he finally asleep?" You mumble, your eyes falling on the slack body of the blonde.

Kirishima stops his rant about his harpy friend Mina and turns his attention to his travel partner. His chest rose steadily underneath his layers of woven traditional necklaces. The body paint he was typically on top of washed off from a spring, leaving behind pale strips of his natural skin tone beside sun-kissed expanses of muscle. His cape, hefty and expelling warmth, was collapsed in a pile behind him and he leaned back on it, the fire licking at the spikey strands of thin gold.

Bakugou's generous helping of lashes airily rested on his cheekbones, his face void of the typical scrunching you had assigned to him. Shoulders slumped, but not with the weight of the world anymore. Now it was the weight of the air behind him, softly carving along the muscles of his strained back in a strange massage that relaxed him.

The redhead let a smile cast itself onto his face, "About time - he hasn't fully rested since we began our journey."

In the minutes to follow, you and Kirishima had gotten as close to the blonde as you could ('strength in numbers, it's what flegdlings do in the Tribe,') to doze like the barbarian. His crimson wing outstretched to cover Bakugou's and your backs from the forest and to preserve body heat. Though you knew Kirishima was just feeling a twinge clingier than usual.

Hell, he hadn't meant to fall asleep to the two of you meandering conversations, but there was something so... comforting about it.

He never admitted that though, lest Kirishima would actually talk his ear straight off the side of his head.

[starssoblue]

“things were so hard with dad in recent years...how did he go from paparapluie to père? i wish i could face him and understand, but while he was still here i didn't dare try to tell him [any of my feelings] and now...it's too late.” * paparapluie is a pun on the words papa and parapluie (umbrella) since the plush is a frog. père is the french word for 'father.'