#when everyone else is just rolling with it

[axolotsofluv]

𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐚𝐭 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 [𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

a/n: *sighs* I should be studying but here we are. This is meant to be a little self-indulgent piece bc everything I hear about the current quest is nothing short of soul-crushing. unlike shaoji, I'm not lying when I say that this as a light-hearted story so please enjoy (；∀；) p.s. dividers by @bbyg4rlhelps

taglist: @naenaex0xx, @silvermah, @chokifandom, @digitalspool, @winteryreads. Anyone who wants to be added, just let me know :D

synopsis — you didn't think you were treated any differently by phainon. But as you were preparing to leave amphoreus, you were told that apparently the fancy souvenirs he gave you might indicate something else entirely. (TL;DR an AU where everything gets magically resolved and you go home) word count — 1.9k

“Hey, guys. I'm recording our… um, last hours here in Amphoreus before we board the Express again." Caelus adjusts the phone in his hand, brows scrunched up in concentration, before he continues, "we've said our goodbyes to everyone, but honestly, I don't think the waterworks were necessary. It's not like we'd never stop by again.”

He begins to walk.

“Dan Heng's getting our luggage ready for when the crew comes down here to pick us up. Here, this is our… stuff,” he angles the camera to capture a pile of bags stacked in an orderly fashion, “we went here with little baggage and came home with a lot. The citizens gave us more than we anticipated, but then again, I guess that shouldn't be all too surprising for us considering what we did. And honestly? I'm not complaining. I'm not one to turn down free stuff. But, um… just letting you in on this. One of us here… got more than the rest.”

The camera whips towards you, shifting the focus to your face adorned in a faint pink hue.

“So… [name], mind telling us what gifts you got from a certain Chrysos Heir?”

Your shoulders raise in alarm and a near imperceptible trace of embarrassment. “H-Hey… don't make a fuss. It's not like you and Dan Heng weren't given anything by him.”

A snicker is heard from behind the camera. “That's because we didn't. At least, nothing as significant as yours. I definitely don't remember receiving anything of personal value.”

You turn your body away as you rub your neck. 

“C'mon! Tell the Crew what you got! Yo, guys, one of us got special treatment!”

The camera goes dark, echoing rustles and some muffled voices. 

“Okay, okay… give us the tea, [name]. Tell us what you got.” The camera lens zones in on Caelus as he nudges your side. “What did the Phainon of Aedes Elysiae get you?”

Despite his question, he aims decisively at the camera at the long golden plate covered in breathable cloth used mainly for edible goods during transport.

“Um… Phainon got me fish from his hometown. A thoughtful souvenir, in my opinion.”

Caelus draws his face closer to the camera as if to whisper something to the viewers. “Souvenir, my ass. It's a courting gift.” He removes himself from view and opts to put all the focus on you. “[name], I know you're not telling us the full story. Come on! Stop being so secretive! Tell us more!”

You rolled your eyes. “You're so nosy. Are you sure this isn't just you being jealous?”

“Damn right I'm jealous. You got this much delicious food that could last you an entire week!”

“The other Chrysos Heirs gave you something too! Stop acting like you weren't given anything!”

“Stop deflecting!” The camera shows Caelus’ hand pointing at you in an accusatory manner. “Now, hurry up and spill! Tell us more about this gift.”

It's obvious to Caelus by the indignant frown on your face that you prefer to be anywhere else than here, bothered non-stop by his persistent probing. A beat passes in charged silence, and Caelus is ready to bolt if you decide to retaliate physically. Until finally, you give in with a huff. 

“Okay, okay… Phainon brought me to his hometown the other day and told me all about the place. He gave me a brief tour around the village, showed me where he lived and even where his parents work—”

“Oh~ introducing you to your future in-laws. How sly of him.”

“Don't interrupt me!” You shoot a weak glare at the smirking Nameless behind the camera. “A-And afterwards, he brought me to the lake where he talked about the fish there. Said it was the best in Amphoreus.”

“So, he caught a big one for you?”

“You should've seen him. He immediately jumped into the water before I could even say anything.” You burst into a fit of laughter, blissfully unaware of Caelus' intrigued look at the subtext of what his hasty actions implied. “When he got out, he brought the fish home and we waited for his clothes to dry on a hill. And then, when we got back, he told me I could walk around for a bit while he cooked the fish. And… yeah! That's about it.”

You're greeted by an awkward pause, and the camera is whipped around to capture Caelus’ comically bewildered expression. 

“Yo… [name], he's courting you.”

“What? Seriously? Caelus, don't joke around—”

“N-N-No, I'm being serious. I don't think he was just being a hospitable tour guide.”

A breeze flies between the two of you; the silence remains unbroken. The serious way he relays that information makes your stomach churn with something fluttery yet uncomfortable. 

“Oh…” You glanced down, fidgeting. 

“What else did he give you?” Caelus walks closer to the smaller heaps of items placed adjacent to the cooked fish.

“Just some antique stuff.” You kneel down and carefully lift another object swathed in fine fabric. Once the wrapping comes undone, Caelus switches to his front camera to record his slack jaw. 

“[name]...” He starts slowly, the teasing glint completely gone from his face. “This looks expensive.”

“Phainon didn't say where it's from specifically. Just that it's a treasured possession he managed to bargain from one of the stores in Marmoreal Market.”

“From Theodoros?”

The camera switches perspective and locks in on you. 

“[name]... I want you to hold my hand while I say this.” You take his outstretched hand in spite of your bemusement. “I've helped him detect fake treasures before, and he imparted quite a lot of things about the items he encountered in his years of doing treasure appraisal. This—" He emphasizes his point by carrying the dolium and nearly shoving it in your face. "—is an extremely rare artifact. A highly sought out piece of earthenware.”

You both stare at each other like a pair of birds whose gaze reflects absolutely zero thoughts behind them. 

“Oh my gosh… didn't Phainon mention that he doesn't get lucky often? His purchases turns out unlucky more often than not.” You slap a hand over your mouth as the gradual revelation pieces itself together. “You don't think he… gave me one of the rare good ones from his collection, do you?”

“I was about to call him a simp, but I think he deserves more than that title.” Caelus steals a glance at the camera, his voice dropped to a hushed murmur. “He's probably way past that point.”

“Do you think this garment is also of high quality?”

Your distraught comment prompts him to arch a brow. 

“He gave you clothes… on top of the fish and dolium?”

When you respond with a wordless nod, he has to smother the crackle of jealousy that burns inside him. Seeing you receive all these luxurious gifts makes him feel as though he is witnessing a friend win the lottery. 

By the time he's done stirring in envy, his jaw nearly crashes to the floor at the sight of the garment in your hands. 

“[name], what the hell!? That's one of the expensive ones in Aglaea’s catalogue.”

“What!?” You both pull a face in sync. 

“The ones for sale are limited in stock! And by that, I mean there's less than a hundred of them. How did he get this!?”

“Oh, man! Now I feel bad! But I can't return these! That'll hurt his feelings!”

You fold the piece of attire with utmost care and calculation, setting it back inside the finely crafted box tailored to match the garment and offer it protection without sacrificing an ounce of the aesthetic value.

"Don't tell me he gave you more!"

Caelus is all but having a meltdown right now. Sure, the two of you plus Dan Heng had been more than just heroes of Amphoreus. You all put your life on the line for a planet that you've set foot on for less than a quarter of your lifetime, and helped avert any and all forms of catastrophe from coming to fruition. He shouldn't be surprised if the gratitude of the people here in Amphoreus were conveyed through plentiful gifts and endless praise, but something tells him that the way Phainon is gifting you all these things conceal something more than just gratitude and a sense of camaraderie.

He would know, after all neither he nor Dan Heng received anything as excessive or as personal as you.

“He's bleeding himself dry for you!”

“Don't say that!” You lightly slap his shoulder. “M-Maybe… it was something that Aglaea gave him. I mean, they're pretty much family to each other, I'm assuming. Is it so surprising that the revered Deliverer got something expensive and intricately handcrafted by the Goldweaver herself?”

Caelus picks up on the nervousness that lies beneath your forced optimism. “You're not buying your own lie.”

“Please! I can't bear the thought of him draining his bank account for me!” You're so deep in your own distress that you fail to catch Caelus’ longing stare at the collection of high value souvenirs you got. 

“I wish someone would splurge this much on me…”

Before you can reprimand him for his words, you both sense a familiar presence approaching. In an almost comically synced fashion, you both swerve your heads to the sight of the aforementioned guy walking up with his signature charming smile. 

“Hey, you two! Is everything alright over there?”

“Phainon!” 

Caelus raises a questioning brow at Phainon’s smile seemingly widening as he draws closer to you instead. His camera is still recording everything, and he's nothing if not nosy and bothersome with no intentions of letting this opportunity slip by. 

He subtly aims the camera at you both, zooming in on Phainon's face enough to capture the minuscule twitches and crinkles every time you respond to him. 

“Do you two need help carrying these?” Phainon gestures at piled up luggage. 

“We should be fine. I don't want to trouble you anymore than we alrea—”

“Hey, what's with the reluctance?” He inclines his head towards you ever so slightly, mindful of the space between you while also indulging in his desire for a speck of proximity. “I'm more than happy to help.”

“I know I've probably said this a lot of times, but thank you.” You don't think it's physically possible, but Phainon's face grows radiant. “Truly. For the gifts. Especially the gifts. You've been an amazing host and companion to us."

“I'm glad it's to your liking. I want to make sure that you leave Amphoreus with nothing but the absolute best piece of it.” He flashes you his trademark grin, the one he shares with children and elders, the one he sports when he greets the vendors in Marmoreal Market. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but even his regular smile feels more blinding than usual. 

It almost takes your mind off the fact that this man is burning through his own life savings just to buy you parting gifts. 

Somewhere not too far away, Caelus stands unmoving, positioning his camera at you and Phainon like a paparazzi whose rent is due. 

“Look at them, guys.” He makes gagging noises. “Can you believe they're that dense? Aeons, you can just see his tail wagging non-stop. How does one resemble an excited puppy so much?”

From within the screen of his phone, your silhouette huddles close to Phainon's. One would argue that it's actually the opposite. But seeing him outstretch his hand towards like you like a freezing man would towards a fire, seeking comfort yet afraid of touching; and the way he seizes your hand with nimble force whenever you so much as touch one of your carry-on as if to prevent you from doing a task he deems is reserved solely for him, Caelus has a not-so-arbitrary inkling that Phainon would probably spend even more on you if he could. 

He decides to end the recording when he sees something sticking out of the warrior's pocket. 

He ends up keeping the camera rolling, zooming, zeroing in on the object when the man himself extricates it from his pants and presents it to you. 

The image in his screen sharpens from its previously blurry state. 

A bracelet—brown strings, white beads with a few blue ones. Something glints at the center. By the time Caelus recognizes the sun shape, he's jamming his thumb at the ‘stop’ button with a frustrated yell. 

“Oh, c'mon! Yeah, right! ‘Not courting’, my ass!”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hey❤️ i love your writings, they‘re soo well written!! could i please request something with carlos and his baby or toddler daughter? some sweet daddy daughter moments between his 1 or 2-year-old baby that make everyone’s hearts melt🥹

Scenes full of love

The morning sun had barely peeked over the horizon when Carlos stepped out of the motorhome, cradling his daughter, Yn, against his chest. The one-year-old was dressed in a miniature version of his racing suit—complete with his number stitched on the back and a soft bucket hat protecting her from the sun. Her tiny noise-canceling headphones rested gently over her ears, slightly oversized but undeniably adorable.

Carlos looked down at her, smiling. "Ready to meet the world, mi sol?"

Yn responded with a soft giggle, her chubby fingers reaching for the sunglasses perched on his shirt. She always smiled, but it was different when she was in her Papá's arms—like the entire universe made sense to her. He kissed the crown of her head before stepping into the paddock.

It didn’t take long for her presence to be noticed.

"No way! Is that Yn?" Lando called out, jogging over with a wide grin. He bent down to her eye level, his hands on his knees. "Look at you, little star!"

Yn blinked at him, then let out a tiny shriek of laughter. Carlos puffed out his chest proudly. "She likes you today, that's rare."

"She knows greatness when she sees it," Lando teased, winking at Yn.

Oscar was next. He walked over, towel around his neck, and peeked at Yn with curious eyes. "I thought you said she was tiny, but she's even tinier than I imagined. And those cheeks!"

Yn, as if on cue, reached out and patted his face. Oscar chuckled. "I’ll take that as approval."

Charles strolled in shortly after, sipping coffee. He nearly dropped his cup. "No. No! Carlos, you brought Yn and didn’t tell me?"

Carlos smirked. "Figured I’d surprise everyone."

Charles came closer, eyes softening. "Bonjour, petite fleur," he whispered, brushing a finger down her arm. Yn blinked at him, then clutched tighter to Carlos's shirt. She buried her face into her father’s chest.

Carlos chuckled. "Still a bit shy."

"She’s perfect," Charles said, grinning.

More drivers trickled in—Daniel, Pierre, even Max, who pretended not to be interested but ended up crouching beside Carlos for a solid five minutes, making ridiculous faces until Yn giggled.

"I swear she has your exact smile," Pierre commented, snapping a picture on his phone.

Carlos swayed gently with Yn in his arms, beaming. "She’s the best part of my life. Nothing else even comes close."

By the time Rebecca arrived later in the day, she found Carlos sitting in the back of the hospitality area, Yn fast asleep on his chest.

"How did she do?" Rebecca asked softly, settling beside him.

"She stole everyone’s heart," Carlos whispered. "Just like she stole mine."

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Carlos stood in the middle of the baby boutique with his arms crossed and eyebrows drawn in disapproval.

"Are we really doing this?"

Rebecca held up a tiny pair of gold studs. "It’s tradition! My mom had mine pierced when I was one."

Carlos looked down at Yn, who was happily chewing on a teething toy, completely oblivious to her fate.

"She has no idea what’s coming," he muttered. "Poor baby."

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "She’ll cry for a second, then she’ll forget all about it. And she’ll look so cute!"

Carlos knelt next to Yn. "You trust me, right, mi amor? You know Papá would never let anything bad happen to you."

Yn responded with a delighted gurgle, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of his hair.

"Ouch—okay, okay. See? She’s already mad at me and it hasn’t even happened yet."

When they entered the little piercing room, Carlos held Yn while Rebecca spoke to the technician.

"Carlos, hand her over. I’ll hold her for the actual piercing."

"Like hell you will," he snapped. "If she cries, she’s gonna cry on me."

Rebecca smirked. "Big tough guy, huh?"

"Tough until she tears up, then I'm done for."

Carlos sat down in the chair, cradling Yn in his lap. The technician carefully cleaned her ears and marked the placement.

"Alright," she said. "One... two... three."

Click.

Yn froze. Her little face scrunched up. Then came the wail.

Carlos visibly winced. "Oh, mi vida..."

The second earring went in quickly, but the damage was done. Yn sobbed, red-faced, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Carlos held her tighter, patting her back. "Shhh, shhh, I’ve got you. Papá’s here. You’re okay, you’re okay. I hate this. I hate this so much."

Rebecca leaned over, trying not to laugh. "It’s over, babe. Look, they look beautiful."

Carlos glared at her. "Beautiful? She looks like she went to war."

Yn sniffled, pressing her cheek against his chest.

"Mi sol," Carlos whispered, rocking gently. "I’m so sorry your mom did this to you."

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "Your daughter is dramatic."

"And your daughter now has holes in her ears. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for this."

Still, by the time they reached the car, Yn had stopped crying. She sucked on her pacifier and dozed off in Carlos’s arms.

He looked down at her and sighed. "Okay, maybe she does look cute."

Rebecca smirked. "Told you."

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Every morning, Carlos was up before the sun.

Not because of training.

Not because of meetings.

But because he had a very important ritual: baby cuddles.

The nursery glowed softly in the early dawn. Carlos crept in barefoot, careful not to wake Rebecca. Yn stirred in her crib, tiny fists rubbing at her eyes.

"Buenos días, princesa," he whispered.

Her eyes opened, and when they found his face, she broke into the biggest, gummy smile.

Carlos’ heart melted for the hundredth time. He reached in and scooped her up, kissing her forehead.

"Did you sleep well, mi sol? Let’s go wake Mamá."

He carried her into their room and slipped under the covers, settling her between them. Rebecca, still half-asleep, reached out.

"My babies," she mumbled.

Yn kicked her feet and let out a happy squeal. Carlos chuckled. "She’s ready to party."

Rebecca blinked awake. "It’s six a.m."

"And the sun is up, so is our sunshine," Carlos replied, nuzzling Yn’s cheek.

Yn babbled and crawled toward Rebecca, who kissed her head.

Carlos reached over and pulled both his girls into his arms. "This," he whispered, "is heaven."

They lay there for a long time, cocooned in warmth and soft giggles. Yn tugged at the collar of Carlos’ shirt, laughing when he made silly noises. He blew raspberries on her belly, making her squeal with joy.

"You're her favorite person," Rebecca said, brushing back Carlos's messy hair.

"She’s mine too," he said seriously. "Both of you are."

Eventually, when breakfast called and the sun was truly up, Carlos still didn’t move. Yn had fallen asleep on his chest, her ear pressed to his heartbeat.

"Let’s stay like this forever," he whispered.

Rebecca smiled. "Deal."

And in that quiet morning glow, with the soft breathing of their daughter between them, everything was exactly as it should be.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

[lonigiri]

CAUGHT ON CAMERA - THE MSBY BOYS

synopsis: sure the fans already know about your relationship but sometimes they still take stupid videos from afar

warnings: all fluff, implied fem reader, use of girlfriend in most situations, fiancee used (hinata), 1 direction mentioned, reference in bokuto's

characters: sakusa, atsumu, hinata, bokuto

an: i wrote this so i can procrastinate on writing for venus anyway enjoy 😝

sakusa kiyoomi -- no more cats

"no." "but PLEASE oomi! shes so cute look at her!!" there you were standing, holding a cute tortie cat by her armpits. though sakusa had a mask on you could still see the deadpan expression on your boyfriends face. he just shook his head back and forth slowly.

"yn, i love you, so much, but we have five cats at home. we cannot take care of another one" "YES WE CAN!" you react as if he was insulting you. transfering the cat over to one hand as you gasp dramatically, hitting your chest with your hand. "i cannot believe you would insult me like this oomi!" sakusa just blinked. god he cannot believe that he's dealing with this again.

"come on dude let your girlfriend bring the cat home!" a random bystander commented. a sigh coming from kiyoomi and a hand raising to rub his temples. "yn, please, people are watching now." "yeah they should be! tell him to let me bring the cat home!" sakusa sighed, looking down, he hated the attention but he loved you so he dealt with it.

at the end of the day, you ended up winning, bringing the cute tortie home with the two of you. you guys were sitting in bed together, new tortie laying in sakusa's lap as you were scrolling through tiktok. you started laughing out loud, there you and kiyoomi were, on the streets of tokyo, arguing over taking a stray home.

4.6 million likes and a comment from:

@stars4yn: i got the cat btw

atsumu miya -- shut the fuck up please

you and atsumu were on a roadtrip, windows down, music bumping. you'd been on the freeway and backroads for a little while, not many people around so you didnt really mind the music being all the way up with the windows down. but now your venture had brought you to the main roads. you'd been telling atsumu to turn the music down, or roll the windows up but nothing, and when you'd roll your window up or turn the music down he'd roll it back down or turn the music up.

and the worst part is that atsumu was singing. LOUDLY. and it was, some would say, actually most would say. not good. at all. "atsumu PUH LEASE." you shouted over the music and his horrid singing. "i cant hear you! im too busy singing!" you just wined as his response. you looked out the window seeing a few phone cameras pointing towards your car.

"tsumu shut the fuck up PLEASE." you slapped your loud boyfriend on the arm. jesus this red light could not be any longer. "BABY YOU LIGHT UP MY WORLD LIKE NOBODY ELSE-"

"why are you such an asshole" you asked atsumu as you guys sat on the couch of your airbnb. showing him the videos of you two in the car. "hey i was just singing to my beautiful girlfriend."

7.8 million likes, a repost, and a comment from:

@msbyatsumumiya: what can i say she lights up my world like nobody else

hinata shoyo -- GIVE IT TO ME

"sho if you dont give me the popcorn NOW!" "NO im hungry! you should've gotten your own!" "oh so you hate me?" "thats not at all what i said!" this has been going on longer then you'd like to admit. and yes. fighting over popcorn. at a baseball game. with your famous fiancée. it was definitely a sight to witness.

there was cheering around but you just thought that it'd been because a good play had happened in the game. "shoyooooo please give me the popcorn." you wined trying the pull the popcorn out of his grip and he just shook his head and ate more popcorn. there was even more cheering and laughter? you looked around, the person next to you pointed at the big screen.

the kiss cam. of course the kiss cam. why wouldnt it be the kiss cam. thats why everyone was laughing and cheering for the past like three minutes. you tapped hinata on the shoulder and then pointed at the screen, him immediately turning bright red. i mean you were out in public and your fiancee who just so happened to be the opposite hitter of one of the biggest volleyball teams in japan. so it wasnt out of the ordinary that people would come up to you. but you didnt even take into consideration that this would happen.

well either way you two shared a tender kiss that made the whole stadium erupt in cheers, and you could almost guarantee you'd see a video of this moment later.

Liked by @stars4yn and 3.7 million others

bokuto kotaro -- I SAID ONE??

"YOU CHEATING SON OF A BITCH. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO SAY UNO WHEN YOU HAVE ONE CARD LEFT!" there you were, in the middle of some random park, on a blanket, with an amazingly packed picnic basket. i mean there was nothing that could ruin this moment.

well except for uno.

"I SAID ONE???"

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO SAY UNO, ITS A MEXICAN GAME!" shouting at your himbo of a boyfriend in the middle of a - before now - peaceful park. there are people looking from all around. taking pictures and videos. quiet murmers of. "is that bokuto?" coming from people that sorta recognized the wing spiker from the black jackals but were too scared to say anything or get in the middle of this -not so- heated argument.

well the two of you had some good laughs when you got home and saw the many times your both had been tagged in a singular post of you guys yelling at each other for an uno game.

5.2 million likes and a comment from:

@msbybokutok: hey i said one...

@lonigiri reposts and likes are always appreciated <3 - masterlist - requests are open :)

[reiderwriter]

The Rebound

Plot: Rossi recommends a book binding service to get Spencer to stop complaining about his broken book. Maybe you can fix more than just the broken spine of his book. Warnings: None, fluff. I will preface this with I know the bare minimum about actual book binding though, unfortunately! ㅠㅠ A/N: I'M BACK! Did you miss me? Unfortunately I lost any belief I had in love for a while there, but I found myself thinking about this little fluff idea for a while, and couldn't get it out of my head so I had to write it. It's been almost two years since I began writing, and I decided I want to put this first as a hobby at least once a week, so you will hopefully be hearing from me more often as well. I got a lot of inspiration from the request box too, so thank you to everyone who requested <3 Enjoy~

To say that Spencer had taken this book everywhere would be an understatement. The tattered heap of papers could probably be legally recognized as a member of the BAU the amount of case hours it had seen. It probably had a degree or two of its own as well. 

Spencer always justified it in one way or another. It was in Russian and he needed to practice. It was an incredible book. His mother gave it to him as a child, and she still recognized it sometimes, so he had to take it when he visited her. It was just a really good book. 

In short, over the years it had been through a lot.

It had seen gunshots, stabbings, a drug addiction, multiple spills and drops from high areas, and yes, probably some book eating insects at some point, but it still stood the test of time. 

Until, ironically, a prison sentence meant it hadn’t been cracked open in months and it had decided to disintegrate overnight. 

Spencer had spent the best part of his first week back at the BAU grumbling about it that it was beginning to disintegrate his team mates nerves. Yes, they were all sympathetic to the struggles of the newly free man, but there was really only so much Russian literature one could take before losing it. And for the members of the BAU, that was pretty much none. 

“Kid, why don’t you just go out and buy a new copy. Same words, same meaning, same book, just without the bullet holes,” Rossi sighed, trying to effectively end the same conversation he’d been having for the last 6 days straight. 

“It’s a rare copy, it was published in the 50s. You of all people should know they don’t make books the same way anymore, Rossi.” 

“Me? Of all people? How flattering, Spencer.” 

“No-” the man sighed, jogging to catch up with the still prime older man as he walked brusquely down the hallway. “I just mean that as a fellow enjoyer of literature, that you would share my appreciation for…”

“The elderly?” 

“Antiques. Come on Rossi, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Spencer sighed again. 

“I just don’t want to buy another copy.” 

Rossi stopped his march finally, letting Spencer catch up with him as he finally turned around and gave his last suggestion. 

“Then you just have to get it fixed, Spencer.” 

He shut the door to his office behind him before the open door could invite any other literary debates to his doorstop, but he did put the kid out of his misery later over text. 

“I had a collection of Joy’s articles bound by this company for Christmas last year as a gift. Local business, give them a call.”

A week later, a free enough day rolled around, and Spencer - ever willing to avoid technology at all costs - decided that going to the shop's location and hoping for an on-sight consult would work. He assumed people still talked to each other. 

You definitely still talked to people. 

When you could see them, hear them and knew they were there. But you also liked to work with a set of large headphones drowning out the world, and everyone else had gone home for the day, so to say that you screamed when you saw the 6 foot something slenderman out of the corner of your eye was an understatement. 

“FUCK!” You screamed, clutching at your heart that you thought was definitely still having an attack of its own. You weren’t sure if this was what fight or flight felt like, but you were quickly disappointed to find that your own trigger reaction was ‘fuck.’

“I’m sorry, the door was open, I assumed…” Spencer started, holding his hand up to show he wasn’t a threat, even if he’d spent the last phase of his life being just that to a lot of people. 

“Yeah..yeah… sorry, heart still racing, I’ll be with you in just a second.

You made a mental note of not listening to any more horror audiobooks while at work and pulled a smile back onto your face. 

“Welcome to The Rebound, I guess,” you said, coming around the counter to greet the man. “Are you here to pick up or deliver a package?”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably as he stood before speaking. 

“Actually neither. I was hoping for a consultation? I need a book rebound.” 

You let out a sigh so loud you almost felt bad for the man. “Okay, so thank god you’re not a serial killer.”

You tried to laugh off the joke, but the man’s eyes bugged out of his head as he scrambled for something. 

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m out of practice with this I guess,” he laughed a little, doing absolutely nothing to dissipate the awkward tension as he pulled out his FBI creds.

“Huh. FBI. Would you hold it against me if I said I feel a little bit less safe again?”

“Considering I spent that last few months in prison, not at all.” 

You laughed again and then stopped again as you saw he wasn’t laughing. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little off-putting?” you asked, completely innocently as you grabbed your coffee mug, leaning back on your work counter. 

“Many, many times,” he smiled, finally relaxing. 

“Wonderful. So what can I do for you today, Mr….?”

“Doctor.”

“Perfect. What can I do for you today Mr. Doctor?” 

He smiled shyly again, and you finally took the lull in conversation to look him over again. He was maybe a few years older than you, but he still looked young. Every item he wore seemed like it came fresh from a copy of Grandpa’s Weekly, or whatever Vogue was doing in Men’s fashion in the 50s, which almost made it annoying how well it draped on him. His hair was brown, and curled cutely around his face in a very ‘needs a haircut’ way, but you almost appreciated that more. 

He was handsome. 

“Fuck.” you thought again, realizing that the man had been talking for the last few seconds as you’d oggled him anyway. 

“Fuck?” He repeated. “I mean, I know it’s in bad condition, but I didn’t think it’d be that hard…” His eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at the book you now only just noticed was in his hands. 

“Sorry, no that’s not what I meant!” You scrambled, combing your hair back roughly in your hands, and clipping it in place before walking back closer to him.

He even smells fucking good, you grumbled to yourself as you held out your hands for your next project. 

“I’ve had it for about 25 years now, and it was definitely second hand when I got it, so…” 

“So you want me to resuscitate it. Cool. Let me take a look at it quickly.” 

You gently pried the book from the pouting man's hands and took it back to your work station as he played with his fingers, and you found yourself bumping into pieces of furniture you’d practically grown up with. 

“So, Mr. Doctor, is there any specific damage you want us to take care of?” You asked as you forced your attention onto the book. “Missing pages, rips, that kind of- Is this in Russian?”

“It’s Dostoyevsky. There’s no missing pages, but there are a lot of tears around a third up on the pages,” he blinked, pointing a single finger at the edge of the page, where there were in fact small tears. 

Ignoring that his fingers were also somehow attractive, you grabbed your glasses from the top of your shirt and pushed them onto your face and up your nose, getting closer to take a better look. 

“These are pretty even across all the pages, how did you even manage that?” you laughed, flicking the pages as you searched for any particular mildew marks or signs of wear. 

“Gunshot,” he said with such practiced nonchalance that you almost accepted it as a regular answer. Almost.

“WHAT?” You said looking up, noticing a beat too late that Mister Doctor was also leaning over the book, as if scared to let it out of his sight.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing in his sight was now you, as you’d come up so passionately you found yourselves nose to nose, a breath the only thing between you. 

You felt the heat in your cheeks, just as you saw it in his, before you hastily looked back down to the book. 

He straightened and looked away, taking a deep breath. 

“I work for the FBI, remember.” 

“I’m sorry, I assumed you were in a paperwork-diplomacy-tax-evasion department, not a pew-pew-bang-bang department.” 

“You know I think those are the official titles, but we usually just call my team the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m a profiler.”

“Huh. Do I get three guesses which Dostoyevsky this is?”

“Wouldn’t most of his works fit in this scenario?”

“Touche, Mr. Doctor. Touche.” 

You finished up your consultation on the book, which, gunshot aside, wasn’t in bad shape for a book over half a century old. You carefully catalogued the book's information in your system, and then turned back to him. 

“As I assume Mr. Doctor isn’t your real name, can I try again at asking what it is? No sarcasm this time, and I promise that my hands aren’t crossed behind my back currently.” 

“Spencer Reid.” 

“And the Doctor part was real, or have I been out-maneuvered?”

“If a PhD is real, then yes. Three times over.” 

You took another look at him again and then smiled widely as his breath caught in his throat.

“Doctor Reid, you look like the exact kind of person that would have three PhD’s. Congratulations, you’ve worked hard.” 

Unable to respond to the sudden kindness, Spencer returned a tight smile of his own before taking a shaky breath to steady himself. 

“Okay, so luckily we can fix the damage on this copy for you. We can try and salvage some of the cover details as well, but it will need a new spine, which usually means a complete overhaul of the cover. Do you have any specific design in mind, or would you like something similar?” 

“As close as you can get it, please.” 

“Of course. Now about the binding. Would you like it tight, or a little looser so it reads easier, like a floppy paperback?” 

“Loose is good for me. I read it pretty regularly.” 

“I mean this in the nicest way possible: I can tell,” you said, looking up from your computer again for the minute. “Between us, these are always my favorite projects, but I’m never allowed to work on them because I always want to keep the books at the end.” 

Spencer smiled at that, picturing you pouting handing over his book finally when it was done, refusing to let it go. There was something playfully childish about you that he found endearing. 

Endearing? He cleared his throat again before he found himself in further trouble. 

“Please don’t steal my book,” he requested in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly dangerously. 

“Don’t you worry about that Mr Doctor,” you said, smiling at him. “I have absolutely no impure intentions for your book whatsoever.” 

Spencer wanted to bury the disappointed feeling that popped up in the pit of his stomach at that moment. You were talking about the book, and this was a business transaction, and really he’d only just gotten out of prison, so he most likely didn’t need to feel disappointed by anything at all, whatsoever. 

“I, myself, cannot read Russian,” you smiled at him, handing him the receipt and guiding him back to the door he’d so innocently walked through about an hour earlier. 

Just as Spencer was feeling relieved - relieved? - and ready to move on from this exciting albeit distracting visit in his day, you spoke again. 

“So you’ll just have to read it to me if I get very attached.”

Clutching the receipt in his hand, and soon to realize that you’d scribbled your phone number on it in a hail mary, Spencer smiled to himself and made a mental note of thanking Rossi the next day. 

Even if the other man wouldn’t appreciate the new topic of conversation that Spencer would find himself unable to escape for a while. You.

[themarchrabbit]

"Honestly I would rather be politically pure. Your neighbors would never help you, so why help them?"

Please know I don't say any of this snidely or with any judgment towards you one way or the other. I don't know you, or your life, and I have no interest in pretending I do. I'm just answering the question sincerely.

It's for the same reason I put other people's shopping carts back in the corral, especially when they've been left in the disabled parking. The same reason I make sure they're in it correctly. Like, yeah, you know what, half the people who left them are just inconsiderate. But some are disabled. Some had little kids they were trying to get in the car after finishing the grocery shopping. Some were just tired. I don't know why. But the carts are blocking the walkways, or someone else might pull into a spot and hit one. Or they might roll into someone else's car. I'm able-bodied and it doesn't hurt me to do it, just inconveniences me. But it might hurt someone else, and I can prevent that. Makes it easier for the employees too, especially if it's raining. The same reason I pick up trash on the sidewalk and put it in the garbage can. The same reason I bring half-empty cups I find on store shelves to the front to be thrown away. The same reason I donate blood and platelets.

My politics have nothing to do with an ideal of purity. My politics are about community. I don't have to like everyone in my community, and they certainly don't like me. But we still have to live together tomorrow.

Do you want to be politically pure in theory or help your neighbor. Is it fruitless to help your neighbor because there's no Perfect Pure way to do it ?

[screamlet]

reunion cuddles? 👉👈 (also yay you're working on layla and bailey)

a happy one!!! my god!! in this economy!! (and layla and bailey are chugging along, can you believe difficult conversations are difficult to write? surprised the hell out of me) anyway: 850ish words of post s8 fix-it. inspired by @rcmclachlan's recurring tag "a three-minute conversation could fix them." this is like. idk. seven to eight minutes max.

---

As Buck and Tommy unpack their flea market and garage sale findings, Buck looks around his new apartment. He's been here a month and a half and it already looks so much like a home, a place where he wants to spend his time.

He knows in his gut that's because he can see so many pieces of Tommy here. The dark teal vase he said looked better than a navy one. A pair of framed sketches of backyard bugs, where Buck had found one and Tommy had dug around for its match, finally found it for him.

And there's the most obvious: Tommy standing in his kitchen gently cleaning a new vintage serving dish they'd found that Buck can't wait to cook in. Fuck, this is—it's what he wants.

Buck has been thinking and staring long enough that Tommy's finished drying off the dish. He catches Buck's eye and smiles. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, kinda." Buck moves into the kitchen and stands across from him on the other side of the island. "Can we talk about something?"

He can see the way Tommy's shoulders immediately tense. "Yeah, of course. You can tell me anything."

"I know, but as I want this to go both ways," Buck says. He waits until Tommy's done drying the dish and Tommy's done when he realizes Buck isn't talking until he is.

"So what's up?" He looks so terrified already that Buck wants to back off; he doesn't want to be responsible for putting that expression on his face. But the only way out is through, and Buck has to get this thing moving.

"I want to try again. Us. Being together. Dating." Buck doesn't look away. "Would you want that?"

Tommy looks at him like there's a catch and, honestly, he's right to do it. There's lots of catches, Buck's going to make sure of that. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

They say it in unison: "What's the catch?" Tommy rolls his eyes, smiling, and Buck can't help tilting his head to follow his smile.

"We have to talk to each other," Buck says slowly. "I want to know you, Tommy. All of you. I mean it."

He can tell that a dozen self-deprecating jokes want to punch their way out of Tommy's mouth, but he's holding them back. He's digging. They might actually do this. Buck really hopes so.

"I think," Tommy says, "that when you scratch past all this, you're gonna find a whole lot of nothing."

"Yeah, well. Let me decide, would you?" Buck tries his best not to look away. "Maybe what you call nothing means more to me than everyone else's something."

Tommy nods, still unconvinced. Buck asks, "What do you want? What do you need? I want you to stay with me. What can we do to make that happen?"

The silence stretches out and Buck lets it. He can do this—he can make space for Tommy. He's just relieved that Tommy's trying. He's trying to try. He's digging and that's all Buck wants. He wants more Tommy.

"I listen to you, Evan," Tommy says, "and I think you're used to letting your words roll off people's backs. I'm not like that. I hear you. I take you seriously, so you have to watch what you say. You have to think about what you're saying before you say them to me. And if you promise to do that, then I'll promise to stay. I just—" Tommy drums his fingers nervously on the counter. "If I show you my feelings, I don't want them to get hurt. So don't hurt me with things you don't mean."

Buck nods. "Okay. Okay, I can try to do that."

"Okay." He's going to drum the kitchen island to pieces at this point. "And you have to give me time. Like." Tommy laughs and motions to himself. "The excavation process here? It's a long one. A long one. So just. Let me." Tommy smiles. "Like you're doing now. Like this."

"Okay. I can do that." Buck smiles back. "I like hearing things about you. I can listen, Tommy. I want to hear you. So talk to me."

"And we have to talk," Tommy says. "I don't want to bury things because I think you'll leave. I don't want to leave because I think you want me to bury things."

Buck nods, then grins. "I'm getting a notepad. We should write this down."

Tommy laughs. "Really? You can't remember this?"

"Now? Yeah. When we need it, in the moment? Maybe not! So: terms and conditions."

The only paper Buck has is a 5×5" notepad with a crate of vegetables printed in the corner. Tommy shakes his head as Buck comes around with a pen. "Okay, so."

"Come here," Tommy interrupts. He hugs Buck, his hand resting at the nape of Buck's neck. "We're doing this?" he asks quietly.

Buck hugs him back tight, pen and paper in one hand as he sways in his arms. "Yeah, we are. As soon as we finalize our contract."

Tommy hugs him tighter. Buck sighs with relief, the newest piece of his new life finally in place, exactly where he wants him to be.

[mikkies]

「 MAKE MY COLD HEART WARM, WILL YOU? 」

Paycheck x GN! Cruel King like! Reader

warnings: none

notes: I listened to valentine by laufey while writing this man..

CHANCE’S COIN FLIPPED once, then again, before landing silently in his palm. He didn’t even bother to check which side it landed on.

The usual grin on his face was dulled now—worn out, almost peaceful in the lull.

It had been a long round. Not the worst, but long enough to pull the edges of his confidence taut. Long enough to make him quiet.

Elliot sat nearby, legs stretched out, head leaned back with his eyes closed.

His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the edge of tension in his shoulders finally starting to loosen.

One of his gloves lay discarded beside him, and the tips of his fingers twitched faintly, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the adrenaline yet.

You sat between them, calm and still. Your posture was always straight, composed, unreadable to most.

To everyone else, you were ice—disciplined, efficient, untouched. But here, in this pocket of quiet, you were softer.

Your hand rested lightly against Elliot’s, fingers tracing slow, quiet lines over his knuckles.

The movement was delicate, careful, as though handling something fragile. Something you weren’t used to being allowed to touch.

Your other hand reached toward Chance, and without needing to be told, he shifted closer.

His shoulder bumped yours as he leaned into your side, head tilted like a tired cat seeking heat.

He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence wrap around the three of you like a worn blanket.

“You did well today,” you murmured, voice low and warm, soft in a way no one else had ever heard from you. “Both of you.”

Chance hummed under his breath, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxed further into your side. “You never say stuff like that.”

“Only when I mean it,” you said softly. “And only to you two.”

Elliot cracked one eye open at that, lips tugging upward in a faint, amused smile. “Must be serious then.”

You offered a smile back—small, but real. So rare it made Chance blink in surprise, as if seeing something precious and private. “It is.”

Your fingers brushed through Elliot’s hair with the same quiet reverence you'd use to dust off a crown. He tilted his head just slightly into your touch, and you didn’t pull away.

There was no crowd to impress, no kingdom to lead, no weight of the world hanging over you in this moment. Just them—just the ones who’d wormed their way into the quietest part of your chest.

The ones you could never be cold to, no matter how sharp your words were to anyone else. You carried yourself like a ruler—still, deliberate—but with them, you let yourself be small, human, gentle.

Chance let out a long breath and let his head fall fully to your shoulder. “Don’t let this go to your head,” he mumbled, “but… you’re really soft sometimes.”

You didn’t deny it. You just rested your chin lightly against his hair, fingers still tracing patterns across Elliot’s hand like a secret language you only used for them.

Neither of them said anything for a while. You didn’t need them to. You lived most of your life in silence—expectation, restraint, duty—but this silence was different. This was a silence you chose. A silence where nothing had to be hidden.

Elliot’s fingers finally curled around yours. A grounding gesture. A reminder that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

Chance’s coin slipped from his hand, rolling a slow, lazy circle on the ground before coming to a stop. He didn’t move to pick it up. Instead, he leaned closer.

“Hey,” he said after a while, voice almost sheepish. “You think we’re… enough? For you?”

You paused, brows drawing together slightly—not out of frustration, but caution. Your words didn’t come freely, not when it mattered.

You turned just enough to press a kiss—brief, almost imperceptible—into his hair. Then you looked at Elliot, who met your gaze with quiet patience.

“I’ve had crowns,” you said finally. “I’ve had power. Applause. Nothing ever lasted.”

You tightened your grip on Elliot’s hand. Shifted just slightly so Chance was held more securely in your side.

“You two are the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep.”

Chance went still at that, like he hadn’t expected an answer at all. His breath caught, sharp and soft, and he buried his face further into your shoulder. You pretended not to notice the wetness in his lashes.

Elliot let out a soft breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—and leaned forward to rest his forehead gently against yours.

“You don’t have to keep us,” he whispered. “You just have to let us stay.”

And you did.

You’re cold to the world, restrained, unreadable. But around them—just them—you’re soft in a way that would ruin your reputation if anyone ever saw it.

You never say "I love you" outright, but you speak it fluently in small gestures: adjusting Elliot’s collar without a word, brushing dust off Chance’s coat, standing between them and anything that might hurt.

Chance was the first to touch your heart. He talked circles around your silence, never shutting up, hoping to get a rise out of you.

When you didn’t push him away, he clung harder—like a stray dog realizing the porch light meant safety.

He jokes like it doesn’t matter, but when you rest a hand on his shoulder or murmur something only he can hear, he melts.

You’re the one person he never tries to charm, because he knows he doesn’t have to.

He calls you “majesty” or “boss” to poke fun, but there’s reverence in it too—like you’re something sacred.

Elliot understood you from the beginning. He never needed to be told what you felt—he saw it in the way your hand lingered when passing something, the way you watched him longer than necessary.

He never rushed you. He just waited.

He’s quiet, dependable. He never demands softness from you but always returns it when you offer it. You trust him most in silence.

He kisses your temple when you frown too long and murmurs things like, “You’re allowed to breathe,” when you don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding everything in.

They balance each other, and you keep them steady. Chance brings noise, emotion, fire. Elliot brings calm, direction, safety. You are the blade between them—sharp, sure, protective.

They lean into you from both sides, and though you rarely initiate it, you never pull away. You stand there, letting yourself be held like a shield turned warm.

You don’t sleep easily unless they’re nearby.

You always position yourself on the edge, facing the door. But when Chance clings to your side, or Elliot drapes an arm over your waist, you let yourself close your eyes.

They know not to speak when you’re like that. They just stay close. That’s all you ever need.

When you’re upset, you don’t raise your voice—you go quiet. That’s when Elliot takes your hand under the table. That’s when Chance backs off the teasing and leans against your shoulder.

They know your storms come in silence, not rage—and they’ve learned how to hold you through them.

You’re slow with affection, but precise. You don’t smother them.

You don’t gush. But when Chance is spiraling, your hand on the back of his neck is enough to ground him. When Elliot doubts himself, your steady gaze reminds him he’s never been alone.

You remember what snacks they like, how they like their tea, which side of the bed they prefer—because love, to you, is detail. It’s knowing. It’s never needing to be asked.

You’d die for them. But more importantly, you live for them. You rest because Elliot needs you to. You listen to Chance’s rambling plans because it makes him feel seen.

You smile—genuine, soft—because they’ve given you something you never thought you’d have: peace.

They make the cold parts of you feel human again. And you’d protect that with everything you are.

[rafeslvbug]

floridakilos!reader being judged at the country club…

it didn’t feel right– being in this place.

bubbly, colourful drinks, ralph lauren, jewellery that didn’t leave green marks after a few hours. you, thin-boned, slightly gaunt, simple stolen cross, and a white dress cut above your knees that rafe bought for you. the dress was expensive, just like these people. but the person inside it? didn’t fit.

the only thing that felt right was being on rafe’s arm..but even that became less certain.

rafe dipped his head to your ear, whispering a quick, “i’ll be back, baby, go get yourself a drink at the bar over there okay?” then his arm unwound itself from yours and he strolled towards a group of men you didn’t know, a reassuring nod thrown your way when he caught a glimpse of you stuck there. standing. lost.

you pushed your shaky legs to the bar, fingers hovering over the drinks menu, like you were scared to touch it. like putting your pogue fingerprints on it would earn you a fine you couldn’t pay.

“want anything ma’am?” the bartender asked, snapping your attention towards him.

you lip tore away from where it was anxiously being chewed between your teeth. “uh– uhm, could i get a diet coke?” you say meekly, and he flashes you a smile. he’s never seen your kind about here, not a pogue, but the scared type. the ones who behave like they don’t belong. you don’t have the same arrogance as everyone else here. he slides the coke over, lemon wedge and one of those sustainable straws.

you sit on a seemingly velvet-cushioned chair. waiting. sipping your coke. you hear snickers behind you. delicate and bitchy all at once. you’ve heard it before, from the girlfriends of barry’s buyers and various kooks you’d bump into at thrift stores. laughing because they shop here for vintage, you shop here because you have to.

head down, you try to ignore them, quiet still when rafe pulls up the chair next to you. “hey baby,” he grunts, settling a beer he must have collected earlier onto the table next to your coke. “ ‘m back.”

you just nod. try to get the sound of the girls out of your ear. you can hear everything.

“god she’s so weak.”

“does she even talk?”

“i’d hate to be him.”

rafe chuckles, draping an arm over the back of your chair. “can you hear those girls? god knows who they’re on about,” he mutters to you. he doesn’t know. he doesn’t realise they’re talking about you. but you do.

then: “y’know what i heard?”

“what?”

“i heard she was a prostitute..” one of them whisper, not so hushed.

rafe’s brows pinch together. demeanour shifting. his spine stiffens, fingers curling around the frame of your chair. you can see his head turn just barely their way.

“no way!” the other girl exclaims.

“oh yeah!..she apparently gave macy’s boyfriend a lap dance..”

“oh god, poor rafe; she’s disgusting!”

shame flushes your cheeks, head hung so low you don’t even notice rafe completely turn his body. “you wanna say that again?” he asks, voice low.

you lift your head at the sound of it, hand coming onto it his arm, trying to softly urge him to turn around. “rafe, please..”

“nah, it’s okay baby, these bitches have somethin’ they wanna say, they should say it to our faces.”

the girls are stunned. lips glossed together, side glancing each other for some way out.

“go on,” rafe demands. “you were callin’ her a prostitute huh? now i know my girl, an’ she’s not. but macy an’ her boyfriend? well i doubt that he’s satisfied seeing that he got off to a girl sittin’ on his lap, and i’m sure macy’s so desperate she didn’t dump his ass.“ it rolls off his tongue easily, and their mouths hang open, shook that he’d even speak to them like that. but he would, easily– for you.

“an’ you guys aren’t in much position to talk, you’re coming to this place three lonely, desperate girls, an’ pickin’ on someone happier than you, hm?” silence. “exactly.”

rafe turns back to you, shooting them a final look when they grumble something under their breaths. “you didn’t have to do that..” you tell him, tucked into his side.

“of course i did. won’t have anyone speaking like that to my girl.”

[si3rren]

BROUGHT THE HEAT BACK

enhypen masterlist

my wattpad story - ༒︎ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄 - 𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐍 ༒︎

grumpy!sunghoon x sunshine!reader | friends to lovers | slow burn to confession | jealousy-fueled realization | club setting

warning: soft boy energy, jealousy, flustered sunshine!reader, possessive grumpy!sunghoon, kisses, sloppy makeouts, neck kisses, short dress mentions, mutual pining, emotionally earned romance

summary: You’ve always been the cheerful one. Sunghoon? Not so much. But when a guy won’t stop flirting with you at a party, the boy who’s spent the last few months acting like he barely tolerates your sunshine suddenly doesn’t want to let you go. Maybe your feelings weren’t one-sided after all…

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The bass thumped hard enough to shake the floor, colored lights flickering across sweaty limbs and grinning faces. It wasn’t your scene—too loud, too many people, too many chances to trip in your admittedly very short, very cute dress—but your best friend had begged, and you were nothing if not a people-pleaser.

Well, a selective one.

“Wow,” came a flat voice beside you, slicing through the chaos. “I can’t believe you actually wore that.”

You turned, grinning as you looked up at the boy leaning against the wall with his usual half-scowl, half-blush expression. “And hello to you too, Sunghoon.”

He didn’t return the smile. Just blinked, slow and unimpressed, eyes briefly flicking down your legs before darting back to your face. “It’s freezing outside.”

“It’s warm in here,” you said, twirling a little just to irritate him. “Besides, I look cute.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “That’s the problem” and looked away, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

You’d known Sunghoon for months now. Met through mutual friends. Opposites in every sense—his dry sarcasm, your glittery optimism. And yet, somehow, you always ended up near him at parties. Next to him on group outings. Locked in what your friends called the slowest, most painfully obvious crush of the decade.

Not that he ever showed signs of liking you back.

Until tonight.

You were sipping from a plastic cup, laughing at something Jake said, when a stranger came up to you. Handsome. Tall. Smirking like he’d already decided he liked you.

“Hey,” the guy said, eyes dragging down your dress like a full-body scan. “You here with anyone?”

“Just friends,” you replied politely, already inching back.

“Well, maybe I can be more than that.”

He stepped closer.

You took another step back. “I’m actually—”

“She’s not interested.”

The voice came sharp and cold from behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Sunghoon had moved from the wall to your side without you even noticing. He wasn’t touching you, but the energy between you snapped like live wire. His jaw was clenched. His hand, loosely curled at his side, was shaking slightly.

The guy blinked. “And you are?”

“Someone who’ll break your jaw if you don’t walk away right now.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

You stared. Sunghoon never raised his voice. Never lost his cool. But this wasn’t anger—it was something else. Something low and guttural and protective.

The guy rolled his eyes but backed off, muttering something about crazy boyfriends as he disappeared into the crowd.

There was a long pause.

Then Sunghoon looked at you.

You were still holding your drink. Still stunned.

“I was handling it,” you said softly, not sure why your heart was racing.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “But I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

You blinked. “Since when do you care how people look at me?”

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Since the first night I met you and you wore those ridiculous glittery shoes and smiled at me like I didn’t scare you.”

You were still blinking.

He looked almost pained. “You drive me insane, you know that? Always so happy. So nice to everyone. And I thought I could just ignore it. But then you showed up in that—” he gestured vaguely at your dress, “and then that guy—”

You didn’t know what possessed you, but you stepped forward.

“So what?” you asked quietly. “You jealous?”

His mouth twitched.

Then he did something you didn’t expect—he reached out and patted your head. Gently. Like it killed him but he needed to touch you somehow.

“I’m not jealous,” he muttered. “I’m completely fucking gone for you.”

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

And then you were grabbing the collar of his hoodie and pulling him down and he was kissing you like he’d waited his whole life to get permission. It wasn’t sweet. It was messy and open-mouthed and breathless. His lips moved like he was starved, one hand gripping your waist, the other cupping your cheek like you were something breakable. You whimpered into his mouth and he groaned in response, sliding his mouth down your jaw to kiss your neck.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, dazed, warm all over.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you. “I’m serious,” he said, forehead resting against yours. “I don’t want anyone else looking at you like that. I don’t want anyone else touching you.”

You giggled. “You’re grumpy even when you’re confessing.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “You like it.”

You smiled, eyes soft. “Yeah. I really do.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Less panic. More promise.

And when the night ended, and the music faded, and your friends found you tucked into Sunghoon’s hoodie, his arm slung lazily around your shoulder, you didn’t need to say anything.

Because the way he looked at you said it all.

____________

thank you for reading!!

reblogs, feedbacks and comments are appreciated!!! <3

[gojoest]

college au with satoru where he’s that guy on campus who’s unfairly attractive and filthy rich, and just to make things worse — he’s also annoyingly brilliant when it comes to his studies. he has an endless list of admirers, but somehow his attention has been locked on you from the very first day.

one look and one sarcastic comment from you on orientation day — and suddenly gojo satoru was a little too interested in you. and to be fair, so were you. and the two of you have been toeing the line ever since — he flirts with you plenty, and you flirt back. it’s all playful banter and, technically speaking, you’re not dating, but everyone can feel the tension — which is not exactly subtle.

he always sits next to you during class and likes to walk you to your dorm even when his building is across campus. your texts go back and forth all day, usually until one of you falls asleep mid convo. he’s basically acting like you’re already his, because in his mind, that is the natural next step. and honestly, you’re not exactly fighting it.

campus gossip has already decided that the two of you are inevitable, some even refer to you as if you’re already together. they’re all there for the slow burn.

but, what nobody knows is that satoru is a little too crazy about you.

you’re halfway through your nightly routine when you hear a knock — not from the door, but from your window. you blink, a little startled — but still, you pull open the curtain.

and there he is, gojo satoru — standing on your dorm balcony like it’s the most casual thing in the world to climb 4 stories just to say hi.

“seriously?” you ask, sliding the balcony door open. “you scaling buildings now?”

“you left me on read”, he pouts, as if that explains everything.

“it’s been only five minutes. i was getting ready for bed and i was going to reply once i settle in”

“yeah, figured that”, he says. “but what if you were texting some other guy in the meantime? i got restless, you see? couldn’t take the risk. had to come and check.”

you laugh. “you came all the way up here to check my phone?”

“no”, he smirks. “i came to make sure you were too busy to text anyone else”, he winks before adding — “i mean, c’mon. other guys can slide into your dms — which i hate to even imagine — but i’m out here scaling balconies in the middle of the night. we are not the same”

you roll your eyes, trying (but failing) not to smile. “you’re insane”

“yeah?” he grins. “insanely into you”

[valentinedrifter]

Would you drink mixed vodka if you're sipping from

Kkura's titties?

Get it? You're sipping vodka from her booba so there's m-

*gets bonked by hammer*

Uh... something something stay hydrated 🤭 :sakusip:

Hi!

Short answer: Yes.

Long answer:

Snippets with Sakura: Shots

male reader x Miyawaki Sakura

~1.1k words

A/N: This isn't the Sakura fic by the way (which, funnily enough, also has the festival fit in mind), but Frisky showed up with the festival receipts and well, BFH is a helluva drug.

Thanks for the ask Frisky! Stay hydrated too!

Enjoy.

—

“Saki, babe, hold on–” You’re cut off by a shove, sending you crashing down onto the couch. The soft foam cushions your fall, your weight sinking into the dark cotton. You never even had the moment to stabilize yourself before she’s swinging her legs on top of you, trapping you in between her and the sofa. “Let’s just put the bottle down–” 

“But it’s so good–” She slurs, this dopey grin on her lips as she takes another swig of the bottle in her hands, purple, sweet, and troublesome. You swear that bottle was full a minute ago. She lets out a refreshed gasp, before she starts to sway her head to the beat of the music outside the door. “You should take a shot.”

She goes in for another sip before her lips crash against yours, her free hand tangles in your hair, tugging you deeper into her mouth. Your hands find her hips on instinct, smelling the alcohol projecting off her like perfume, before it invades your mouth, tasting it on her lips as she feeds you a shot of booze.

You try to fight back against her, but another tug of your hair stills you from any form of retort. Her tongue coaxes your mouth open, deepening the kiss, and you get a hit of berries, vodka, and saliva flooding your tongue.

Her head tilts, insistent on swapping spit alongside the liquor, rolling it off her tongue and into yours as you swallow it all in one gulp. It’s dripping off her chin when she pulls away, and she cleans it with a swipe of her tongue.

“Y'know, that other game looked pretty fun earlier.” She draws it out, resting the bottle on your chest. You watch as she flares her (your) jacket off her shoulders, sliding down her arms and letting it pool around your legs. You immediately dart down to her chest, the white crop top sticking to her breasts even as she stretches upward.

“I don’t think we should be doing this here.” You attempt to dissuade her from what she’s planning by grabbing the bottle by the neck. “Someone could come in–”

“Only Chae has the keys.” She cuts you off, taking the bottle out of your hands with surprising strength. “Besides, everyone’s enjoying the party downstairs.”

She angles the bottle downward, letting a small drop dribble past its tip and onto her collarbone, gasping at the first contact on her skin. The liquid trickles down to her chest, staining her top.

“Is this how they did it?” She asks, pouring more, letting it spill and disappear into her cleavage. She gives a tiny little tug at the neckline of her clothing, showing enough to make your cock twitch. “Oh, someone wants to play.”

You let out a curse as she shifts in your lap, every grind of her hips sending jolts of pleasure straight to your cock, straining your pants.

“I liked that top.” You try to focus elsewhere, on anything else that wasn’t her ass on your lap, but the stains get darker, seeping deeper into the fabric, her entire damn chest damp with the alcohol.

“You always ruin this one.” She smirks, pulling it down over her breasts, letting you know that she didn’t wear a bra tonight, bunching the cloth up over her hips. “Remember the last time?”

“Uh-huh.” You’ve blanked out—now entirely focused on the chest, glistening in booze, making them even more delicious than they already were. Her nipples were swollen, and you can’t help but lick your lips at the view you’ll never get tired of.

“Come on,” Her hands cradle your cheeks, tilting your head upwards to meet her eyes. “Consider it a reward for passing the exams.”

“For you or for me?” She answers you with a push of her chest, making sure that your mouth lands right on one of her tits.

It’s amazing how much better she tastes when liquor’s mixed in, though that might be the alcohol talking as you suckle on the hard nub for a moment before you lick the liquid clinging to her skin. Your hands wrap around her frame, reeling her in to enjoy the treat she’s given you.

You’re everywhere the drink went; Starting from one of her tits, wrapping your lips around the bud to give it a suck before pulling off with a pop, moving to her neglected peak and doing the same. You go through all the directions, lapping up every drop of vodka and sweat on her, chasing it before it falls down to soak her bunched up top any further.

She doesn’t help out at all. Letting out these breathy moans, pressing you closer to her with tugs of your locks, to direct you to where she wants you next. Her cleavage, her collarbone, her neck. Her hips never stop rolling on your lap, never giving you a reprieve from her.

You can’t talk, not when you’re too busy getting drunk on her to do anything about it. You venture upwards, giving her neck a quick suck, making sure to leave a hickey. You can hear her trying not to laugh, giving you a quick slap on the shoulder. You blow air through your nose, chuckling as she moves you back into her breasts.

“Ass.”

“You love it.” You murmur against her nipple, wrapping your lips around her, flicking your tongue up, down, left, right. A hard suckle and a bite of her teat makes her moan all the more louder.

“Milk’s not gonna come out baby.” She giggles as you suck harder, greedier, deepening the suction. “Not unless you fill me up.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Drool leaks from your chin. “Breed me right here,” Your cock throbs. “Make me go back outside full of your cum.”

“Last time this happened, we almost got caught.” You pull away from her, already missing her in your mouth. “You wanna push it again?”

“We aren’t doing it in a bathroom are we?” She gulps down the last of its contents, dropping it down next to you. She’s already fumbling around your pants, unbuttoning them. “We can make it quick, come on–”

Now that you found out that she was a horny drunk, you are never letting her near alcohol again. Not unless it was a private affair, where you’re sure as shit gonna enjoy every second of it. Like what’s happening right now.

You were about to push her off you, grab a hold on the waistband of her shorts and yank them down until you hear the door make an audible click.

“Saki, where the hell have you been–” The door opens, Chaewon bursting through the door, before she freezes at the sight of you two. Oh fuck.

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: tara feels like she knows you - your charm, busted ankle, and the desire to be the best. but, after attending mindy’s long-awaited student film festival, she realizes she barely knows what’s underneath the obsessed artist you are.

warnings: mature language, torn acl (rip)

word count: 6.1k

author’s note: not so sure about this chapter but here it is!

previous part | next chapter

——————

The second the front door clicks shut behind you, a collective exhale leaves your group like you've just disarmed a bomb. You all freeze for a second, waiting for some noise from inside — a thud, a groggy Sam scream, the unmistakable sound of Tara trying to use the blender at one in the morning.

Nothing.

Mindy silently throws her head back, arms raised to the sky like she's seen God. "Holy shit. I didn't think we were gonna make it."

"She kept saying her key was in her boot," Chad adds, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. "She wasn't wearing boots."

"I'm still emotionally recovering from when she tried to kiss the doorknob goodnight," Anika says, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter around her shoulders as you all start heading back toward campus. The pavement is wet with leftover rain, glistening in the streetlights. The air smells like hot dog water, weed, and victory.

"She thought the doorknob was a person," Mindy corrects. "She said, and I quote: 'You've always seen me for who I really am.'"

You laugh — harder than you mean to — and your breath clouds up in the air in front of you. Everything feels a little surreal. Your ankle still aches from the game, your voice is half-gone from yelling, and there's a dried smear of Gatorade on your sweatshirt, but none of it matters.

Because you won. And Tara was there. Watching. She showed up to the party, drunk off her ass from frat-party vodka and looking at you like you'd hung the moon.

"Okay, but," Chad says, suddenly grinning. "She was kinda obsessed with you tonight."

You glance at him, playing dumb. "What?"

"Oh, don't 'what' me." He bumps your shoulder. "Every time you touched the ball, she gasped like she was watching a murder documentary. And when you hit that floater in OT? I swear to God, she grabbed my arm and whispered, 'That's my favorite play.'"

"She doesn't even know what a floater is," Mindy mutters.

"She knows now," Chad says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Because her hot jock crush did it."

"I don't have a—" you start, but Anika cuts you off, spinning around to walk backward in front of you.

"Oh please. She was basically wrapped around your shoulder the whole walk home. If she had been even one tequila shot more coherent, she would've proposed."

You shove your hands in your pockets and look down at the sidewalk, trying to hide the way your face is heating up. "She was drunk."

"Drunk minds, sober hearts," Mindy intones like it's gospel.

You roll your eyes, but it's no use. They've got you cornered, and they know it.

And maybe it's not just teasing. Maybe there's truth under it — in the way Tara had leaned against you like you were gravity, or how she'd looked at you with those sleepy brown eyes and whispered, "You smell like orange Gatorade. I think I love you." You'd laughed at the time, brushed it off like a joke.

But now? Now you're not so sure.

Your friends keep talking — Chad's going on about post-game waffles, Mindy and Anika are arguing over the ethics of shipping real people — but your mind stays back at that house, with that girl.

The night's cold, but you're buzzing.

And you're not sure if it's the win, or if it's her.

Your dorm is quiet. Everyone else is probably passed out — teammates drunk off cheap beer, fans still posting shaky game clips to Instagram. Your ankle's elevated, still sore from overtime. You've showered, iced, changed, but your brain hasn't shut off. Not with the win. Not with her. Not with the amount of alcohol you should've never touched an hour ago.

But you were used to this - your brain never quite shutting up. Celebratory parties had been a normal occurrence for the basketball team this past year with your sudden burst of talent. But nonetheless, it still hit you like a truck.

You're lying on your bed, one arm behind your head, scrolling through your camera roll — not looking for anything in particular, just avoiding sleep. You stop when you get to a photo someone AirDropped after the game. A blurry shot of you mid-jump shot.

And in the background — Tara. Sitting just a little too close to the court. Hands cupped around her mouth, eyes locked on you.

Your phone buzzes.

Tara Carpenter [2:11 AM]

question

if i showed up at your door right now

would you make me food

or would you kiss me

just wondering

Tara Carpenter [2:13 AM]

ignore that

tequila and shame

i'm gonna disappear now

You [2:14 AM]

depends

what kind of food

what kind of kiss

Tara Carpenter [2:15 AM]

food: grilled cheese

kiss: the kind that makes people sit down after

You [2:15 AM]

damn

you're aiming high for 2am and no warning

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

you played good tnn

i'm vulnerable

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

and you won the game

and looked stupuudly hot doing it

so maybe this is your fault actually

You don't respond right away. You're reading every word like it's written in code, like she's going to take it back the second you answer wrong.

Then:

You [2:19 AM]

i'd let you in

grilled cheese first

kiss second

then you can pretend it never happened in the morning if that makes it easier

There's a pause. You stare at the message. Your heart is a little louder now.

Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:22 AM]

i wouldn't want to forget

just wouldn't know what to do after

That one stays on your screen for a long time.

You don't move.

You reread it five times.

Then you type:

You [2:25 AM]

maybe don't think about the after yet

just think about the now

and the fact that i want you here

Typing... Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:26 AM]

that makes two of us

fuck

goodnight

And that's it.

No emoji. No follow-up. No jokes to soften the edge.

Just honesty. Brief and blazing.

And now you're just lying there, heart pounding, wide awake at 2:30 AM — smiling like a fucking idiot.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is ninety percent sure she died last night and this is purgatory.

She's seated on the lowest step of the auditorium stage, hunched forward in a hoodie she stole from Mindy three months ago and never gave back. Her hair is pulled into the kind of messy claw clip arrangement that says I've given up, and her sunglasses are oversized, crooked, and doing a barely adequate job shielding her from the blazing overhead lights Mindy insisted on turning to "full stadium brightness."

The room is a disaster: folding chairs half-unstacked, extension cords snaking across the floor like live wires, glitter already stuck to Tara's socks. There's a faint buzzing from the AV booth that's threatening to break her last functioning brain cell in half. And through all of it, Mindy is marching around the room like a caffeinated auteur on the verge of a nervous breakthrough.

"Can someone explain to me why the projector screen is hung at a 73-degree angle?" Mindy calls, pointing dramatically at the ceiling like she's directing Inception. "I said cinematic, not asymmetrical trauma!"

"Those are the same thing," Tara mutters from her corner.

"I heard that!"

Tara slumps further into herself and presses her forehead to her knees. She is not built for this. She is built for drinking four and a half tequila shots, dancing to Rihanna, sending risky texts at 2 a.m., and then disappearing for a full 24 hours. Not public service. Not ladders and paper lanterns and Mindy yelling things like "non-linear aesthetics."

"You good down there, T?" Chad asks from a few feet away, where he's unraveling yet another string of tangled fairy lights with all the enthusiasm of a man serving time.

"I'm thriving," she mumbles, deadpan.

"I think I saw your soul leave your body ten minutes ago," Anika adds, stepping over an extension cord with a roll of black gaffer tape in one hand and an iced chai in the other.

Tara lifts one middle finger, then rests her head back on her knees.

And then—

The doors open.

They creak a little too loudly, and Tara winces like a vampire mid-sunrise. But when she lifts her head and looks toward the light, the glare fades — and there you are.

Hoodie on. Sweatpants. That familiar confident walk that says you definitely slept in. And in your hand: a brown paper bag, slightly grease-stained, clutched like a talisman. You scan the chaos, zero in on her like a heat-seeking missile, and start walking.

Tara's stomach flips.

It's you. With food. And a smile she absolutely does not trust.

She immediately looks away. Bites the inside of her cheek. Tries very hard to pretend she didn't send a string of late-night texts about kissing you and sandwiches — in that order — and then double texted. It's fine. You probably didn't read them. You probably forgot.

But then you're right in front of her.

"Morning, Princess of Darkness."

She peers up at you over the rim of her sunglasses. "Are you here to help or just to mock me?"

"I brought you breakfast." You shake the paper bag like it's a peace treaty. "Which technically makes me a hero."

She stares at it, suspicious. "What is it?"

"Grilled cheese. Fresh off the griddle. Or, like... fresh-ish. I stole it from a freshman who looked like he might cry if I made eye contact."

She sighs. "You are so full of shit."

"And cheddar," you say, winking. "Come on. I figured you were still deciding between kissing me or eating, and I didn't want to make you choose on an empty stomach."

Tara turns fully toward you, pulling her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose like a judgmental librarian.

"So you read the texts."

You grin. "Printed them out. Had them laminated. Gonna hand them out at the next team dinner."

She narrows her eyes. "I hate you."

"But," you say, crouching beside her and placing the bag in her lap, "you're also currently accepting my grilled cheese."

She opens the bag with caution, like it might bite her. The sandwich is slightly flattened, a little too crispy on one side, but it smells amazing. She takes a bite before she can stop herself and immediately closes her eyes.

You watch her chew with a smirk.

"See? Better than your drunk imagination."

"I was imagining more cheese," she says flatly. "But this is... acceptable."

You fall back onto the floor beside her with a satisfied sigh, arms behind your head. "I bring you comfort food and witty banter and you still insult me. Incredible."

Tara glances sideways at you. Her voice softens just a touch. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," you say, looking up at the ceiling. "But I wanted to."

There's a beat. Her fingers tighten around the sandwich.

Across the room, Mindy is shrieking about someone using duct tape on the "vintage projection screen," and Chad is pretending to care. But here, in this little corner of the chaos, it's just you and Tara — her hoodie sleeves too long, your shoulder brushing hers, the ghost of last night's texts still hanging between you.

She nudges your arm with her elbow. "If I was drunk when I said I wanted to kiss you, does that mean you're gonna hold it against me forever?"

You glance at her. "Nope."

"Really?"

You smile.

"I'm gonna hold it against you now. You know. Just in case you want to say it again — sober."

She stares at you. Eyes sharp. Mouth twitching.

Then she takes another bite.

"Shut up and eat your own grilled cheese," she mutters.

"You didn't bring me one."

She leans back against the stage with a sigh and tosses you a crust. "Sucks to suck."

An hour later, lights are strung, the banner's (slightly crooked) but finally up. Chad's been gone for at least forty minutes, Mindy's yelling about lens ratios from behind a stack of folding chairs, and Tara — uh, well — Tara is sitting at the edge of the stage again, legs dangling, your half-eaten grilled cheese in one hand, the other tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her sunglasses are finally off. Her eyes are tired but clear now — and every time they glance at you, it's like the rest of the room fades.

You're standing just a few feet from her, tangled lights still wrapped loosely around your arm, pretending not to notice how she's watching you. Like you didn't spend the night texting each other things that neither of you have acknowledged since.

She licks a bit of melted cheese off her thumb and mumbles, "This is terrible, by the way.

You smirk. "And yet you're still eating it."

"I'm fragile and easily manipulated by carbs."

You walk over, gently toss the rest of the tangled lights onto a plastic chair, and say, "I'll keep that in mind next time I bribe you."

She hums. "Next time? Oh, you wanna hang out with me more, Varsity?"

You freeze for a second. You weren't expecting that, you never do whenever she calls you a stupid nickname. But then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out.

You feel the shift before you even check the time.

It's subtle — a change in the way your heartbeat settles, the way the lights on stage suddenly feel too bright, the way your chest starts to tighten like something's wrong.

1:06 PM.

Shit.

The press junket started at 1.

You were supposed to be there fifteen minutes early. Hair neat. Posture perfect. Answers locked and loaded — the same way you've been doing since you were fifteen, since the day they threw you in front of a local news camera after your first 30-point game and said, "Smile like that again, kid, and you'll get a full ride."

You've been smiling ever since.

You were the one who never broke routine. The one who never flinched. Early to every team meeting. First out on the court. Face of the program. Captain. Role model. The "serious one." You didn't have time to mess around. Didn't give anyone room to doubt you — not your coaches, not your family, not the girl who said once, "You never shut off, do you?"

But now?

You're in a dim auditorium filled with tangled fairy lights, folding chairs, and a last minute Postmates half-eaten grilled cheese cooling in a paper bag next to Tara Carpenter.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, hair up in a loose clip, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. There's a streak of red marker on her wrist from the banner she was working on earlier, and she's squinting up at the projector screen like she actually cares if it's perfectly centered.

You were supposed to stop by. Just for a second. Mindy asked for help. You said sure.

But really — it wasn't about the projector. It was never about the projector.

You wanted to see her.

Tara, who hasn't brought up your late-night texts.

Tara, who took the grilled cheese without flinching.

Tara, who hasn't stopped looking at you like she knows you're off your game, but hasn't said a word.

You tear your eyes away from her, throat dry.

"I have to go," you say, already backing up. Your voice comes out tight. "I'm—I'm so late."

Tara looks up, blinking like she just realized you were still here. "What?"

"Press. I was supposed to be at media by 11:40."

Her brows raise. "You're over an hour late?"

You grab your bag. "I lost track."

"Since when do you lose track?"

The words sting more than they should. You offer a tight smile. "Guess I'm slipping."

She watches you. Doesn't say anything. Just picks at the corner of the sandwich bag.

"I'll see you later?" you ask.

She shrugs. "You know where to find me."

That one hits low.

You don't say anything else. You turn, push the auditorium door open, and walk out into the light. Your heart's in your throat. Your legs feel heavier with every step.

For the first time in months, you feel like you're walking into something unprepared.

⸻

You don't see her at first.

You're running — not sprinting anymore, but that focused, panicked jog that says you know you're already late. Your legs ache. Sweat's pooling between your shoulder blades. Your chest is tight, but not from exertion. It's the shame. The spiral.

You shouldn't have stayed at the auditorium that long.

You shouldn't have forgotten what time it was.

You shouldn't have let her get to you like that.

And then you round the corner — cut behind the old campus bookstore — and she's there. Like a trap you didn't see until it was too late.

Leaning against the back of the brick wall like she's exactly where she was always meant to be. Hoodie unzipped. Leg up on the wall. A crutch tucked under her arm. Messy curls. Faded knee brace visible just under the hem of her biker shorts. And eyes locked on you before you can even process what's happening.

Riley.

You stop short.

Your breath catches. Your heart — already sprinting — stumbles in your chest.

She hasn't changed.

Still has that smirk that dares you to do something reckless. Still wearing her hoodie like armor, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Still chewing gum like she owns the sidewalk.

"You're late," she says, voice cool and unbothered.

You blink. "Riley."

"I heard you dropped forty last night," she adds, straightening slightly. "Big win. Real press-junket shit."

"I have to be there now," you say, already trying to step past her. "I can't—"

She moves just a little. Not blocking your path. But not exactly making it easy, either. "I'm not gonna keep you," she says. "Just thought it was funny. Watching you run like that."

You don't answer.

She cocks her head. "You always used to walk. Strutted like you didn't owe anyone anything."

"That was a long time ago."

"One year," she says. "Not that long."

You glance at your watch. Time slipping like sand.

"I can't do this," you mutter.

Riley exhales a laugh — sharp and low. "Why? 'Cause it's not part of your little routine? Wake up. Stretch. Get coached. Smile for the cameras. Pretend the game still matters."

Your jaw tightens. "It does matter."

"To who?" She steps in, voice low now, less mocking — more real. "You used to play with teeth. You remember that? You'd claw for the ball like it owed you rent. Elbows out. Head down. Angry. Mean. Beautiful."

You look away.

"I remember," she says. "You were fire back then. You played like the world hurt you and you were gonna hurt it back."

"I had to."

"No, you wanted to. That's what made you better than everyone else."

She's closer now. You can smell her — vanilla and sweat and old gym floors. You remember late nights in the rec center, the sound of rubber on concrete, her laugh echoing off empty bleachers. You remember splitting a pack of Sour Straws and a warm water bottle between you and calling it dinner. She was your best friend - your role model in the sport of basketball, but since her injury the two of you had never been the same.

You took her spot as the best player on the court and she hated you for it.

"You've gone soft," she says.

You flinch.

She nods toward your chest. "Press junkets. Gatorade deals. You used to burn. Now you just, kind of… float."

"I've changed."

"Yeah. You have." She says it like a compliment. But it feels like an insult.

Your voice is small when you say, "That's a good thing."

Riley looks at you — really looks at you — and for a second, there's no smile.

Just honesty.

"You don't even look like you believe that."

You inhale sharply. Stare past her. Focus on the double doors to the athletic center. Focus on anything but the guilt blooming behind your ribs.

"I have to go," you say.

She steps back, slow, letting you pass.

"You always do."

You're already walking away when she calls out behind you. "Hey. You were more dangerous when you were angry. Now? You're just trying to be liked. Hope that works out for you."

You keep moving. You don't look back.

But something in you flickers.

Something old.

Something red and hot and loud.

You tell yourself you're better now.

You tell yourself she's wrong.

But God, it would feel good to play like that again.

You shove the door open to the athletic wing and instantly feel it — the shift in temperature, the sterile fluorescent light, the silence that isn't really silent.

The press room is just down the hall, past the trophy case and the wall of grainy team photos. You can hear muffled voices inside, the tap of a mic being adjusted, someone clearing their throat. And standing just outside the door, back to you, arms crossed so tight his biceps strain against his quarter-zip?

Coach Ryan.

He turns before you can even open your mouth. "You wanna explain to me what the hell this is?"

You freeze.

He walks toward you in three long strides, and suddenly he's too close — the way he gets when he's really mad. That sharp cologne. The clipboard clutched in his hand like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing something.

"I gave you one job. One. Show up. Look sharp. Represent this team."

"Coach, I—"

"You're over an hour late," he snaps. "An hour. Do you know how bad that looks?"

"I was—"

"Don't say film club," he growls. "Don't give me that bullshit again."

You clamp your mouth shut.

"You think you're untouchable because you dropped forty last night? You think that means you get to roll in here whenever you want, looking like you just crawled out of bed?"

Your jaw clenches. "It wasn't like that."

He jabs a finger at your chest. "Then tell me what it was like."

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You can't say Riley's name. You won't say Mindy’s.

So you lie. "It was tutoring."

Coach stares at you.

His voice goes quiet — which is worse. So much worse. "Don't test me."

You look away.

"I stuck my neck out for you," he says, still low. "Told them you were the future of this program. Told them you were a leader. You're lucky your teammate's been covering your ass in there. You're lucky the press is obsessed with you right now. But that shine fades fast, kid."

Silence.

Then: "You think you're focused, but I see it. You're slipping. Just enough. Just enough for someone to start wondering if you're worth betting on."

That one lands. You feel it deep. In your chest. In your stomach. In your legs.

You finally meet his eyes. "I'm still locked in."

Coach steps closer.

"Then prove it. Get in there. Own the room. And stop letting whatever—whoever—is pulling your focus drag you off the court."

You nod, stiff. "Yes, sir."

He doesn't step aside. Not yet.

"You screw this up again?" he says, voice deadly quiet. "You're not starting next week. I don't care how many points you drop. I need consistency. Not drama."

You swallow hard. "I understand."

Finally, he moves.

You walk past him toward the press room, trying not to feel how heavy your feet are. You swipe your hoodie sleeve across your forehead. You adjust your posture. You smooth out your face.

By the time you open that door, you're someone else. Smile tight. Shoulders straight. Answers ready.

But in the back of your mind, Riley's still there.

And Coach's words echo louder than the flash of any camera.

"You're slipping."

⸻

The lighting is low and warm, the air smelling like popcorn, eucalyptus body spray, and a flicker of something sweet from the nearby snack table — maybe pink lemonade punch or store-brand cupcakes with too much frosting. Fairy lights zigzag across the ceiling, flickering slightly, and someone's pressed a red filter over the projector so the entire room glows faintly like an afterparty no one invited you to — but everyone showed up for anyway.

And then there's you.

Not overdressed. Not showy. But the kind of unintentionally perfect that turns heads anyway. You're wearing a soft white tank-top over your favorite push-up bra — too much, in your mind, actually — right above your loose jeans. Your jacket is cropped, dark green, slightly faded at the collar, the kind you've worn to death and still get complimented on. Hair half-up with a claw clip, a few strands falling in that soft, face-framing way. Lip balm. Gold necklace layered with a team pendant. Nails painted — chipped, but still pretty.

You enter with your team behind you — your teammates trailing like a tide. All chaos and all clearly dragged here against their will.

Zoey, in bike shorts and a "Property of Women's Basketball" hoodie, is yawning dramatically while balancing a snack plate in one hand and a Gatorade in the other. Tasha, always dramatic, has a silk headscarf and a matching mini-purse slung over her shoulder, even though she's wearing sweats. Naomi, queen of judgment, is already critiquing the zine like it's a Yelp review. "Why are there six films about grief and none about revenge? Film kids are so unserious."

You settle into the back row with them, dropping into the middle seat like a queen returning to her court. You tug your jacket sleeves over your hands and glance forward —

— and you finally see her for the first time since the morning.

Fourth row. Burgundy dress with a slouchy knit cardigan thrown over it now, sleeves pushed up. She looks the opposite of death - a contrast of how exhausted she looked that morning. Her boots are laced all the way, but one sock is slightly rolled. Her hair's up, her gloss is fresh, and she's surrounded: Mindy, pacing like a tiny director; Anika, lounging with a lollipop in her mouth. They look like a perfectly styled trio of indie film festival royalty.

Tara hasn't looked back.

But her shoulders tense when you laugh.

And when your teammates loudly drop into their seats behind her row, exchanging gum and talking way too loudly about how "the girl in that poster kinda looks like you," she adjusts her cardigan like she's trying to focus. Like something is under her skin.

You lean toward Zoey and take a sip of her drink without asking. "You think anyone here knows what a pick and roll is?" you whisper.

Zoey scoffs. "No. But they definitely know what sexual repression looks like. And I think you're the cause."

You huff out a laugh — but your eyes flick back toward Tara.

She still hasn't turned around.

But she knows.

You're here. You're watching.

And she's wearing that dress like it's armor now.

Mindy taps the mic at the front, the room buzzing low with whispers and last-minute texts. "Welcome to REEL LOVE, a night of short films, long feelings, and no budget," Mindy deadpans. "Please don't leave during the one that's silent and sad. It's about grief, and also bees.”

Laughter rolls through the room. You smile without meaning to.

The lights dim. The screen flickers. A lo-fi opening title card appears. And as you shift in your seat, tugging your jacket a little tighter, you swear Tara glances over her shoulder.

Just once.

Long enough to see you.

Long enough to know she's not winning tonight.

Not when you look like that.

Not when you don't care if she looks or not.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is not the type to overdress.

But the maroon dress isn't overdressed — it's calculated. Soft velvet, subtle square neckline, sleeves that hug her wrists. Her hair's up, gold clip catching under the theater lights every time she leans in to whisper something to Anika. The kind of outfit that says: I came to support my friends. I came to look hot doing it.

And maybe — maybe — she came to see if you'd say something.

You're two rows back, stretched out with your teammates like you own the row. Laughing too loud. Throwing popcorn at each other. Every time the light from the screen flickers just right, she swears you're looking at her.

The festival's going well. Mindy's lineup is tight. The shorts are weird, sharp, short enough to keep the crowd from shifting in their seats. Everyone's relaxed. Comfortable. Tara even laughs once — really laughs — when a claymation character swan-dives into a bowl of tomato soup.

She leans in toward Anika, "I need to pee. Save my seat."

Anika nods without looking.

Tara stands, smooths her skirt, and slips into the glowing aisle light.

The hallway outside is jarringly bright. Stark white. Cold tile floors. The overhead lights buzz faintly — the kind of artificial hum that makes you feel like you're waiting for something to go wrong.

Tara rolls her shoulders back, stretching out the tension from sitting. She glances toward the restroom, already halfway there, when she hears them.

Two girls.

Standing by the water fountain, dressed in layered thrift-store cardigans and vintage skirts that scream effortless film major. One of them is fiddling with a camcorder keychain. The other's reapplying clear gloss, talking with the ease of someone who always assumes she's being listened to.

"I saw Riley last night at the club off Main Street and now I see Y/N tonight? Such a small world, to be honest. But, I still can't believe Y/N just walks around like nothing happened."

"Right? Like, full smile, no guilt, just... laughing with her little team."

"It's so insane. Everyone knows she's the reason Riley doesn't even go here anymore."

Tara slows mid-step.

Her brow furrows.

“She didn't break her knee, obviously, but she made sure that spot stayed closed, you know? Riley tried to come back."

"Yeah, and Coach just 'couldn't make room' Please."

"Exactly. And now she's all over Mindy and Tara like she's some reformed jock lesbian with a Letterboxd account."

“She’s totally trying to date Tara.” The girl with the lipgloss snickers, “I heard she asked Carpenter to tutor her.. classic athlete stereotype.”

Laughter.

The mean kind. Shiny and sharp and fast.

"Honestly, I give her a month. Tops. She'll ghost both of them, she’ll stop acting dumb in school and date a junior in a varsity jacket who thinks Carol is a foreign film."

"Tara's so smart. Like, how does she even fall for that?"

"Because she thinks she's different around her. They always think that."

Tara goes still. Fully still.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Just — hit.

Like someone tossed cold water at her chest, and now she's trying not to react. The voices around the corner don't lower. They're not trying to be quiet. They're trying to be right.

She stares ahead at the wall, blank. Posters curl at the edges. Someone's missing cat flyer flutters in the AC vent breeze and for the first time tonight — maybe the first time since you showed up in her world with that lopsided smile and quiet confidence — Tara thinks:

Who are you? Like… actually?

Because yeah, you bring her grilled cheese when she's too hungover to move. You show up to study sessions half-asleep but still remember the exact timestamp of the scene she couldn't stop analyzing. You lean into her space like it belongs to you, throw her looks across the quad that make her forget how to breathe. You flirt like it's your first language, but every now and then — every rare now and then — it softens into something that feels like maybe you mean it.

And maybe she started to believe it.

But you also have this whole other version of yourself tucked away like it doesn't exist — a version she's only just starting to glimpse through whispers and side-eyes and conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. A version that makes her realize how much you've chosen to keep from her.

Not lies.

Just... silence.

That's almost worse.

Because now she's re-running everything. The study sessions. The walks home. The near-moments that could've been something more if either of you were better at being honest.

And she realizes:

She doesn't really know you.

She knows about you. The things you let people see, the cool detachment. The jokes that always come before sincerity, the way you brush off compliments like they're nothing but flinch when someone says your name with real weight. She knows you're good at math, that your coach rides you harder than anyone else on the team, that your teammates trust you but don't really get you.

She knows your dad's a sore spot. She knows there's something buried there — something bitter and sharp — but you've never said a word. She's guessed at it, sure. She's pieced things together from the way your face hardens when family gets mentioned, from the times you go quiet after a win, like celebration doesn't feel safe.

She knows. But not because you told her.

Because she watched.

Because she paid attention.

Because she wanted to understand you without you ever asking her to.

And maybe... maybe that was the problem.

Because Tara does the same thing.

She hides behind precision. Behind snark and sarcasm and perfect eyeliner. She controls her space — her image — like it's armor. And the worst part? She thought maybe you understood that. She thought maybe that's why this thing between you felt different. That you saw each other's closed doors and knocked gently instead of barging through.

But tonight — hearing people talk about you like they know you — Tara realizes something gutting: She doesn't know if you'd ever open the door at all.

And it's not that she thinks you're cruel. Or calculated. Or cold.

It's that maybe you're just like her.

Too used to surviving to let anyone all the way in.

And that terrifies her. Because if she was letting herself hope — if she thought this meant something — then what does that say about her, falling for someone who never promised anything real?

She thought the flirting had weight. She thought the silence between jokes mattered.

She thought maybe you were waiting, like she was.

But maybe you were just good at pretending.

And she was just easy to believe it.

She walks back into the auditorium quietly. Shoulders straight. Dress clinging just enough to feel present.

She takes her seat next to Anika.

Doesn't look back.

Doesn't lean sideways.

Doesn't laugh when your teammates burst out giggling during the next short's credits.

She crosses her arms. Picks at her thumbnail. Tries to focus on the screen.

But your laugh carries.

And suddenly, it sounds a little different.

————

second author’s note: this was written at 4am no proofread so bare w me

[azzishands]

Fan of a fan - Chapter thirteen

Paige x Azzi

Warnings: Mature content

A/N: Last chapter, let's go! I'm sorry if this is under expectations, but it was hard to write it because it kinda felt like it had already ended in a way? But I hope it gives some kind of feeling of closure at least. (I've already begun writing the next fic, which is also why I've had less inspiration to write this chapter. Can't wait to share it with y'all later!)

Masterlist

---

The first test of their reconciliation came immediately. 

Of course the video of Paige Bueckers staring right at Azzi Fudd as the curtains closed after an epic performance of Iris went viral. It looked like a scene straight out of a movie. 

Paige, looking like the bittersweet song in human form, just standing on stage, looking at Azzi, while everyone else was looking at Paige, while the whole venue of A-list celebrities were erupting in praise.

People were making reaction videos on youtube and tiktok and wrote long think-pieces on twitter. Fanfictions were starting to overflow on every platform about that very moment. 

‘If this isn’t a confirmation that the two did in fact date years ago, I don’t know what is’, one hit-tweet said. 

Another said: ‘I KNEW THE MAKEOUT PICTURES OF THEM YEARS AGO WASN’T MADE UP IN MY MIND’

The internet loved it. They loved them. 

Except Paige’s fans.

‘Thought we were done with this’, one tweet said with an eye-roll emoji. 

‘Please, Paige was just nervous and needed to look at a familiar face in the crowd, it’s not that deep,’

‘Nah, that should be me’, and so on. 

Azzi had seen those comments, and had rolled her eyes at them by instinct. But it wasn’t comparable to the amount of supportive comments about the two. Her dm:s were filled with people reaching out, being nosy, being supportive, wanting to interview her about it. 

All of her friends had sent several videos and pictures of the captured moment. 

Storm Reid: ‘Girl, if y’all don’t get together already, I don’t know what’

Auli’i Cravalho: ‘This is some movietype shit’ 

Ayo Edebiri: ‘PLEASE’

Never before had she been showered with people actually rooting for them so loudly like this. And it was the same for Paige. 

“Our A&R just wrote me a long message about how she hopes we find our way back to each other,” Paige chuckled and showed Azzi, who was lounging on her couch. 

“That’s cute,” Azzi cooed. “I just got this DM from someone telling me how much seeing that video helped them come out, and that’s just crazy. In a good way.”

The two women were in Azzi’s apartment. The plan was to go on a date in the evening, but Paige had insisted on hanging out with Azzi before the date, because she couldn’t wait to get to see her. 

It had been a couple days after the Academy Awards, and the attention the video was bringing them made Azzi a bit hesitant about actually going out at a public place for their first date. Mostly because she didn’t want to rush Paige into being comfortable with it. 

“You know, we don’t have to go out tonight. We can stay in, if that would be… better,” Azzi said carefully as Paige plumped down on the couch next to her. 

“I know,” Paige simply shrugged. “But I really want to go out with you.”

“You sure?” Azzi didn’t mean to sound like she was constantly testing Paige’s feelings, but she just wanted to make sure that Paige didn’t push herself too hard for Azzi’s sake. 

“Yeah. I might be a bit nervous, but that’s just because I’m going on a date with you,” Paige looked at her all serious. 

Azzi just snorted and playfully shoved Paige’s shoulder. 

Few hours later, Azzi was in her bedroom getting dressed when she heard knocking on her door. 

“Paige, can you get that?” she shouted, not wearing any pants. 

No answer. 

“Paige?” she called out again, but to no avail. 

She frowned at the silence and hurriedly got dressed to go open the door. 

“Wha-” Azzi stammered when she opened the door and found Paige on the other side, with a whole different outfit on than just a couple minutes earlier. It was a light blue button up shirt with some loose suit pants and her hair in a slick low bun. 

“Did you just change clothes?” Azzi laughed at the randomness of it all. 

“I’m gonna ignore that question,” Paige just said. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Oh, thank you,” Azzi smiled. “You too.” 

“I got a cab waiting for us outside,” Paige said and offered her arm to Azzi. 

“Aw, so we’re not spending the whole night driving around in circles this time?” Azzi joked about Paige’s inability to listen to directions. 

“Maybe next date,” Paige teased. 

They exited the building and got into the cab. 

The restaurant Paige had chosen was fancy. And expensive. They didn’t have to wait for a table, Paige had already booked one. 

And Paige held Azzi’s hands through the whole walk from the cab to the restaurant, from the door to their table. 

At the table, Azzi felt people’s stares, heard their murmuring and saw how they pointed their fingers towards them. She glanced at the blonde woman a bit nervously, and Paige glanced back, smiling. 

“You want to order some wine?” Paige asked.

Azzi cleared her throat. “Uh, sure.”

The waiter arrived at their table and the two women ordered their wine and food. Just when the waiter came back with a bottle of wine, two young men came up to their table. 

“Excuse me, I don’t want to bother you guys, but could we maybe get a picture with you?” one of the guys asked and looked at the two women. 

“Of course,” Paige automatically answered. 

The men hunched down and took a selfie with the two celebrities, gave their thanks and then left. 

This caught the attention of the people around them in the restaurant, and suddenly, they could sense a shift in the air much more than before. 

Paige knew that the photos would be posted. She knew that people were gonna be able to tell that she and Azzi were on a date. It made her heart rate go up, but she didn’t know if it was out of terror or excitement yet, and that was a good sign. 

“Hi, sorry,” a young woman approached them shortly after. “I just wanted to say that I’m such a big fan of you, Paige. You’re literally my biggest role model, and I adore the way you make music. Could I just ask you a quick question about your writing process?”

The woman was basically eating Paige up with her eyes, and Azzi gulped, and took a sip of the wine to distract herself from accidentally visibly reacting to it. She knew better than to feel possessive over Paige in front of her fans. 

“I’m sorry, I’m on a date right now, so maybe another time,” Paige offered a friendly smile, and added when she saw the disappointed look on the fan’s face: “But we can take a quick picture if you’d like?”

“Thank you,” the fan nodded gratefully, and without any further instructions, just handed her phone to Azzi. 

“Oh,” Azzi expressed, surprised by the audacity, but didn’t complain. She opened the camera and started to snap pictures of Paige and the young woman smiling at her. 

“Make sure to get my good side, babe,” Paige smirked at Azzi, and Azzi almost dropped the phone in her lap. 

“I promise, baby”, Azzi quickly recovered and smiled brightly at the nickname. She snapped one or two more pictures and then gave back the phone to the fan, who murmured out a quick thank you before fleeing the scene. 

Azzi couldn’t help but blush at the fact that Paige had clearly said that to make a point. A possessive one. Right in front of a fan, before they even were officially together yet. She marveled at Paige’s courage for the simple gesture. 

“You… You’re really something,” Azzi shook her head in disbelief over the interaction. 

“I know, that’s why they want pictures,” Paige said playfully. 

The food was eventually brought in to the table, and Azzi and Paige had just taken another photo with some guests. Fortunately, the people around them seemed to have recognized that the two were trying to have a normal date night, and left them pretty much alone during the rest of their meal. 

The wine glasses were constantly filled, and both of the women felt the intoxication slightly grow to the perfect level of tipsy. Not that they needed it, because the conversation flowed naturally and every silence in between felt comfortable. 

It was a successful first date, to say the least. And when it was time to say goodnight, Paige followed Azzi up to her front door. 

But Azzi just opened the door and walked in. Paige stayed behind and didn’t step a foot inside. 

“You coming in?” Azzi asked. Assumed, rather. 

“I don’t know if I should,” Paige nervously chuckled. 

Azzi looked at her. “You scared?” she teased.

“A little,” Paige snorted, but Azzi could hear the sincerity in her tone. 

“What are you scared of?” Azzi gently asked. Paige still stood outside, not even inching a little closer to come inside. 

“Um… I just don’t want to rush things,” Paige said nervously. 

“For your sake or my sake?” Azzi questioned. 

“Our sake,” Paige answered. 

Azzi smiled with a nod. “Alright,” she said, and stepped outside her door and closed it behind her, joining Paige outside in the hall.

“Thank you for a lovely night,” the actress said sincerely and took a step forward towards the singer.

“Thank you for going with me,” Paige smiled, and took a small step back, visibly nervous. 

Azzi bit her lip and snaked her index fingers in Paige’s belt loops on her pants and pulled her closer, their bodies suddenly being flushed together. 

“You’re allowed to touch me, you know,” Azzi warmly flashed a seemingly innocent smile, but the tone sounded anything but innocent.

Paige hesitantly placed her hands on Azzi’s sides, trying to ground herself. She was already feeling a bit dizzy from the wine, and Azzi’s sudden proximity didn’t help. 

“I just don’t know if I can stop if I do,” Paige exhaled, seemingly breathless. 

“Let’s find out,” Azzi said, before leaning in slowly, ghosting her lips on Paige’s. She stroked her nose against Paige’s, not giving her what she wanted just yet. 

Paige was breathing heavily now, just waiting for Azzi to take the next step. 

At last, she felt the younger one lean in, and Paige closed her eyes. But Azzi just lightly, barely, pressed her lips on Paige’s, and then pulled back again.

“Good night, Paige,” Azzi smirked as Paige’s eyes fluttered open, and went back inside her apartment. Paige heard Azzi lock the door from the inside. 

“You’re a fucking menace!” Paige said loudly outside the door, feeling all flustered by the sudden abruption, and heard Azzi laugh as a response from the inside. 

“Not my fault, Bueckers,” Azzi yelled back.

Paige just exhaled and gave a short laugh, trying to stop her cheeks from burning. 

“Until next time, Fudd.”

---

May 2027 

Paige and Azzi had been going out on several dates, met hundreds of fans together, hung out with their mutual friends and Azzi had even flown to Minnesota and visited Paige and her dad again. 

But during this whole period of time, they had never done anything more than kissed. Paige always stayed in a hotel in LA, and Azzi did the same in Minnesota. 

How they managed to keep their hands to themselves was miraculous. Azzi didn’t want to rush Paige, and Paige didn’t want to rush Azzi. 

But one afternoon in Azzi’s apartment, she had had enough.

Paige was working out in Azzi’s living room on a yoga mat and was wearing nothing but a sports bra and boxers. Azzi had been out shopping groceries when she stepped inside her apartment and saw the other woman all sweaty and half naked. 

“Oh wow,” she unashamedly marveled at the sight. 

“Sorry, I’m almost done,” Paige said and continued doing some sit ups. 

Azzi hurriedly put the groceries away, to then return back to the living room to just admire the view. 

“You just gonna watch me workout?” Paige teased in the middle of the motion.

“Yup,” Azzi nodded and sat down on the couch. 

She looked at Paige’s stomach, her abs flexing with every movement, her sweat trickling down her neck further down into her bra. Azzi swallowed. She just wanted to lick it up. 

“Okay, now I’m done,” Paige panted as she laid with her back on the yoga mat, trying to catch her breath. 

Azzi rose from the couch and approached the woman on the floor. She knelt down in front of Paige and gently spread her legs and inched forward. Paige just looked at her, not daring to move. The actress leaned forward and crawled over the blonde until she was right above. 

The last weeks had been torture for Azzi. Being on dates with Paige, kissing her, hugging her, touching her, but not having sex with her, it had driven her mad. Because suddenly everything the blonde one was doing was turning her on to the point where she felt like she had to lock her in the bathroom to finish herself. 

But not this time. This time, it was just too much. Paige on her living room floor, sweating, panting, abs flexing… 

Azzi let one of her hands land on Paige’s damp stomach, caressing her abs, moving up over her bra in a swift motion. 

“Hm,” Paige hummed and her hips slightly jerked up. “You’re really doing this?”

“You want me to stop?” Azzi asked, and removed her hand. 

“No no no,” Paige quickly replied, immediately grabbing her hand to be touched again. 

Azzi smirked and leaned her head down to kiss Paige. But right before their lips touched, Azzi whispered:

“I can’t wait to fuck you.”

Paige squirmed underneath her, and responded by grabbing the back of Azzi’s head, pulling her in for the kiss. 

There was nothing gentle in the way that Azzi’s lips crashed into Paige’s. It was as if all pent up tension was about to explode right then and there, just eagerly chasing an outlet. Tongues were already roaming each other's mouths, hands were going up and down their bodies and Paige had no time to catch her breath from her workout before she entered a new one. 

Azzi broke the heated kiss and started to place messy wet kisses along Paige’s jaw down to her throat. She sucked the skin right on her pulse point roughly, and Paige gasped from the sensation. 

“Missed this so much,” Azzi murmured against her skin and continued further down. She didn’t even bother to take Paige’s bra off, she just pushed it up, revealing her pink nipples. Before Paige could tell Azzi how much she missed her back, Azzi leaned down and took one of her nipples into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it.

“God,” Paige arched her back into Azzi. It felt like it was the first time, and her body was reacting to every little touch Azzi was giving. It was as if it was oversensitive by anticipation.

Azzi sucked, bit, licked roughly down to the boxers, leaving several marks on Paige’s stomach. She looked at her work, smiled, and deemed it a masterpiece. Paige looked at her with hazy eyes, but Azzi saw the uncertainty in them.

“You okay?” she asked, rubbing her hands up and down Paige’s thighs. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just… It’s just been a while,” she nervously chuckled. 

“Hey, it’s just me,” Azzi smiled and gave her upper thigh a peck. 

“That’s the problem,” Paige said after a sharp inhale from having Azzi’s face so close to her center. 

“You want me to stop or keep going?” Azzi sincerely asked. 

“God, I want you to keep going,” Paige exhaled and nodded. “I need you to.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Azzi playfully teased as she saw the dark patch between Paige’s legs. 

Azzi gently hooked her fingers beneath the hem of Paige’s boxers and pulled them off. She was on her knees between the singer's legs, taking in the view in front of her. 

“You’re so so pretty,” she marveled and let her hands stroke Paige’s hips down to her thighs, teasingly letting her thumbs rub the upper inner parts. Paige squirmed by every touch. It seemed like her body was reacting before her mind could even register what was being touched. 

At last, Azzi let her thumb stroke over the wetness between Paige’s legs, and moved it up to her clit and gently started to rub slow circles. Paige groaned and her hips instantly jerked up at the contact. Azzi bit her lip and smiled at the face Paige was making. She already looked like a mess. Her hair was sprawled behind her head, and her bottom lip red from biting it so hard. That in combination with all the hickeys on her stomach, she looked gorgeous. 

“Mhm,” Azzi hummed contentedly. “I’m gonna take it slow with you and enjoy my view.”

“Since when do you take things slow?” Paige groaned, being driven mad by the slow tempo of Azzi’s thumb on her clit. 

“Just want to have you for as long as I can,” Azzi leaned down and hovered above the blonde, letting her lips ghost over her ear. 

Paige whimpered in response, grinding her hips against Azzi’s thumb to try and get more friction and pressure. But Azzi just put her other palm on her stomach and pushed her down, refusing her to contribute to her own pleasure. 

She leaned back and sat on her knees again, and said: “Stay still for me.”

Paige whined in frustration but tried to oblige. 

Azzi removed her thumb from Paige’s clit and slid her index and middle finger into her own mouth. Sucking them and licking them as if it was something else, while staring at Paige, who looked at her with hooded eyes. She gave her a show.

Paige felt her lower stomach tighten, and she gasped when Azzi moved her fingers to her core and slid them inside her. 

“Shit, Azzi,” she moaned and fluttered her eyes closed. 

Azzi meant what she said, and moved her fingers in and out of the singer in a tantalizingly slow tempo, while curling them up just the way she knew Paige liked. Her hand was palming Paige’s lower stomach, gently pressing down. 

“Please,” Paige whined at the pleasure, but wanted more. 

Azzi returned her thumb on Paige’s clit and kept on circling it slowly, softly, while still steadily pumping in and out of her. 

“You want me to fuck you harder, Paige?” Azzi asked.

“Yes,” Paige exhaled. 

“Mmm, you feel so good on my fingers,” Azzi praised her. “Missed fucking you like this baby.”

Paige groaned loudly at the words, and gasped when Azzi finally pushed into her harder. But she didn’t increase the speed just yet, still fucking her slowly. 

Even so, Paige felt her high come closer and closer. Azzi could tell by the way Paige’s breathing started to become more and more ragged. 

“You close?” Azzi asked with that honey smooth voice. 

“Yeah,” Paige whimpered out. 

“Don’t come yet,” Azzi said with a demanding tone. “Let me fuck you a little longer.”

“But…” Paige whined. “I’m not gonna be able to-”

“-Yes you are,” Azzi protested. 

And Paige moaned at Azzi’s interjection and felt her body start to tense up from trying to hold on. Her body was begging for her to relax and just come undone, but she did everything she could to postpone it, obeying Azzi’s request. Instead, moans and broken cries of Azzi’s name were slipping out of her mouth, repeated like a prayer. 

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” Azzi praised her and let her other hand stroke Paige’s cheek. 

And Paige whimpered in response to the praise. 

But there was really nothing Paige could do the moment Azzi leaned down and let her tongue massage her clit. Her hand flew to the back of Azzi’s head, holding on for dear life, trying to get some sense of control in her very weak position of control. 

“Fuck baby, I’m gonna-” she didn’t even finish the sentence before her body compulsively started to twitch, the wave of her orgasm crashing down on her. She let out a guttural moan followed by a loud exclamation of the actress’ name. 

Azzi just kept on licking her, feeling Paige’s walls pulsate and clench around her fingers. When she felt Paige coming down from her high, she gently removed her fingers and started to clean her up with her tongue.

“You taste even better than I remember,” Azzi moaned against Paige’s center, licking up the cum from her pussy, swallowing like she was starving. 

Paige whimpered and pushed Azzi’s head away from between her legs out of reflex by being too sensitive. 

Azzi laid down next to Paige and brushed Paige’s sweaty hair away from her forehead. She leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on Paige’s lips that tasted like the singer. Paige was unable to move and just laid there, still coming down from her high. 

“How exactly did you expect me to not come when you move your tongue on me like that?” Paige asked once she had caught her breath and turned her head to look at Azzi with heart-eyes. 

Azzi cracked a smile and snorted. 

“This your way of saying I’m good?” Azzi licked her lips. 

“This is my way of saying you’re unreasonable,” Paige countered. 

“Nah, you’re just too needy,” Azzi teased and placed her hand on Paige’s thigh again, grabbing the flesh beneath her fingers harshly. Paige slightly flinched by the contact and bit her lip from trying not to moan. 

“And desperate,” Azzi continued and let her fingers once again touch Paige’s center, feeling her wetness.

“And wet,” she whispered and let her fingers softly graze the wetness, before fully pushing her fingers in again. Paige moaned loudly and automatically spread her legs further, giving Azzi easier access.

“And so, so, fucked,” Azzi let out a low laugh at how fast Paige was ready to go again. 

Paige was gonna have the workout of a lifetime. 

Azzi was gonna make sure of that. 

---

March 2031

It had been a while, but the sound of multiple camera shutters going off still felt familiar. Azzi hadn’t been on a red carpet for approximately two years, but it felt like she had never left. 

Paige on the other hand hadn’t been on a red carpet for over three years. The Huskies had reached a certain level of fame where she got privileged enough to pick and choose her public appearances without it negatively affecting her career, so she usually let the other Huskies go on these kinds of carpets by themselves, while she was at home with Azzi. 

She was still making music, she was still playing concerts and touring, but she was not putting herself out there in any way that did not serve her purposes. So if you wanted to see the Paige Bueckers? Then you had to go to one of The Huskies concerts. 

That’s why it felt so strange to be back to this kind of scene. But it was an important night for Azzi, and so it was an important night for Paige. 

Azzi belonged on the red carpet. Everyone could see that. Her elegant black gown hugging her figure with Paige’s black suit complimented her outfit like jewelry around her neck. 

They moved down the carpet together, always by each other's side, always holding hands, only being the most present with each other. 

“AZZI! PAIGE! OVER HERE!” The photographers were yelling loudly, but they only looked at one another, reassuringly with big smiles on their faces as if they couldn’t hear. 

Later down the carpet, they got tracked down by an interviewer to do a short video interview, which they agreed to. The woman with the microphone expressed her gratitude for taking time to let her ask a few questions before getting into it.

“Azzi Fudd and Paige Bueckers, welcome to the 103rd Academy Awards. Azzi, you’re nominated for best actress tonight for the movie In Another Life, how does it feel?” A very basic first question, but Azzi welcomed it with open arms as she liked the easy ones.

“It feels amazing, no matter win or lose, I’m extremely grateful just to be here and be in the presence of my peers,” Azzi answered. 

“Amazing. Paige, how’s your feeling about Azzi’s nomination?”

Paige cleared her throat and leaned forward to the microphone. “Oh, everyone should know by now that I have been Azzi’s number one fan since before I even knew her, and I’m extremely proud of her every single day, seeing how much work she puts in and how she always manages to exceed expectations as a wonderful actress and person. And objectively, I think she should win tonight,” she flashed one of those infamous smirks only Paige Bueckers could give. 

“Love it,” the woman chuckled. “And you two actually have some history with the Academy Awards. Paige, the last time you attended, you did an iconic performance from your soundtrack and The Goo Goo Dolls Iris. This led to a viral clip of the two of you, sharing an intense sort of staring contest. The internet has been speculating ever since. Do you wanna share with us what really went down?”

Azzi looked at Paige with raised eyebrows and a smirk, like she was daring her to answer. 

“Well,” Paige started, and immediately felt her cheeks start to heat. “Long story short, it was the moment I got the love of my life back.”

The eyes on the woman went wide, and Paige nervously chuckled at the reaction. 

“Wow, that had got to be one of the most romantic things to ever come out of the Awards,” she stated and looked in awe at the two. “And now you are here together. Can we expect another viral moment from you guys tonight?”

“No no,” Azzi laughed. “I think we’ve had enough viral moments.”

“Alright, well good luck tonight Azzi, and enjoy the night both of you!” The interviewer wrapped up the conversation. 

They walked together into the theatre where the awards were being held and sat down, waiting for it to begin. 

Azzi looked over at Paige and gave her a kiss on the cheek. 

“I appreciate you being here with me tonight, even though I know you would rather stay at home with the dogs,” she said teasingly. 

“Of course, you’re my number one dog,” Paige shrugged and Azzi slapped her shoulder with a snort. 

“You’re so annoying,” Azzi stated with a big smile. 

“You know I wouldn’t miss this night for the world,” Paige offered sincerely. 

Azzi was unexpectedly calm during the ceremony. Compared to the last time she was there, she somehow felt very relaxed. Until her category was up. 

“Oh my God, here we go,” she exhaled and Paige grabbed her hand comfortingly. 

“And the Oscar for best actress goes to…”

“...Azzi Fudd.”

Azzi let out a breath of surprise and looked at Paige like she couldn’t believe it. She looked like a question mark. The whole theatre erupted into applause and standing ovation. Whistles and praise were thrown at her from every distance.  

“Azzi, you won!” Paige stood up and helped Azzi up in the process. “You won, baby! Go get it, go get it!”

But the actress just threw herself at Paige who caught her, wrapped her arms around her and hugged her as tight as she could. 

“You did it, Azzi,” Paige said, and never let go of her. 

Azzi leaned back and smiled at Paige, before leaning in, kissing her softly. 

“Go now,” Paige laughed as they separated from each other and urged her to go up the stage that was waiting for her. 

Azzi looked all flustered as she walked up to the stage, her eyes still wide from sheer disbelief. The last year’s Oscar winner handed her the statuette, and Azzi felt the weight of it in her hands and in her heart. The celebratory music and the applause simmered down and suddenly, Azzi was expected to say something into the microphone right in front of her. 

“Wow, I, I have no words,” she started. “There’s not enough words that could ever make justice this incredible feeling that I’m feeling right now. But I just wanna say that all the nominees for this category were exceptional and all deserving of this award.”

She looked out on the crowd and acknowledged every single one of her fellow nominees with her eyes.

“I just wanna give thanks to everyone who ever believed in me, invested in me and supported me. It really takes a village, and this award is for everyone that has helped me be the actress I am today. I wanna thank Caroline, Jesse, Helen, Marcus, Gregory, Vivienne and Lola for everything they have poured into me.”

She took a deep breath and looked at Paige. 

“And lastly, I wanna thank the Academy Awards for this award - but also for letting my amazing wife perform four years ago which was the moment I knew that it was for life. This is for my number one fan.”

She smiled at Paige in the crowd and raised the statuette up in the air, goofily pointing at it with her other hand. 

Paige threw her a kiss from the audience. 

Yeah, they were definitely gonna have another viral moment. 

THE END.

---

[popcornpoppypop]

At The End Of The Day

Summary: Kit and Robby deal with having a newborn in the house. Robby notices changes with Kit. He'll keep her from drowning, no matter what.

Warnings: Postpartum depression, intrusive thoughts, bad moms, talks of birth

A/N: I have never had a baby nor postpartum. I did a lot of research for this one. I feel like there are a lot of fics that just end with the happy family and wanted to sprinkle a little reality in there. This is The Pitt after all.

The moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the bed and its inhabitants. The Robinavitch house was quiet; everyone was sleeping soundly. Michael and Kit were tangled in each other’s arms, Hawkeye snoring at their feet.

A cry crackles through the baby monitor on the nightstand.

The two stirred, Michael sitting up out of instinct and practically still unconscious. Kit groaned as she rolled over, pushing herself up.

“I got her.” Robby murmured.

“She needs to be fed.” Kit groaned.

“We have bottles in the fridge. Sleep.” He cleared his throat.

“And let my tits leak all over myself for no goddamn reason? Brilliant.” Kit snapped as she padded out of the room. Robby felt like he had whiplash, unsure what had just happened.

She’s tired, he thought. They both were. It had been only a week since they had brought Abby home. For the most part, they had adjusted. It was, however, evident that Kit was starting to feel the toll of their new responsibilities more than he was.

He got up and went to the nursery. He stood silent in the doorway, watching Kit. She sat in the rocking chair, the baby held to her breast. The shadows hid her face, the silhouette was still enough to take Robby’s breath away. He never would get used to the sight, something so intimate and beautiful about it. He had to choke back tears every time he saw her feed their baby.

The sound of sniffling made him tip his head in confusion.

He cleared his throat, a small warning that there was another person near, as he walked toward her.

Kit was in her own world, the baby suckling and her head bowed. She didn’t care that Robby was there.

He knelt in front of her, her face clearer, as were the tears falling down her cheeks. It took him by surprise.

“Kit?” His voice soft, afraid of startling her.

“Don’t.” She whispered. “I can’t do this right now.” Her voice was small and fragile.

“Alright. I’ll sit here then, that okay?” Robby put his hands on her knees. She nodded. They sat together in the moonlight as the baby finished feeding. Kit put Abby back in her crib, the baby settling back down.

Robby came up behind her, running his hands up and down her arms. The feeling had always calmed Kit, it was a small gesture that had saved her time and time again. Not this time. In this moment, it was closer to a cheese grater against her skin.

“Stop.” She bit and stomped off, back to the bedroom.

Robby stood staring at the doorway that Kit had just left through, a strange, dejected feeling washing over him.

The sun was streaming through the window, it beat against Kit’s eyelids. She groaned as she sat up. She looked over to see that Robby had woken up already.

The smell of coffee and food felt like a warm hug as she walked into the kitchen. Robby stood over the stove, the baby in her rocker on the floor near him. He looked up at the sound of Kit entering.

“Decaf is ready when you want it.” He smiled

“Great.” Kit forced a smile, he could tell.

“Do you want some eggs? I know they are hit or miss for you.” He observed her as she made her coffee. It was clinical more than romantic.

“That’s fine.” She shrugged.

“I can make something else, if you want.”

“That’s dumb, you’re already doing eggs, just make the damn eggs.” She sighed as she walked over to the table and set her mug down.

“O-kay.” Robby felt himself getting frustrated and did his best to stamp it out.

“When did she eat last?” Kit sipped her coffee.

“About an hour ago. She’s okay.” He smiled down at the baby as she gurgled in her rocker.

“Did you change her?”

“Yes. Honey, I’ve got her taken care of. Don’t worry about her right now.” He put the plate of eggs in front of her.

“Don’t be so patronizing. I’m just checking on my daughter.” Kit snapped.

“That’s not fair.” Robby looked down at her, his annoyance evident.

“Whatever.” She sighed. The baby started crying in her rocker. Kit moved to get up but Robby gestured for her to sit down. He gathered the baby up in his arms and cooed for her to settle.

“We’re going to go and play in the living room so you can have your breakfast.” Robby sighed as he walked off.

The day went on and Kit couldn’t shake the cloud over her head. Robby did his best to keep everything light.

Kit was sitting on the couch, watching some nonsense on the TV, Abby was lying on Robby’s chest. She watched as he rubbed gentle circles on her back. A thought flashed across her mind. It was terrifying and came out of nowhere.

He’s going to take her from you and you won’t care.

Kit shook her head, the tears burning her eyes.

He’s going to take her and you won’t see her again and you’ll be relieved.

She felt her chest tighten.

He’s going to take her because he knows what a bad mother you are, what a bad person you are.

She sat up straight in her seat, her hands rubbing up and down her thighs and breath picking up.

You’ll be so relieved when they aren’t here and you’ll get the confirmation that you’re no better than your mother.

Kit jumped up and rushed over to them.

“Give her to me.” She said, her voice panicked and shaky. She pried the baby off his chest.

“Kit, what the hell?” Robby looked up at her furious and confused.

“She’s my baby too. I’m allowed to hold her.” She snapped as she rushed out of the room. It was the first time Robby didn’t recognize his wife.

The tensions only grew worse over the next few weeks. Robby did his best to be understanding. He tried to give her space and let her work through whatever was going on.

“Can you just clean up after yourself, honestly!” Kit snapped as she tossed Robby’s coffee mug into the dishwasher that he had left in the sink.

“Kit, I put it down for a second. I was going back for it.” His shoulders were tensed.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Kit scoffed.

“I’m tired of this. Can you tell me what I can do right?” Robby snapped.

“Don’t yell at me.”

“You don’t stop yelling at me and I have no idea what is happening!” Robby through his hands in the air.

“Just leave me alone, right now.” Kit hissed.

“Right. I’ll just go spend every waking moment with our baby that can’t hold a conversation yet. Fine.” He knew he shouldn’t have said it. But he did it anyway.

“If you don’t want to spend time with your daughter, why did you knock me up then!?” Kit barked.

“I’m not doing this.” Robby turned and stomped off.

Robby was at his wits end. He was trying so hard to help her. Any time he broached the subject, Kit brushed him off or bit his head off.

Kit could feel herself slipping away. She felt herself turning into something different. It was dark and heavy and she couldn’t figure out how to fight it. She knew that this wasn’t rare, but she didn’t think it would happen to her.

The late nights and early mornings were getting to her. She just needed some sleep, she told herself.

She stood rocking the baby in the living room, standing by the window to get some sunlight. Abby was cooing and wriggling in her arms. Kit watched her face scrunch up and test it’s flexibility. She should be enthralled, Kit thought. But she was indifferent.

Robby walked into the room, watching her stare down at Abby. The look on her face was disconcerting. He walked up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“She’s getting so animated with her face.” He hummed.

“She’s supposed to by now.” Kit’s voice was monotone.

“It’s fun to watch it happen, though.” Robby rubbed her shoulder.

“I need a shower.” Kit passed the baby off to him.  

“Kit?” Robby called after her.

“What?” She snapped.

“I know it’s hard. But you’re doing really well.” Robby smiled. Kit watched him for a long, silent moment. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She shook her head and left.

The baby monitor crackled with soft sounds that lulled Robby awake. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked over to find himself alone in the bed. He was going to roll over and sleep when he heard the sounds again. It was soft, but the sobs of his wife had him up and out of the bedroom quick.

He walked into the nursery to find Kit in her rocking chair, the baby nursing in her arms. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

“Kitty, what’s wrong?” Robby fumbled his way over to her. “Is it painful? I can get that massage thing.” He moved to get up but Kit grabbed his wrist.

“I can’t do this, Michael.” She sobbed.

“What are you talking about?” Robby knelt down in front of her.

“I can’t…it’s too much. I might…I might hate her. I don’t want to hate her.” Kit sobbed. Robby’s heart stopped in his chest. The pain she’d been keeping to herself to spare them was breaking her.

“Honey. When…when did this start?” He brushed a stray hair from her face.

“I don’t know. I just keep having these thoughts, horrible thoughts. I hate who I am. It’s miserable.” Kit sobbed. The baby finished feeding and Robby took her and settled her in her crib.

“It’s okay. This happens. Everyone has scary thoughts, it doesn’t mean you hate her.” Robby put his hands on her knees.

“I-I’m turning into my mother.” Kit cried. Robby wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her head.

“You are not your mother. You’re not. We’re going to get through this. You just need some help. We’ll figure this out.” He promised and Kit sobbed, her hands clawing at his shirt, desperate for escape.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” her voice was raw. She wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to at this point. Maybe Robby, maybe the baby or perhaps herself.

“Shhh. You’re okay. You don’t need to apologize.” Robby held her tight to his chest. “Let’s go to bed. You need some sleep.” He pulled her to her feet, guiding her back to their bed. Her emotions taking their toll caused her to pass out the second her head hit the pillow.

Robby sat up all night looking up the best ways to help and the best therapists in Pittsburgh. He sent emails, pulling on every favor owed to him to get her in somewhere.

Dr. Robinavitch,

I’m sorry to hear of your wife’s struggles. This is very common and, unfortunately, rarely discussed. I want to ease some potential grief that you’re feeling and let you know that it’s hard to differentiate the signs of postpartum from exhaustion; you didn’t miss anything.

I would be more than willing to see Katherine this week. I understand the urgency this case has for you. I have personally dealt with postpartum myself and can understand how quickly it can escalate. If she is willing to come on Thursday, I have an opening at 1pm. I will tentatively schedule it for her.

Please let her know that this isn’t a failure or defect in her. That’s the most important thing you can do for her.

Sincerely,

Dr. Joanna Groff.

The morning light was harsh, unwelcome this morning. It felt nagging. Kit rolled over to find the bed empty. She groaned as she got up, her tits hurt, her head hurt, her body ached. She thought she would start to feel better once Abby was born, but she felt worse than ever.

She walked to the nursery, pulling her robe close to her to fight the cool air. She stood in the doorway, watching Robby hold their daughter. His big arms enveloped her tiny body. She looked so small in his embrace.

“Mama is so good to you. We just need to help her a little. We’re going to take care of her just like she takes care of us.” He hummed to the baby, bringing her close and kissing her soft hair.

Kit’s chest tightened and twisted. She felt so much from those words. She wanted to revel in the beauty of them. She wanted to be comforted by his care. But she couldn’t fight the feeling of failure. She couldn’t stop her mind from spiraling and her mother’s words ringing in her head.

“You think you can do better? Please! You’re no better than me, you’re just like me.”

She couldn’t stifle the sob. It echoed into the nursery. Robby whipped around, surprised to see her and the tears streaming down her face. He put the baby down and gathered her up in his arms.

“You’re okay.” He murmured into her hair.

“I’m just like her.” She whispered.

“Nope, not even a little. Come here,” Robby pulled her to the living room and sat her on the couch. He knelt in front of her, holding her face in his hands.

“She told me that I was no better than her, the day Abby was born. I fought her, but maybe she was right.” Kit shook her head.

“No, she’s never been right about you. Kitty, you are so much more than your mother could ever be.” Robby brushed the tears from her cheeks.

“I know you think you’re failing right now, but you’re not. Your mother would never be this upset; she wouldn’t care the way you do. You care so much, it’s too much for you right now. That’s okay. I’m not letting you drown.” He told her, holding her shaking hands in his.

“What if I can’t get out of this?” She couldn’t look at him.

“I’m not letting that happen. I pulled some favors, I got you in with Dr. Groff. She’s the best in the state. She’s gone through this too, she’s going to help us. I’m getting you whatever you need, okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” She shook her head; her body couldn’t stop shaking.

“I love you so much.” He wrapped her up in his arms, Kit clung on to him for dear life.

Kit hadn’t realized it until she was in the parking lot of Dr. Groff’s office, but that was the first time she had left the house for herself since Abby was born. The world felt foreign, scarier. Her hands shook as she opened the car door and made her way inside.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The receptionist’s bright smile didn’t help Kit’s nerves.

“I have an appointment at 1 pm with Dr. Groff. Should be under Robinavitch.” She cleared her throat.

“Of Course. She’s finishing up with her last appointment. I’ll let you know when she’s ready.” Kit nodded and sat in the plastic cushioned chair. The waiting room was sterile. The pictures on the wall were stock photos of plants. The magazines on the side table taunted her with headlines like; How to relearn self-love, 6 ways to a happier mindset, You steer the ship: how to take control of your decisions.

“Mrs. Robinavitch, she’s ready.” The Receptionist smiled. She got up and walked into the office. She was shocked to see how different Dr. Groff’s office was from the waiting room. There was a colorful rug on the floor, the furniture was soft and pillowy, and the walls were covered in beautiful art. There was a warmth to it.

“Mrs. Robinavtich, have a seat.” The woman was in her mid-fifties, her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. Her clothes were loose and airy. Her top was an earthy green and her pants a deep maroon. Her glasses sat on the tip of her nose, just above a kind smile.

“It’s Dr. Robinavitch, actually.” Kit cleared her throat as she sat on the couch.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were both doctors. I’ll make a note of that in your file.” She nodded as she scribbled something on her notebook.

“It gets confusing. Katherine is fine.” Her body was tense, and she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

“I bet. What is your specialty?”

“EM, like Michael. Same department at PTMC. I just go by Dr. R and he’s Dr. Robby. Still causes some confusion with the med students.”

“Well, it’s not hard to confuse them.” Groff chuckled.

“True.”

“Shall we get down to it?” Groff gave a soft smile, trying to encourage Kit.

“I guess. I’m not sure where to start?” Kit gave a nervous laugh.

“Wherever feels most comfortable for now.”

“Right.” Kit bit at her nails. “I guess, I started having these…thoughts about a week after Abby was born.”

“Abby is your daughter?”

“Yes. Abigail.”

“That’s a nice name. After anyone?”

“Michael’s grandmother. She raised him, it meant a lot to him.”

“What a wonderful memorial. How old is Abby?”

“She’s five weeks.”

“How long is your maternity leave?”

“Eleven weeks. Michael’s paternity leave is only eight.”

“So, he’ll be going back soon. That’s scary.”

“I guess. It’ll be different.”

“Do you want to tell me about your thoughts?”

“Want to? No. But I have to, I think.”

“Why do you have to?”

“Because they’re eating me alive and I feel like Michael just can’t understand. He tries, believe me. He’s a man at the end of the day.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well…he didn’t go through all of it, physically. I had carried her, I was so sick. The worst morning sickness, almost had to be hospitalized. But I never cared. I loved her so much from the moment I found out I was pregnant. Then I went through labor and birth, it was so hard.”

“Was it a traumatic birth?”

“No. Not any more than usual.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“All birth is trauma. It’s your insides being ripped apart. It’s your body changing violently against your will. It’s your child being ripped from you. It’s pain and fear and violence and too many emotions.”

“Some women find it to be beautiful. You don’t feel that way?”

“No. I don’t. There were moments during labor, at least. Michael holding me and keeping me safe. It was nice when we talked about the future. But once it reached a point when it was relentless, it wasn’t beautiful.”

“What about when you saw her for the first time?”

“I was scared.”

“Why?”

“Well, she didn’t cry at first. The doctor and nurses had to help her and she wasn’t on my chest like all the other mothers talked about. I thought something was wrong. I couldn’t move to help; I was in so much pain. But I was too scared to move.”

“That would be terrifying. But she was okay.”

“Yeah, it only lasted 20 seconds. They put her in my arms, and she was so beautiful. I loved her so much. But…” Kit couldn’t get the words out.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“I’ve never even told Michael this.” Her hands were shaking again.

“I’m not Michael. Everything you say to me stays with me.”

“I know. It’s a lot to say out loud.”

“I think you need to say it out loud.”

“When they put her in my arms, after a minute, I wasn’t interested in her at all. I wanted to push her off of me.” Kit couldn’t stop the sobs. Groff handed her a box of tissues.

“Katherine. It’s normal. Everything you’re feeling is normal.”

“I faked it. Every time someone came in the room, I plastered a smile on my face and pretended like I was beside myself with joy. But I was drowning and couldn’t find the words.”

“We’re going to find the words here, together.”

“I love her. I know I do. But I might hate her too.”

“Why do you think you hate her?”

“She cries and my body just gets so tense it hurts. I hold her and look at her, and half my brain thinks she is so beautiful, and the other half is annoyed at her presence. Sometimes, it’s just disinterest.”

“Katherine, what you’re feeling is just normal emotions. Do you have violent thoughts?”

“No. But…Michael was holding her once, and I thought how much better he was at this than me. How he was going to realize I’m a bad mother and leave, and I’d be relieved.”

“I see.”

“I’m crazy.”

“No one is crazy. You are exceptionally normal, I’m afraid.”

“I get it from my mother.”

“Tell me about your mother?”

“She hates me. She’s told me. She had kids because she thought she had to, not because she wanted to. Every time we talk, she tells me how disappointed in me she is. She doesn’t like my life.”

“How did your mother react when you told her you were pregnant?”

“She laughed at me, told me that I wasn’t mother material.”

“That must have hurt.”

“Yeah, but I’m used to it.”

“What do you do when your mother says these things to you?”

“I tell Michael. He counters her, talks me off the figurative ledge. Most of the time, her words just annoy me. I don’t hold much importance to them.”

“Okay. I want you to try something for me this week. When you have these thoughts that upset you, that feel bad, I want you to tell them to Michael like it’s your mother saying them. Take those thoughts and put them into your mother’s voice. Take the importance away from them, like you do with your mother. Do you think we can try that?”

“I can try.”

“You took a big step today, Katherine. It was a lot, you’re going to be tired. It’s okay. You need rest. Let yourself rest. Be kind to yourself as we figure this out. Healing is not linear; there will be good days and bad days. I want us to meet once a week for now. I’m going to keep this time for you.”

“Okay. Thank you. Thank you.” Kit wiped the tears from her face.

“I’m here if you need me. I’ll see you next week.” Groff smiled.

Kit sat in the driveway for a while. She lost track of time. Her mind felt lighter than it had in weeks, months, even. She took a deep breath before she moved to go into the house.

Michael was cooking, humming to the soft music playing, Abby strapped to his chest. He hadn’t heard her come in yet. She stood in the doorway, letting the sight sink in.

“You look good like that.” She smiled. Michael jumped, looking at her and softening as he saw how relaxed she looked, how she looked more like herself.

“Back at you.” He hummed. Kit walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around him and the baby.

“Thank you.” She kissed his shoulder.

“You don’t have to thank me for doing what’s needed.” He said as he stirred the pasta sauce.

“I know. But some men would have just let me drown. You didn’t. You took care of me, even when I didn’t make it easy.” She buried her face in his back.

“I’ll do whatever you need, Kitty. You are the love of my life. You’re my wife. You and Abby are all that matter.” He turned around and held her face in his hands.

“You’re all that matters.”  She pulled him down into a deep kiss. Abby started fussing between them.

“Valid, we were squishing you. Sorry, Babygirl.” He laughed and kissed her little head.

“After dinner, I need to tell you some things about therapy.”

“Big things?”

“Heavy, yeah.”

“Alright. Food, then feelings.” He kissed her cheek.

[sevsevteen]

OMG ANOTHWR CARATINY!! I’m absolutely loving catching up with ur page every week, and thank you for taking my requests!! (The scoups fix was one of them lol)

Another thing I’ve been thinking about is the little ways 14th member might look out for the others, like always bringing extra food for Vernon or secretly setting reminders to stretch while producing for Woozi. Just the small things😊😊

-⭐️anon (imma use this cause im always in ur inbox LMAO)

AHHH CARATINYS UNITE 🫶 welcome to the club ⭐️ anon ^^ thank you for your requests !! i love to see it hehe — ive thought of a few headcanons for the little things oc would do, literal pure fluff argh

-- ★*☆♪

“Have you eaten?” You asked casually, sliding into the van beside Vernon. The early morning schedules made everyone a little sluggish, a little forgetful.

He blinked at you through his beanie, earbuds still in. “Huh? No, not yet.”

“Thought so.” You reached into your bag to pull out a small paper bag, handing it to him without much thought. Inside? A toasted egg sandwich, lightly buttered, with just the right amount of pepper and cheese. Vernon’s eyes lit up.

“Wait— is this—”

“Yeah,” you interrupted, pretending to scroll on your phone. “The one you always eye from Mingyu’s stash. Figured I’d save you the guilt.”

He chuckled, already unwrapping it, cheeks pink. “You’re my lifesaver.”

“Yeah, yeah. Pay me back by not eating anyone else’s lunch today.” Your lips curled up a little.

.

Everyone knew once Woozi was in the studio, time stopped existing for him. Meals? Irrelevant. Moving? Nonexistent. Breathing properly? Questionable.

So, you set up a quiet system.

You’d text him every few hours.

“Stand up. Stretch. I mean it.”

If he didn’t reply in 10 minutes, you’d call.

And if he still ignored it? You’d bribe Dino into barging into the studio with a protein shake in one hand and a reminder in the other.

Once, when you stopped by before your schedule to quietly drop off a bento box at the studio, you noticed it was still sitting cold when you came back four hours later.

You sighed, finding Woozi in the same position, one leg curled under him, back hunched, staring at his monitor.

Without a word, you gently placed your hand on his back, and whispered, “You’re going to destroy your spine.”

“I was almost done with this part,” he mumbled, not even looking.

You placed the bento beside his keyboard. “Eat. Even if it’s just a few bites. And I’m setting another alarm on your phone to remind you to stretch in an hour.”

You bent over slightly and tapped the corner of his phone screen. “Don’t even think about snoozing it, I have eyes everywhere.”

Woozi groaned, but muttered a thank you under his breath, already peeling open the lid. His smile was small - but real.

.

“Does anyone know my shoe size?” Hoshi’s voice rang out from his room, voice loud enough to travel through his closed door.

Mingyu looked at you from the other side of the couch, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he screamed back: “Why are you asking us? Aren’t they your own feet??”

The door opened, Hoshi’s head peeking out.

“It’s 270, Hoshi.” You muttered lazily, eyes only leaving your phone once to the man.

He grinned. “You're the best!” You felt Mingyu's feet nudge yours, his jaw dropped in shock.

.

You squinted at your screen, looking at how the group chat message stayed at a ‘12’ instead of the usual ‘13’.

A swipe of your finger brought you right to Seungcheol’s profile, pressing the dial button directly.

It rang thrice. Then:

“Hello?”

“Choi Seungcheol-ssi,” you spoke sweetly. “You’ve been online playing games for three hours. Get up. Drink water. Maybe move your limbs a little?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “Don‘t call me that! And…how did you know I was playing?”

“Because I texted Wonwoo and he’s in your party.”

“Traitor,” Seungcheol grumbled.

You rolled your eyes. “Look, I’m not saying you’re old. But if you don’t stretch now, your back is going to sound like bubble wrap tomorrow.”

“I am stretching,” he insisted. “See?” A vague groan in the background followed.

You smiled. “Okay, whatever you say Cheol-ie. I’ll call back in an hour.”

.

Wonwoo’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.

💫: “Get out of bed, stretch, and get some air. You haven’t moved all day, have you?”

Wonwoo huffed out a laugh under his breath, thumbs flying across the screen.

🐈‍⬛: “Did you install security cameras in my room?”

💫: “Nope. I’m worse than that. I care and I nag.”

He grinned at that, tossing his blanket off and dragging himself up with a long sigh.

--

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

I absolutely LOVED your yan concubine! I would love to hear more about him! Anything you’re interested in sharing or maybe his relationship with reader after he disfigured her? Maybe his relationship/ how he acts with the emperor and how he plans to over throw the palace? Only if you’re interested ! I love your stories and can’t wait to read more

I am so very much torn between saying everything now or showing it later, anon, so here's a little drabble for your sake xxx

Interlude- Yandere Concubine x Fem reader

Contains- threats of violence, self destructive behaviour, forced dependency, possessive and obsessive behaviour

Other servants who had the misfortune of being disfigured or disabled by their masters were sent far away from any public jobs, relegated to where their appearance would not put off any noble from their dinner. You wouldn't be so lucky, rather it seems now he is much more willing to parade you about. Knowing that everyone else only looks at you with pity or disgust reflecting in their eyes, unable to stop staring at the cruel and puckered crescent that lays across your cheek. You tried to wear a veil outside, for everyone else's comfort if not yours, a cumbersome swatch of silk that did nothing to obscure your face from anyone who looked too close. Eventually you found it burnt to bits in the fireplace, and you made no move to replace it.

He made it almost a point at first to hide your appearance from you, covering up any large mirrors with heavy cloth, confiscating his multiple handheld ones and locking them away. The only idea you had around your appearance was when you'd unbind the bandages to feel around your face, trying to figure out where the creator begins and ends. Picking at it until the blood would flow again and he would roll over in bed to grab your arms and hush you. That he of all people found you to be perfect and good and kind, so why isn't that enough for you to understand why he did this. He lost patience when he found you one night with shattered glass before you and the bandage torn to pieces, when you flinched as he approached you. Anger overtaking him as he grabbed you by the hair forcing you to meet his eyes properly as he snarls.

“Did you want me to let him take you? To tear you in two over and over, because he likes to break pretty things down between his teeth!” He yanks harder until you feel hair separate from your scalp and you howl, but he just continues,“I don't understand you! This is to protect you! If he did anything I'd kill the bastard do you understand? I can take it but you can't even take my protection!” He screams at you, his pupils dilated with frantic mania, slowly he settles as he lets go of your head to see the strands still wrapped around his fingers.

“I thought I could protect you by making you be known as mine,” his hands shake as he wraps them over your shoulders “but that isn't enough to keep you safe, so I ruined you before someone else could. I will not apologise for that.” He brings you closer against his chest, kneeling amongst the mirror shards scattered about on the floor catching the glint of your tears in the low light of the lanterns. You just say nothing, what is there to even say? He is right, you would never survive if the emperor took a fancy to you. Now you would never be able to survive without him, because who would ever want you when your appearance is so marred by his supposed protection. So you just slump, motionless as he rubs the apothecary's balm in slow circular motions. Affixing the bandages carefully in place.

“If you remove this once more and pick at your poor face I'll have to bind your hands until you allow this to heal.” The admonishment is gentle but you know full well he means those words seriously as he kisses your face with all the tenderness you've never had. In truth you don't understand his affections, why he would go to such lengths to protect you and keep you by his side. Perhaps it is because in this palace where everything he has is dependent on the emperor's pleasure, you are the one thing he can call his. A servant girl snatched from her village and sold to the palace, you're loyal to him yes. Because loyalty keeps you alive,keeps you clothed and fed. You're not so much a fool to bite the only hand that has chosen to feed you when all others won't hesitate to beat.

So you let him preen over you, he's much more willing to beautify you now that no one will spare you a second glance. When you first came to the palace you had a hope, most serving girls are let go once they have reached the end of their contracts. You couldn't read the numbers but you thought if you kept your head down and saved your pay, in a couple years you would be back home like nothing happened. What hope is able to be left when you're sat in the prized concubines lap as he pours his prized oils onto your hair, a silent apology for the strands he ripped out earlier. It seems as though now he guards what's left of your beauty just as much as his. In truth, while he may look at you with a flicker of guilt there is no remorse in his heart, he would do it again if he felt he must. The real question would be how far would he go before he'd be secure in your supposed safety?

He hasn't touched you yet, you know it's a matter of time or a strong bottle of wine before he makes the choice to deflower you and ruin you more for any other hands but his to hold. But until then, you will wake sometimes in the night, wondering where his familiar warmth went and wandering barefoot on the cold floor . Finding him deliberating amongst letters and scrolls scattered around him. Since that night, when he took the knife to your face, he's had a fervour with his plans, pulling the net tight around the emperor before you become threatened again. When he sees you in the shadow of the doorway, he only just sighs and gathers everything together before storing it underneath the floor tiles. There's no fear you would discover anything. You don't even know the characters that make up your own name. He merely takes you back to bed with him, holding you so firmly as though you'd be ripped away should he sleep too deeply.