#I might be making the first tags for them

[lynnsmix]

FLEETING. *ੈ✩‧₊˚ h. haddock x reader

summary : After a good few weeks of you and Hiccup throwing playful quips and jests at each other that border the line between being sassy and being flirtatious, that back and forth all comes to an end when you finally need to go. After a good talk with Astrid (she barely even said anything), Hiccup finally comes to terms with his feelings about you, but it might be too late.

word count : 4.82k words

tags : rtte!hiccup, fem!reader, herbalist!reader, exile!reader, dragonrider!reader, fluff, love confessions, kisses, awkward teen romance, jokes about possible Haddock heirs, mild angst, no use of y/n of (name)

author's note : yes we getting emotional hiccup with this one!! anyway, thank you so much for all the love my previous fics are getting, i didn't know so many people would like them ( ∩´͈ ᐜ `͈∩) i love every single one of you guys who liked my fics and the ones who reposted them ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

PART 1: ROGUE TAMER ⋆˙⟡

It's been a while since you've been accustomed to this dynamic of being with the Dragons Riders. You've learned to like them, they were all weird and sometimes rude, but they all had their good sides most of the time.

And that's where you are with them, at a random island picking up various herbs from the ground. You were accompanied with Astrid and Hiccup, the others collecting the other ingredients for the mixture you always made for the Whispering Death.

Kneeling on one knee, you look up to see Hiccup and Astrid help you gather the fauna. Hiccup was focused on making small talk with Astrid as they foraged, not noticing you at all while you stare at him in awe.

You've been doing this all to much, lately.

Hiccup was the first one to warm up to you, especially after he decided to personally teach you more about Dragons, much to your delight. Maybe it was the way he looked at you with such gentleness, or the way he didn't back away when you first scooched closer to him when you first met, but you really wanted to see more of him like that.

You smile softly as his brow furrows, one herb taking a little more force out of him to tug out of the ground. You giggle at the scene, but a thought in your head makes you smile contort into a frown, looking back down at the flora in your hand.

But you knew, deep inside that you weren't going to see it for long, and once you leave, he and the others just be a fleeting memory; one that you remember, but the latter probably wouldn't.

Enough of that pessimistic thinking, what were you doing again?

You shake your head, your expression going neutral. As you count the herbs in your hand, but unbeknownst to you—as soon as you diverted your attention from him, his gaze went to you.

What was it that made him so drawn to you?

You were so stand-offish, yet so social. You were pretty, yeah—but that wasn't the only attribute he liked about you. He liked how you cared about others, how you weren't afraid to stand your ground, how you looked at him when he said something you found funny, and how dead set you were about paying your debt to the Whispering Death.

He would think of more compliments to you, but Astrid just had to make him snap out of it, throwing a small pebble at the side of his head.

"Ow, what the. . .?" He mumbled as held his hand where the tiny rock made impact with his cranium, looking at the blonde Viking in a 'what the Thor was that for?' expression, brows furrowed, and shoulders raised.

All Astrid replied with was her body language, nodding her head to your figure, all unknowing to the whole commotion. She wanted Hiccup to talk with the girl, maybe invite her to the Edge so she could see that there was finally progress in their relationship. They both couldn't see it, but she did—and she wanted it to fluorish already. Hiccup was confused, not at all understanding what she was trying to gesture.

The blonde teen had silently sighed and rolled her eyes, and took the initiative to talk to you.

She called your name, as you hummed absentmindedly to her call.

"So, where are you going to explore when Groundsplitter heals up?" She asks.

"Oh. . . I thought about staying at the island, but I don't think it would be right." You start, putting your fistful of herbs onto a clean cloth.

Hiccup and Astrid's actions slow, now fully grasping what you were saying, looking at one another.

"Really?" Astrid replies, yet her voice sounded distant, as if she was processing that she might've made you and Hiccup's situationship worse, with the brunet Viking's expression furrowing in disbelief as you continue. Astrid fully forgot of even inviting you to the Edge, the guilt of making Hiccup upset more on her mind now.

"Yeah, I'll leave after she's all healed up so she could be happy with her kid, it'll be hard, but y'know. . . I know I have to." You finish, a smile on your face as you look up at them. They couldn't tell how hard it was to not say it without your voice cracking with sadness, but the way your smile didn't reach your face was all the answer they'd get. Unfortunately, neither of them seemed to be looking at you.

Astrid too distracted to fully understand your expression, covering her previous shock with a mirrored smile, while Hiccup had a harder time concealing his sadness.

"Welp," You stand up, dusting your knees off as you walk over to the dragons who were resting.

"Let's go guys." You say with joy, turning over your shoulder, seeing Hiccup who seemed a bit too into thought to hear what you said, but follows your direction anyway. Astrid seemed to reply with a smile, at least, but Hiccup's mind seemed elsewhere, even on the flight back—with you and Astrid chatting, eventually getting to the point where you asked for his opinion on something, and he just replied with a curt response like, "Uh. . . yeah! Definitely. . ." or "Mmhm".

"Are you uh. . . you're actually leaving?" Hiccup's voice was a pitch higher. After landing back, Astrid had replied she needed help with something about Stormfly—you couldn't really understand since she was talking quite fast before flying off with her dragon, leaving you and Hiccup alone.

Unbeknownst to you though, before she had fled with Stormfly, she gave Hiccup a slightly forceful punch to his shoulder, then nodding to you again, raising her eyebrows. She was doing it again—gesturing to your figure randomly without explaining, leaving Hiccup a little more confused, but finally understanding what she meant.

"Well, not right now—once Groundsplitter is fully recovered, yeah." You repeat what you said a few hours ago effortlessly, waiting for him to say anything else while you finish pulverizing another one of your remedies in the bowl, with Hiccup standing next to you.

"I— uh. . ." He trailed off, not knowing what to retort to that.

You're not going to stay here? But where would you go?

"Well— where are you going to go then?" Hiccup follows behind you, asking as you walk over to Groundsplitter—who is now much more lively than the first time you met Hiccup. You know you should be elated—the sole reason you were still staying on this island was to help her recover, but now it's shifted into something more. . . personal?

"I'll just be a wandering traveler then," You declared.

"Maybe steal a few things from the Tribes that my boat passes through— I dunno, I'll figure it out. . ." You absentmindedly reply while striding forward, not even thinking to look at how distraught Hiccup looked like behind you, his brows starting to furrow, a small frown on his lips.

Hiccup didn't even care about you mentioning the possibility of you stealing from other Tribes, he was just focused on this tight coil in his chest, feeling tighter than before when you keep bringing up that you'd be leaving him.

"I don't belong here, Hiccup—" You try to explain, saying it over your shoulder so he could hear more.

"Oh, but— but you do," He butts in, as your pour the contents of the bowl into Groundsplitter's maw. You now turn to him, all your undivided attention on his figure.

"No, I don't. Besides," You smile at him, and lean in slightly.

"I don't really think I do belong anywhere, and I'm. . . I think I'm okay with that." You expounded, the tone understanding as you paint your face with the most neutral expression ever, but deep inside—it hurt.

Feeling like you never belonged was a perpetual loop in your life, especially at the start when you were still with your tribe. Now ironically, ex-communicated from them, now temporarily living on an island with two large dragons was more welcoming than that of your original home. But still, it wasn't your place to call home.

"Why are you so worried about it? Are you gonna miss me?" You step closer, taunting him to look you in the eye.

"Yeah," He brazenly says, looking away from you.

"Oh." Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. You didn't expect he'd actually say that.

"All of us will."

Oh. He meant it like that.

"Well, when you do feel like you miss me," You grabbed his shoulder with your free hand, his gaze falling onto your hand holding him.

"You always have your flying boat over there to help you find me," You tilt your head to look over his shoulder, his eyes following you vision to see Toothless laying curled up on the floor.

You chuckle at your own unfunny joke, and he grins at you, observing you. The way your eyes scrunched when you laughed, how you smile grew so he could see how enthused you were, how your eyes seemed to glint just in the crackling sparks of the campfire.

Why was he thinking like that?

Your laughter died down, another planned jest coming out your mouth. "But I am quite honored; The oh-so great 'Dragon Master' is all worried about little old me," You rolled your eyes playfully, and cross your arms.

"Oh, Gods. . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose, unimpressed.

"You really need to stop hanging out with Snotlout," He says quite forcibly.

"Why? If I did, I wouldn't hear all of the amazing names he has for you," You muse, walking past him as he trails behind you like a loyal dog.

"That's exactly why."

Days go by like a fleeting glance, and it seems as such that you and Hiccup had started to get closer—much to your disdain.

It all started after your talk with him and Astrid about you leaving the island after the recovery of Groundsplitter—that's when he started to seem more. . . bold? Or is the word. . . touchy?

You started to see more of him, and moreover—touch more of him. Handing over a charcoal pencil when the touching of fingers lingered a few seconds too long, the accidental bump of your hands with his as neither of you take initiative to pull away, the simmering burn under your skin when you both are alone, looking into each other's eyes in the way friends don't look at each other when you're alone— no others, just you two.

But not just that, you understood him. He told you his story; how he used to be an outcast from your tribe, just like you—only that he wasn't exiled 'cause he was the Chief's son. He told you how he met Toothless, how he lost the leg, how he misses his mom—he never really told anyone how he felt about it, but he felt inclined to be so transparent with you about it.

Fuck.

You feel it.

The rope between you tugging into a tight string, ready to snap from any further force.

That's what you were feeling.

The tension. Was it just you or did he feel it too?

The swirling churn of your stomach grows every time any physical touch happens with him. Is it because of your blooming feelings for that. . . that stupidly charming boy, that you feel your stomach flipping under and over itself, or was it guilt?

The feeling of sadness, knowing that every touch from him that left phantom sparks on your skin would just be a ghost of a memory.

Ugh, where were you again?

"Hey. . . You still there?"

Astrids voice calls out to you, making you snap out of your thoughts. It wasn't that embarrassing, but you weren't really sure why.

"I- Uh, I am . Yeah, what did you say again?" You blinked, looking back at her.

"Well, now that you're done going bug-eyed looking at that idiot," Her head nods towards where you had seemingly zoned out, and funnily enough, it was actually directed at the boy who was occupying your thoughts.

Hiccup was chatting with Fishlegs over something niche about dragons again, but he seemed so. . . relaxed. His shoulders were clack, a lazy smile on his face but still listening to what his overly-excited friend was saying, the up and down of his chest as he breathed—you really shouldn't be describing it, this really seems like you're breaching the lines between friends and. . . still friends, but you analyze every single thing they do.

"I was asking if you were really sure about leaving." She finished the remaining amount of mead in her mug, chugging it down before speaking again, wiping her mouth with her hand. "You could stay at ours, y'know. . .?"

Another mention of staying, again.

"Hiccup wouldn't. . ." The blonde girl paused, realizing what she was saying, before rephrasing her words again.

"We wouldn't mind having you with us at the Edge. Just saying."

You smile at the request, but you gently decline once more.

"No, yeah— it's, I'll be fine. There's no need." You wave your hand dismissively. "Now that Groundsplitter's all good to go, I'll be. . ."

Your words falter, failing to say the next with a confident tone.

"I'll be on my way." You finally grit out, your smile at Astrid never seeming to reach your eyes. Astrid can tell, but now wanting to pry, she nods instead.

Another peaceful silence meets you both, with layered chewing sounds of your eating with hers. But as much as this seemed great, it made you think more about what she said.

Staying at the Edge sounded like a dream come true; you and the gang worked well together, and it seemed like it would be a good idea.

But was it?

Every time you thought of staying, all the memories of being shunned from your tribe seemed to snap you back to reality.

You were just going to ruin it.

A frown had made its way to your face—now you think you just look stupid; you were eating while frowning, a ridiculous sight.

But unbeknownst to you, a pair of green eyes were analyzing you, just like you were analyzing him.

Today was the day.

You were actually leaving, for good.

But was it actually for good?

It was the afternoon, the sun blaring high in the sky. You were at the shore, your boat ready to go. Everyone was there to say goodbye—Groundsplitter, the Screaming Death, the gang, and Hiccup.

Everyone smiles ran away from their face; either showing a neutral, passive expression, a somber look that didn't want to cry, or barely being able to keep their head, uncontrollably sobbing—A.K.A just Fishlegs.

"Do you, really. . . Really have to go?" Fishlegs sniffs and sobs at every word he says. You don't break the hug he trapped you in, waiting patiently for him to do it first.

"Yeah, just stay with us at the Edge. Not that— not that I care, or anything." Snotlout supported, his voice sounding more glum as he hugged you next. He gave you a quick side hug quickly, before letting go and crossing his arms.

Snoutlout finally let go, letting you hug Ruffnut now, then her twin brother. You were gonna miss them—they knew the real, genuine definition of chaotic fun.

"Dude's right." Ruffnut said.

"It sucks not having you here now." Tuffnut mumbled into your shoulder as he hugged you tightly, looking at the ground while kicking a small pebble with his foot.

Their voice seemed to miss the usual mischievous, anarchic Torston tone. It was nice seeing another side of them, but that didn't make it less bad.

Astrid practically jumped into your arms. You reciprocated it, nonetheless. By the short time you were with her, she really made you feel like you had a sibling—someone to help you. And by the way she held you in her arms, she felt the same way.

"We're gonna miss you." Astrid had sighed.

"Especially Hiccup. He really likes—" Ruffnut's random comment had cut off with an 'oomph!', the man he was mentioning covering his mouth. You laugh at how silly he looked doing it.

"Haha. . . He just means I'm gonna miss you. . . Yep, a lot." Hiccup smiled and gritted out, Ruffnut trying to take the brunet Viking's clasp on her mouth off.

"Uh-huh. . .?" You reluctantly said, finally reaching out to Hiccup. You seemed to always save him for last.

Unlike the others when they hugged you, tight and gripping, Hiccup seemed to hug you like you were made of delicate porcelain, his touch soft and gentle.

He pulled you in, one hand on your waist, the other at the back of your neck, cradling you in his hands. You paused at the sudden change of being hugged, but you accepted it, hands on his back.

He mumbled something into your shoulder something you couldn't hear, even with how close he was to your ear. Only he knew.

"Please come back." He meekly said, like a prayer. You didn't hear, but maybe so God would.

His fingers curled softly, grabbing your waist and combing through your hair, delicate as flight.

You both stayed like that, longer than usual. You both pulled away to look at each other. His eyes— oh, his eyes. They looked at you with such feeling, you didn't know what it was, but it sucked you in.

"So, are they just going to stay like that or—" Snotlout's comment had failed to finish, Astrid's foot stomping on his.

"Ow! What?"

This made you both remember yourselves, fully pulling away from each other's touch.

"Ahem, so, yeah—" Hiccup cleared his throat.

"I'm just gonna—" You started to jog into the boat, tripping somewhere along the way.

"Yeah, you— you do that," He nodded, trying to fix himself up.

Before you knew it, you were already on water now—the dragons helping you to push it into the ocean. The water ripples as it pushed you away from the Vikings, the boat rocking slightly in its wave. You looked back at them, before waving at them with a pained smile.

They waved back, but Hiccup just smiled. You see it now. As far as you were, you could see what his eyes seemed to tell you; they were filled with adoration, but shrouded with a cloudy sadness.

As soon as you were far enough, you turned back into the direction of your boat—and endless pool of blue before you, and a setting sun.

You didn't want to look back again; because if you did, you knew you wouldn't want to leave.

At the shore, after about an hour of talking and so, everyone decided to get on their dragons and fly back now, Hiccup and Astrid being the ones to leave last again.

"C'mon," She turned around over to Stormfly, but Hiccup didn't want to move. He seemed stuck to the ground, his eyes never wanting to look away from the direction you went.

". . ."

". . . Hiccup?"

"I— yeah, I'll come along, just wait a sec." He vaguely responded.

The blonde Viking didn't know what he meant, until he saw him ride onto Toothless and bolt up into the mountain. As much as she didn't want to intervene, she didn't want to have her friend be this unconfident and somber again.

Without another beat, she followed him up onto Stormfly, flying up to the flat peak. She made her Deadly Nadder land a few steps behind, before unmounting and hesitantly walking up to the boy, hunched over with his knees dangling off the rocky mountain.

"So, how are you holding up?" She started gently, sitting next to her friend softly.

"Oh, y'know. . . i'm just as spiffy as ever," Hiccup exclaimed faking his enthusiastic self, before hunching over again realizing Astrid wasn't convinced.

"I dunno, I feel. . . sad?" His hands were on his lap, fiddling slightly with the texture of his pants.

"Of course, you do. We just said goodbye to her."

"Yeah, but like," He raised his hands to gesture, but he couldn't explain what he wanted to say.

"It feels. . . different."

Astrid replied with a hum, encouraging him to find his words.

"Like. . . I just lost something I never should've let go of." He elaborated.

"And why do you think you feel that way?" The blonde Viking wanted him to find what he felt by himself, not wanting to intervene any more than this.

"I don't know—maybe 'cause we lost another friend, maybe because everyone's sad too, maybe because I. . ." He groaned, before his words paused.

"Because you. . .?"

She could tell. The gears in his head were finally turning at max speed, he understood now, his eyes going slightly wide.

". . . Because I liked her, yeah." Hiccup balled his hands into fists, his sorrow forming into annoyance. "And I never told her— Gods, I never told her."

His stance started to sit right again, before bending over himself.

"And now I'm too. . . I'm too late," He meekly let out, his frows burrowed, his hands on his knees to keep him upright.

Hiccup didn't understand. Was this punishment? Making him feel such emotion from a person as amazing as you, then taking you away? If so, this was a cruel fate.

Astrid saw his face. He looked as dispirited as ever, and she couldn't help but comfort him. With a hand on his shoulder, she tried her best to make him understand that he didn't run out of time.

"Do you still like her now?"

". . . Yeah, of course." He looked up to meet her eyes, and he was surprised to see determined cerulean eyes looking into his.

"Then tell her, it isn't too late." She emitted, a smile on her face forming.

"But I— I can't. She left already. . . Unless," Hiccup responded negatively, until he remembered what you said a few days back.

"You always have your flying boat over there to help you find me,"

He whipped his head to Toothless, who seemed to decide that now was the best time to take a good nap. He sighed, but another roar from a dragon—or more like scream—made his head look to the sound.

The Screaming Death. Dragon

Dragon. Flying boat. You.

This was it.

Hiccup looked back to Astrid, who seemed supportive of the idea. Without another second wasted, he took the chance and stumbled over to the large, albino reptile.

Because this time, he would make sure you came back to him.

Re-reading one of the books you had for the fifth time, you sit on one on the cool wood planks of the boat.

Your eyes are reading and understanding the pages yes, but your mind is currently preoccupied with the thought of what you did just mere hours earlier.

Was it the right decision? What if it wasn't? Did I really have a chance living with them?

You shook your head to rid of the thoughts, blinking quickly to banish them.

What were you thinking?

You stand up, leaving the book strewn on the ground. You lean on the banister, looking into the far sun—it painted the ocean with a multitude of colors, blending seamlessly with one another.

With a sigh, you lean your head on your hand.

You hear large flapping in the sky, but when you did look up, there was nothing but a large flock of Monstrous Nightmares flying away.

Huh.

"You really need to stop putting your books everywhere."

You know that voice.

Were you hallucinating?

You turn around, and there he actually was. He was there, his lanky stature holding the book in his hand. Before you knew it, your legs were taking you to him.

You were in his arms, and he was in yours. You pulled away, and he still held you.

"You're— you're here. . .?" You said, not believing what was happening and what you were experiencing.

"You said to visit you when I missed you. So, here I am." He elaborated.

"On my flying boat." He nodded behind him, and you didn't even notice that the albino dragon was with him.

"Oh, Gods. . ." A breath of joy made its way out of your mouth, and you looked back at her even more.

"I didn't tell you when I still had the chance to, so I'm saying it now." Hiccup's hands met yours, and you looked down to see him intertwine them.

"I don't want you gone."

"But I'm not gone. . .?" You asked.

"No, I—" He sighed deeply, then replied in a better way.

"I don't want you to disappear from me." He expressed.

Your time seemed to slow. When he said it, it felt like it was just you and him.

"Hiccup. . ." Your eyes went soft.

"I know you think it won't be right with us, with you staying back at the Edge because of what happened at your tribe, but—" He gripped your hands in his, a reassurance to you that he's there, and assurance to him that he's actually holding you.

"This is different. You belong with us, with. . ." Hiccup brows furrowed in disdain, thinking that what he might say might be quite corny.

"You belong with me."

Without another beat, your gentle expression turned into something of a teasing demeanor, bursting out into a giggle.

"Okay, I know that was quite cheesy,"

"Oh, very cheesy." You nodded fervently, your sweet laugh still ringing in his ears.

"I know, I know— but. . . You get what I mean." He tilts his head slightly.

"Yeah, I— I do." You look down at both your interlocked hands, then unlinking them together, doing something Hiccup never expected you would do.

"Do you really think I'll belong if I stay?" You cup side of his face, his body instinctively leaning towards your touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Always." He sighs out.

"Good, because I'm never leaving."

You leaned in quickly, his lips meeting yours. Hiccup went wide-eyed, then kissed back.

Lips locking, hands on each other's, you felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

And Hiccup? He felt like he was in Valhalla.

Pulling away, you try to ask a question to the brunet. But you pulled away too little, and Hiccup's lips met yours again quite clumsily, his hands making it to your waist, pulling you closer.

You accepted his actions, nonetheless. But after a few more moments, you pulled away, far enough this time.

"Wait,"

"What. . .?" You saw his face, and he looked as if he wanted to whine, his eyes slightly teary, pleading.

"Where would I stay then?"

"Mine, of course. Unless, y'know. . . You wanna be staying with Snotlout, of all people." He sarcastically replied.

"Hmm," You vocalized, looking up to pretend you were thinking.

"Maybe I do want to room with Snotlout, he has some really good nicknames for you—"

"Oh, just come here." He rolled his eyes as he cut you off, his lips meeting yours again.

Your kissing was filled with clumsy teeth knocking with one another, his hands on your waist more firm.

There was another thought popping up in his head.

If you did become roommates with Snotlout, he wouldn't mind at all.

Because he'd just steal you away, every damn time.

BONUS ⋆˚࿔

"So, does that mean you'll be staying at Hiccup's hut?" Astrid asked.

Everyone gathered at the Blacksmith's Forge, excited to see you again knowing you weren't leaving.

"Until my hut's all done being built, yeah." You responded, leaning onto Hiccup's shoulder.

"I thought rooming with other people wasn't allowed?" Tuffnut crossed his arms.

"No, rooming with other people isn't allowed with you two." Fishleg's corrected.

"Remember the time you guys lit me on fire in my sleep?" The blond Viking bleated.

"Whatever, that was a totally cool stunt." Tuffnut jeered.

"It was totally awesome." Ruffnut added.

"Yeah, but maybe that rule still shouldn't be allowed with Hiccup and her." Snotlout finally piped up.

You and Hiccup looked to him, perplexed.

"Who knows? Maybe another Haddock heir will be soon. . ." He said the last part more hushed, but it still was heard by everyone.

Astrid was shocked and stunned, The Twins seemed awfully intrigued, Fishlegs was confused then understood, excusing himself out of the conversation, Hiccup was sputtering out his words, and you started to blush furiously.

You tried to defend yourself, but a looming shadow behind Snotlout seemed to do it first.

Now, the Screaming Death was trying to bite Snotlout's buttocks off, and now all of you were laughing.

"A Haddock heir, eh?" You drawled, looking over to Hiccup.

"I— uh, I don't think we're really, y'know ready for that, actually no—" He tripped over his words.

"Scratch that, I'm sure that I'm not."

idk if I hate the theme or like it, but I can't change it anymore so womp womp :(

did you like the fic? If you do, drop a note and let me know what you thought of it :DD

thank you for reading ~ !

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Babies Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: It was always easy for Spencer to be with you. But when you started acting strangely, everything changed.

Words: 6,8k (welcome back, long stories).

Warnings & Tags: this works as a standalone one-shot, but also is an extra to a series. mentions of pregnancy, jail, and daddy issues. fluffy and messy + a little angst. established relationship. lack of communication and misunderstandings. my dear painter!reader who was a cat. the reader catches a cold, but it's nothing serious. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This has been on my mind for a long time because I love messy stories, sorryyy.

I. With Extra Love!

It began with the way your fingers curled around the sleeve of Spencer’s hoodie before the grocery store doors even finished sliding open.

Not dramatically. Not with fear. Just quietly. Deliberately.

Like you were anchoring yourself to something familiar, something textured and known, against a world that had started to blur. Your thumb slipped beneath the frayed cuff and found the inside of his wrist, brushing across his pulse in one slow arc. The rhythm was steady. Measured. Reassuring. You clung to it like it was a metronome, trying to sync your own heartbeat to something outside yourself.

And your personal profiler noticed. Of course he did.

You usually wandered ahead in the store, letting your feet lead while your hands skimmed the corners of cardboard boxes and plastic bags, tapping textures, comparing fonts, pausing to squeeze loaves of bread just to feel the give. You’d hum to yourself, make up quiet stories about the people on the back of cereal boxes, laugh at bizarre off-brand mascots, and take mental snapshots of color combinations that might end up in your next canvas.

But today, you didn’t move like that.

Today, you didn’t drift.

You stayed close—too close—tucked into his side like a warm shadow stitched to him by something invisible. Your hand never left the crook of his elbow. Your shoulder brushed his every time the cart turned a corner. And when he reached for a carton of almond milk, you followed the movement like your balance depended on it.

He could feel it: the tension under your skin. Not loud. Not panicked. But constant, like the linework of a sketch you couldn’t erase.

The grocery store itself felt like a backdrop, poorly lit and overexposed: buzzing fluorescents above casting too-harsh light across the white tile. The smell of freezer air, too clean, too sharp. Ripe bananas nearby, sweet and cloying. Cart wheels squeaked. A child hummed somewhere off in aisle four, off-key but cheerful.

But Spencer wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

All he could focus on was the absence of your usual spark. The soft, living art of you.

The silence was louder than anything else.

Not your peaceful kind of quiet, the quiet of smudged charcoal on your fingers or brushwater tinting the sink blue. This silence was tight. Tucked in your shoulders. Seeping from the corners of your mouth like something unspoken and fraying at the edge.

You paused in the middle of the dairy aisle, halfway between the yogurt and the shelf of drinkable kefir. Your eyes flicked across the rows of cups—vanilla, strawberry, lemon, blueberry—but didn’t settle on any of them. You were staring through them, your gaze hollow with something unsaid.

Spencer stopped beside you. Watched you gently shift your weight from one foot to the other, your arms crossed loosely across your chest, your fingers tapping against your elbow like they needed something to do.

You were usually so visually alive in places like this. Your artist’s brain would marvel at the hue of a bell pepper or squint at the typography on the labels like it was a form of sin. You’d call a stack of fruit “an unintentional still life.” You once bought chocolate just because the packaging had the exact shade of ultramarine you’d been trying to mix in your studio.

But here you were now, gray around the edges, like your palette had lost saturation.

Spencer watched your eyes land on the strawberry yogurt he knew you liked.

“You want it?” he asked gently, voice soft like he was afraid of cracking something.

You nodded. Barely. Your lips parted just slightly but no sound came out. It wasn’t agreement so much as resignation.

That’s when his worry stopped being theoretical.

That’s when it took shape.

He didn’t speak again. He just reached for the yogurt and placed it gently into the wire basket, then slid the strap from your shoulder to his. He took your hand in his, the one you’d been keeping balled inside your sweater sleeve, and threaded his fingers between yours with quiet insistence.

His palm was warm. Wide. Familiar.

And then his thumb started moving.

Not erratically. Not urgently.

But the shift became undeniable when you tugged him toward the pet aisle.

There was no playful quip about how Mittens had become “a tyrant in fur,” no fond complaint about her knocking over your paint water mid-stroke that morning or dragging your charcoal pencils under the couch like buried treasure. Just silence. And the soft, uneven drag of your sneakers against the gleaming tile, as if each step took more thought than the last.

Spencer followed without needing to ask.

You drifted down the narrow aisle like you were walking underwater—past glittering collars, crinkly toys, glossy bags of kibble—until you stopped in front of the canned food. All that color and cheer and marketing polish, a whole row of smiling cats in bright pastel packaging, blurred together under the fluorescents.

Then, quietly, like your knees had forgotten how to hold you, you crouched down. Not gracefully, not purposefully, just dropped into a heap of sweater and quiet weight.

His chest ached watching you from above. You were usually so fluid in your movements, all long lines and quiet elegance, even crouching to pet a stray looked like part of a ballet. But now your posture was collapsed, drawn inward, like someone trying to fold smaller, to feel less.

You didn’t move.

Just sat there, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the stacked cans like they were a puzzle you couldn’t solve.

“She’s not eating,” you said softly, still not looking at him. The words scraped out of you like they’d gotten caught on something on the way up. “Not like she used to.”

Spencer crouched beside you, the chill of the floor sinking through his jeans. “Since when?” he asked gently.

You shrugged. A lopsided, barely-there motion. “A few days. Maybe more. I’ve tried everything. Her usuals. Tuna. Warmed it like the vet articles say to.” Your voice cracked in the smallest way. “She sniffs it and walks away. Looks at me like…”

He waited.

“Like she’s waiting for something else,” you finished in a whisper, your chin dipping, your fingers curling tighter into your sleeves like they could hide the tremble beneath your skin. “And I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what she wants.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist.

“You’ve already done more for her than most people would even think to do,” he said softly. “She’s safe because of you. Every day.”

You closed your eyes at that. Just for a second. And for that second, he saw your breath stutter, just a little, as if his words had managed to loosen a knot somewhere behind your ribs.

You opened your eyes, then reached forward and slowly picked up a pastel can. Chicken pâté. Then another, salmon. Then a box of heart-shaped treats, the ones Mittens liked to ignore until she didn’t.

Then, without warning, you turned and folded into him.

No announcement. No signal.

You just shifted like gravity had changed, and suddenly you were in his arms, pressing into him like he was the only surface left soft enough to land on.

Spencer blinked, caught off-guard only for a heartbeat before he melted around you like instinct. One arm looped around your back, pulling you tight against his chest. The other curled protectively behind your head, cradling the curve of your skull like a precious thing, his fingers threading into your hair. He held you like you were something he could shield with his body alone.

He didn’t ask you to explain.

He just felt the way your breath came uneven and shallow, the way your nose pressed into the worn fabric of his hoodie, the way your fingers gripped the hem, not with panic, but with need. Like you were trying to convince yourself he was still here.

“I don’t know why I’m like this today,” you murmured against him, voice muffled, tinged with self-blame. “I think I'm about to get sick.”

“It’s okay, you’re not like anything,” he said, his voice so low it hummed against your cheek. “You’re just feeling. And even if you get sick, I’m right here.”

Your grip tightened.

“I feel clingy,” you whispered, so quietly he almost missed it. “Like…too much.”

His heart cracked cleanly down the middle.

He leaned back just enough to guide your chin up with two gentle fingers. His eyes found yours, steady and warm. “You could hold onto me all day,” he said, “and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Your lips twitched. Just the smallest flicker. “That’s dramatic.”

“No, that’s me being completely rational,” he said. “In fact, you could superglue yourself to my side, and I’d carry you around like a very affectionate emotional support satchel.”

That startled a soft laugh from you, a little crooked, a little watery, but real. And in that laugh, the air shifted again.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss the spot just above your brow. Tender. Intentional.

You pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw in return—an unspoken thank-you—and then, like nothing at all had happened, you reached behind him and slipped a chocolate bar into the basket on the floor.

“For emotional support,” you said, clearing your throat. “I've had the craving since yesterday.”

Spencer arched a brow, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “One bar?”

You stared at the label. Then grabbed another.

He laughed, kissed your temple again, and helped you to your feet.

“That’s more like it,” he said softly.

He took your hand again, this time with both of his, and held it like it was something fragile, something rare. And for the rest of the grocery run, you didn’t let go.

Not even once.

Every time the cart stopped, you were right there. Hooked into his side. Fingers brushing the back of his neck. Your cheek resting against his shoulder as he compared cereal brands or frowned at the difference between dried rosemary and crushed.

He held your hand at the register, bagged the groceries one-handed just so he could keep his fingers locked in yours. He kissed your knuckles in the parking lot. Opened the passenger door like it was ritual. Placed the chocolate gently in the front seat like it was sacred.

He didn’t ask what had tipped your day sideways.

Didn’t need to.

He just stayed close.

And so did you.

II. With Extra Babies?!

The apartment was dim, softened by the golden hush of late afternoon light filtering through the gauze of half-drawn curtains. Outside, rain murmured against the windows, more suggestion than sound, a faint, persistent drizzle that had begun halfway through Spencer’s walk home from the pharmacy. His jacket, damp at the shoulders, clung faintly to his frame as he stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind him with a muted thud that seemed swallowed by the stillness of the space.

He paused, blinking once, letting the warmth of your apartment settle around him. That familiar blend of eucalyptus and your shampoo lingered in the air—clean, sweet, vaguely herbal—like the afterglow of a memory. The scent had seeped into the fabric of the place, into the walls, into him. Comfort and home. You.

Spencer slipped out of his shoes with practiced quiet, careful not to scuff the floor, and set the crinkling paper pharmacy bag on the low counter near the entryway table. His keys landed gently in the little ceramic dish you’d once made at a paint-your-own pottery place, one he’d teased you for keeping because it was lopsided, though he secretly adored how your thumbprint was still faintly pressed into the glaze near the rim.

From the direction of his bedroom, he heard your voice.

It carried through the hallway like a thread of sound, soft and slightly frayed, low from congestion, yes, but unmistakably yours. It had that familiar cadence, dipped in exhaustion and something weightier beneath it, something quieter. A sigh woven into syllables. Not quite sad. Not quite calm, either.

Spencer stilled.

He hadn’t meant to listen, hadn’t planned to stop, but the tone in your voice made something in him pause, made him want to…protect. To wait. To not intrude.

So he moved instead into the kitchen, placing the pharmacy bag down on the countertop with care, the kind of care one reserves for holding delicate things, a winged creature, a fragile truth, a heart not fully healed.

Inside the bag were small comforts:

—The good cold medicine, the one that wouldn’t knock you out completely but would ease the pressure behind your eyes.

—A tin of honey lemon tea you’d once mentioned you liked better than chamomile in the winter.

—Soft, eucalyptus-infused tissues that wouldn’t hurt your nose.

—Your favorite fruit gummies in pastel shades, already half-melted together in their bag.

—A bar of dark chocolate wrapped in shimmery gold foil, a tiny, handwritten price tag still clinging to the edge like a forgotten whisper.

He unpacked it all with methodical precision, arranging it on the counter like an offering. Not rushed. Not performative. Just…quietly tender. He placed the tea tin next to your daisy-handled mug, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. The low hum of water heating added warmth to the silence.

Your voice floated in again.

Softer now, almost wistful. There was a pause—your weight shifting, maybe the creak of the floorboard by the window as you paced—and then a muffled laugh, hushed by concern. Someone on the other end of the line must’ve said something reassuring.

His chest tightened in that odd, inexplicable way it sometimes did when he realized how much he cared for you. How much he noticed. How much he wanted to be the person you could say anything to. Even when you didn’t. Even when you couldn’t.

The kettle began to whistle softly, a thin, breathy sound that curled into the quiet like a secret.

Spencer moved automatically, lifting it with practiced care and pouring the steaming water into your daisy-handled mug. The soft coils of steam rose in elegant spirals, vanishing into the still air. He stirred the honey lemon tea with the back of a spoon, slow and thoughtful, watching the amber swirl deepen like sunlight trapped in water.

He set the mug beside the cold medicine and the chocolate, aligning them with quiet precision. A folded napkin completed the ritual, the crease smoothed once, then again, beneath his thumb. There was something reverent about it—like the countertop had become an altar, and this small collection of comforts was an offering to something delicate. To you.

Maybe he’d bring it in with a gentle knock. Ask if you needed anything. Tuck a gummy into your hand with a quiet joke. Something to make you smile the way only he could.

He reached for the bottle of medicine, squinting to check the label, how many hours between doses again? But something stopped him.

The opened one wasn’t there.

Had you taken it?

He frowned. The last time you’d coughed had been hours ago. You weren’t great at remembering. Maybe you needed him to remind you.

So he moved quietly, instinct guiding him now. Bare feet on warm wooden floor, the hallway stretching ahead like a passage between dreams. Dim light filtered from the bedroom, just enough to outline the door, cracked open, the soft pool of lamplight casting the edges of your shadow in long, stretched lines.

He didn’t mean to look.

Didn’t mean to listen.

But your voice drifted out, soft and unguarded. It stopped him mid-step.

“I mean, he’s the best. Perfect.”

Spencer stopped.

His breath stilled, just for a moment.

You were talking about him. He felt the words slip beneath his ribs, warm and golden, like a sunbeam let loose inside his chest. A helpless smile crept across his face, slow and stunned, aching in the way affection sometimes does when it ambushes you. He pressed a hand lightly to the doorframe, just to ground himself.

“I don’t think anyone has ever made me so much soup,” you continued, your voice scratchy but fond, “or given me so many flowers. Or told me so many useless facts about, like…the color theory of soup cans or the mating rituals of penguins.”

You laughed then. A soft, breathy exhale. He could hear the smile in it.

And it undid him.

“He’s just…he’s everything.”

Something in him split, quietly, beautifully.

His heart felt swollen in his chest, full to the point of ache. He could see you in his mind: pacing slowly, one hand cradling the phone to your ear, the other probably fiddling with the hem of your sweater or the chain around your neck. Saying those words like they cost you something to say out loud. Like you were afraid to let them fully exist outside your own head.

He would’ve walked in then. Said something stupid like, “The soup facts are definitely not useless.” Maybe made you laugh, just to see your face light up.

But then—

“I just…”

There was a pause.

Not a casual one. A loaded one.

The kind of silence that carries weight.

His spine straightened. His breath went shallow.

“He doesn’t know yet.”

His smile faltered.

The warmth drained slowly from his chest, replaced with a thudding quiet.

He blinked, once. Twice.

Doesn’t know what?

He leaned in slightly, hand flattening against the doorframe. Not in malice. Not out of intrusion. Just…because something had shifted. And that shift felt like the floor beneath him wasn’t as solid as he thought.

“I know he deserves to know,” you said, softer now. “But this changes everything. We’re not ready for this. We can’t even decide which apartment we’re going to live in.”

He felt it then…not the message, but the shift. Something cracking. Something sacred and terrifying unfolding in real time.

You were afraid.

“I’m so scared now,” you whispered, your voice trembling around the words like they were too sharp to carry.

Spencer’s chest pulled tight.

What changes everything? What are we not ready for?

The room suddenly felt smaller. The hallway narrowed around him. He stood there—frozen between one breath and the next—watching the doorway like it might offer him more answers if he simply stayed still enough.

And then—

The final blow:

“Pregnancy…it’s a lot.”

The word clung to the air like static. Heavy. Inescapable.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His breath lodged somewhere in the hollow of his throat, suspended like glass on the verge of shattering. The word repeated, echoing with quiet violence inside his skull.

Pregnancy.

His hand, which had braced instinctively on the doorframe, slowly dropped to his side. Numb. Cold. But his mind…his mind was anything but.

It began unraveling, fast and involuntary. Like a thousand puzzle pieces snapping into place all at once.

Your cravings.

You had said it like a joke last week, curling up in his hoodie and asking for pickles and chocolate at 1:43 a.m. He thought it was quirky, one of your artist whims. He’d kissed your forehead and fetched them anyway, laughing as you made an entire dinner out of strange combinations. But now…

Your fatigue.

You’d been napping more. Falling asleep in odd places: on the couch with your sketchbook still open, in his reading chair, curled up in the sunlight like Mittens. At first, he thought it was just the weather, or your new job at the city gallery. You’d brushed it off with a smile, said, “I’m just tired today,” like it was no big deal. But it wasn’t just one day.

The nausea.

Your distaste for coffee had thrown him. You’d pushed your mug away last weekend after only two sips, nose wrinkled. “It smells too bitter,” you’d mumbled, and he’d blinked, stunned. You loved coffee. It was practically your love language. That was the first moment he’d thought something was…off. But not this.

And the clinginess.

Oh. God.

You’d been clinging to him like breath lately. Pulling his hand to your cheek while brushing your teeth. Pressing into his side in line at the grocery store, looping your fingers into his sleeve like you were afraid he’d slip away if you didn’t. Kissing him longer. Holding him tighter at night. Your body always curled toward his, like it was magnetic, like it needed him.

You needed him.

And not just emotionally. Not just romantically. But in some instinctual, unconscious way. A way that made sense now.

His knees almost buckled with the weight of it.

You weren’t being moody. Or sleepy. Or irrational. You were pregnant. Carrying something alive. A possibility. A future. His. Yours.

He felt like his body was frozen and on fire at once.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he made no sound. Didn’t move. Just stood there, rooted in place, his thoughts unraveling and weaving themselves into something terrifying and sacred.

You were scared. You hadn’t told him.

And now he understood why.

Because this was bigger than either of you had expected. And it wasn’t just the apartment, or the toothbrush in his bathroom, or which bed you fell asleep in. This was life, multiplying in secret. Fragile. Real.

Spencer inhaled sharply, chest tight.

He pressed a hand flat against the wall to steady himself. Not because he was angry. Not even because he felt betrayed. But because the magnitude of it all—the way he missed it, how all the pieces had been right in front of him—was overwhelming.

And now, he wasn’t just a man in love with the girl next door.

He was going to be…something more.

He stayed in the hallway for a long moment after your voice went quiet, trying to get his heartbeat under control.

He wouldn’t say anything. You weren’t ready. He’d wait, he could do that. Let you tell him in your own time, in your own way.

But God, it was hard.

So he did the only thing he could: he picked up the little tray he’d made like it was armor. The daisy-handled mug, still steaming. The medicine, lined up neatly. A few of your pastel gummies tucked onto a folded napkin. The bar of dark chocolate with the foil already peeled back at the corner, because you hated fiddling with wrappers when you were sick. He even brought a spoon in case you wanted to stir in more honey.

He knocked softly at the half-open door.

Your head turned. You were curled in bed, half-wrapped in one of his old hoodies, your phone now tossed on the nightstand, your legs tangled in the blankets like you hadn’t figured out how to get comfortable yet.

Your eyes softened when you saw him.

“Hey,” you said, voice still raspy. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

He stepped inside, careful not to spill anything, and set the tray gently on the nightstand. He picked up the mug and handed it to you himself, waiting until your fingers wrapped around the ceramic before letting go.

“Tea. And the good kind of medicine. You’ll actually be able to think after taking it,” he said. “And I brought the gummies because…I know you.”

You glanced at the little napkin, and your lips twitched, caught between a laugh and something softer. “You’re being very sweet.”

“I’m always sweet.”

You gave him a skeptical look.

“Okay,” he amended. “I’m selectively sweet.”

He hovered for a second—then, without asking, he toed off his socks and climbed gently onto the bed beside you, careful not to jostle the tea in your hands. His movement was fluid, familiar, like he’d done it a hundred times, but tonight…tonight he stayed closer. A little more tucked into your side. Like he was trying to make himself small and soft and easy to hold.

You looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re crawling into bed with me now?”

Spencer shrugged. “I figured you could use the company. And I didn’t want to sit out there alone.” Then, after a beat, quieter: “I just missed you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. “You were gone twenty minutes.”

“Too long,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He leaned back against the headboard, shoulder brushing yours. After a moment, his hand slipped beneath the blanket and found yours where it rested in your lap, his fingers curling around it, slow and careful. He didn’t grip. Just held, the way someone holds a delicate piece of glass: reverent, aware of how easily it could shatter.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked, glancing sideways. Your eyes searched his face like you knew something was off, even if you couldn’t name it yet.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just…tired.”

But it wasn’t tiredness. It was everything. The fear. The awe. The sudden flood of imagined futures he hadn’t even realized he wanted until five minutes ago.

He pictured you walking through the gallery in a flowy dress with a barely-there bump, resting your hand absentmindedly over your stomach. He pictured the first ultrasound photo on the fridge, the sleepless nights, the terrible baby books he’d undoubtedly read cover to cover. He saw your lives folding into something bigger than either of you were ready for.

And he saw himself, hesitating at the edge.

What if he couldn’t do this?

What if his past made him dangerous? Unfit?

What if he disappeared the way his father did…gone without goodbye?

What if prison had taken some piece of him that you’d someday need?

What if, one day, your child looked at him with fear in their eyes, not love?

He pressed closer without realizing it, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles beneath the blanket. It was subtle, but it was there: the clinginess. The quiet desperation to be near you, to feel you warm and real and here.

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re acting like you think I’m going somewhere,” you said gently.

He smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the edge of the blanket.

“Maybe I just like you best like this. Quiet. Trapped under three layers of blankets. You can’t escape.”

You laughed under your breath and nuzzled in closer. “I don’t want to escape.”

His heart caught in his chest.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—quick, but it lingered longer than usual. His free arm curled around your waist, fingers spreading flat against the side of your body, not thinking, not calculating—just feeling. Like maybe if he held you gently enough, the world wouldn’t shift again beneath his feet.

You sighed, content, resting against him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Spence?” you mumbled sleepily, your voice muffled against his hoodie.

“Mm?”

“You’re being kind of clingy tonight.”

His chest lifted beneath you as he let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Yeah,” he whispered, tightening his grip just slightly. “I think it’s my turn.”

III. With Extra Wine??

The car ride home was thick with silence.

Not the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you and Spencer like a familiar blanket, but something heavier. Denser. The kind of silence that built itself out of unspoken words and barely contained emotions. The kind that crackled just beneath the surface, making your chest feel too tight and the air inside the car too thin.

Streetlights passed above in steady, pulsing intervals, flashes of gold and shadow that streaked across the windshield like slow-moving lightning. The soft hum of the tires on wet asphalt filled the space between you, but it didn’t mask the tension. Nothing could.

You sat curled against the passenger door, body angled slightly away from him, the fingers of one hand twisting your bracelet around and around your wrist like you were trying to wind down your own heartbeat. The smell of roasted garlic clung to the fabric of your dress, Rossi’s cologne still faint on your skin from when he’d hugged you goodbye. You could still taste the wine on your lips, warm and bitter. Dry. Just a sip. Barely even that.

And yet Spencer hadn’t said a word since.

He drove with both hands on the wheel, white-knuckled, his posture too perfect to be natural. His jaw was tight, so tight it looked like it ached. You could see the tension in the way he shifted his foot ever so slightly, like his body was too full of energy, like something inside him wanted to burst free and run.

You didn’t understand it, not fully. But you’d seen it happen.

One glass of wine. That was all.

Offered casually by Emily.

You’d smiled, reached for the stem without thinking, just as you always had.

And Spencer—across the room in mid-conversation with JJ—had gone still.

Not just still.

Frozen.

His mouth had stopped moving mid-sentence. His hand, which had been gesturing gently, dropped to his side like a marionette’s string had been cut. His eyes had locked on your glass like it was dangerous. Like it was a threat. You’d even felt the weight of his stare before you turned. When you caught his eyes, he hadn’t looked away. But his face…

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t confusion.

It was panic.

Sharp. Quiet. Controlled.

But unmistakable.

He didn’t say a thing, then or afterward. Just went quiet. Tense. Distant in a way that was so specific it hurt. He smiled politely at Rossi’s jokes, nodded at Garcia’s stories, laughed at nothing. You’d leaned into him at one point, your hand slipping beneath the hem of his jacket to rest against his back, and his muscles had barely reacted. Like he wasn’t even in his own body.

Now, in the dim interior of the car, he looked even farther away.

His face was pulled tight, drawn in clean, sharp lines, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed together so hard the color had drained from them. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, jaw clenched like he was trying to hold his entire skull in place.

You turned away from the window and watched him for a moment longer.

And then, quietly but firmly, you said, “Okay.”

Your voice sliced through the silence like broken glass on tile. Spencer didn’t flinch, but the grip he had on the steering wheel visibly tightened.

“You’ve been weird since dinner,” you said, carefully, not accusatory but not gentle either. “What is going on?”

For a long moment, nothing. Just the hum of tires and the shallow sound of his breathing. Then:

“You drank wine,” he said, low. Measured. Like the words were forced out from behind his teeth.

You blinked, brows furrowed. “Yeah. I mean…yeah, I had a sip.”

“I know,” he said quickly, voice sharper than before. “I saw.”

“I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” You turned toward him, watching his jaw tick, the way he still wouldn’t look at you. “It was half a glass.”

“It’s not.” He swallowed hard. “It’s not a big deal.”

But it was. You could hear it in his voice, tight with restraint, in the crackle beneath those four words. You watched the shadows crawl over his face as another streetlight flickered past.

You leaned back slowly in your seat, processing. “You haven’t said a single thing since we left.”

“I’m just driving,” he muttered.

“That’s not what you’re doing,” you said. “And you know it.”

A beat passed. He didn’t respond. You stared at him, willing him to just say what he was thinking, but he didn’t crack.

“I saw your face,” you added, voice quieter now, searching. “When I picked up the wine. You looked at me like I’d—”

You faltered. “Like I’d betrayed you.”

Spencer’s lips parted, barely. His jaw moved like he wanted to speak, but no words came. His fingers flexed on the wheel again, the muscle in his forearm tensing like a pulled wire.

You turned fully toward him now, your voice trembling—just a little, just enough to show how much this was starting to hurt.

That felt like déjà vu.

“Please,” you said. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

His breath hitched. And finally, finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper:

“I know you’re pregnant.”

The words hit the air like a shockwave.

Your head whipped toward him so fast your neck gave a sharp twinge. “What?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched tighter, and instead of responding, he flicked on the turn signal and slowly guided the car to the side of the road, pulling into a quiet, empty stretch of curb beneath a dim streetlamp. The sudden stillness was louder than the engine.

He shifted the gear into park but didn’t move. His hands stayed wrapped around the wheel, thumbs motionless. His eyes fixed on the dark stretch of asphalt ahead like it was safer to face than you.

I’ve been trying not to push,” he said finally, his voice low and steady, but under the surface, it vibrated with nerves. “I didn’t want to force you to tell me before you were ready, but…”

He inhaled through his nose, then exhaled slowly. A pause. A crack forming in the restraint.

“That night. When you were on the phone in my room.”

You blinked, trying to place it.

“You didn’t know I was back yet,” he continued, voice softer now. “I was in the hallway. I didn’t mean to listen, I swear—I just heard your voice. You said…that I didn’t know. That you were scared. That this wasn’t planned. And then you said…pregnancy.”

His hands finally dropped from the wheel. One fell to his lap, the other dragged across his jaw like he was trying to physically pull himself together.

“I thought maybe you were talking to your friend. Telling her before you told me. That maybe you were still figuring it out,” he went on. “And I—I didn’t want to say anything if you weren’t ready. I thought…if I waited, you’d tell me when you were.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, a slow chill creeping down your spine as it all began to fall into place. The silence. The careful watching. The nervous energy he hadn’t been able to name.

He still didn’t look at you. “I thought maybe you didn’t tell me because of who I am. What I’ve been through. I mean…” he laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, only hurt. “A dad with a record. A mom who’s schizophrenic. Someone who’s barely slept through the night since he was fifteen. I thought maybe you were scared I’d disappear, or mess it up. That I’d end up like—”

He stopped himself.

Like his own father.

The man who left.

The man who didn’t stay.

You could see it now, the way he’d folded in on himself these past few weeks. Not just out of fear, but out of guilt. Anticipating a future that didn’t exist. Shouldering a responsibility he hadn’t even been given.

“Spencer,” you whispered.

He finally turned to you, eyes wide and brimming, not with tears, but with something just as raw. Hope. Fear. The fragile kind of love that stretched between two people even when they didn’t know how to talk about it.

“I would’ve stayed,” he said, voice barely audible. “Even if I was terrified. I would’ve stayed. I would’ve tried.”

Your chest ached at the confession, so quiet, so pure. So Spencer. All this time, he’d been holding it inside. Reading every symptom like a case file. Piecing together something he never should’ve had to guess at. Carrying it alone, because he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.

You reached across the console and grabbed his hand, squeezing it until he looked at you fully.

“I wasn’t talking about me,” you said gently. “That night…I was talking about Mittens.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Mittens. My cat. Our cat. My baby. She’s pregnant.”

His brow furrowed, his grip loosening slightly on the wheel.

“That phone call was about her,” you explained, laughing again, the tension loosening in your chest now that it made sense, now that everything made sense. “I was talking to my friend, freaking out because I didn’t know what I was doing. I said ‘this changes everything’ because we don’t have space for kittens. I said I was scared because I am! She is still my baby, and I don't know how to take care of her now. And yes, I said ‘pregnancy,’ because she is. She’s like a furry balloon…don’t you noticed it?”

Spencer just stared at the road for a moment longer, blinking as the truth finally settled in. Then he released a slow, shaky breath, one that sounded like it had been living in his lungs for weeks.

“So…you’re not pregnant?” he asked quietly, still as if part of him didn’t believe it.

You laughed again, softer this time, full of affection. “No, Spencer. I’m not pregnant.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension draining from his spine like air from a balloon. He didn’t say anything. Just breathed. Slowly. Deeply.

Then you reached over and grabbed his arm gently, shaking it, still half-laughing. “Oh my God. You thought I was pregnant. For weeks.”

He exhaled through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and a defeated huff. “You were craving pickles and chocolate at the same time.”

“I always crave pickles and chocolate at the same time. That’s just me being weird, not pregnant.”

He let out a soft, sheepish groan, dragging one hand down his face while keeping the other on the wheel. “I was so convinced. I even googled if wine was safe during the first trimester. At Rossi’s because my brain couldn’t work.”

You gasped, laughing again. “Spencer!”

“I panicked,” he muttered. “And I bought saltine crackers and ginger chews and started reading about bassinets…”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Wait…did you actually—?”

“I bookmarked five parenting blogs,” he admitted flatly. “And one ‘new dad’ book. I didn’t sleep much that couple of weeks.”

You reached across the console and took his hand, your fingers threading through his. He let you, easily.

“Sweetheart,” you said, gently now, the teasing fading into something warmer, something real, “why didn’t you just ask me?”

His voice was barely a murmur. “Because if you were, and you didn’t want to tell me…I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want you to feel trapped. Or watched. Or…alone.”

You looked at him, heart aching.

“And what if I had been?” you asked, softly. “Would you have wanted it?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned his head, just enough to meet your eyes. There was nothing hidden now. No defense. Just him.

“I would’ve been terrified,” he admitted. “But…yeah. I would’ve stayed. I would’ve tried. I’d try so hard.”

The lump in your throat surprised you. So did the way your fingers tightened in his.

“You’d be amazing,” you whispered. “Scared or not.”

The silence that followed was warm now, soft-edged, wrapped in everything unspoken and everything understood. The city lights danced on the windshield as the car slipped through the night like a dream.

You leaned over and gently rested your head on his shoulder, your voice light but full of affection.

“Just so you know,” you said, “we’re having kittens, not human babies.”

Spencer let out a quiet, choked laugh. “I’ll cancel the prenatal vitamins I ordered.”

You groaned. “You did not.”

“I also made a list of baby names,” he confessed, sheepishly. “It started as a ‘just in case’ and then…spiraled. There were spreadsheets. Multiple tabs.”

You let out a laugh that was equal parts affection and disbelief, brushing your thumb slowly over the back of his hand. “You’re absolutely unbelievable.”

“I was worried,” he said again, as if that excused the whole thing. And somehow…it kind of did.

“I know,” you whispered. “And I love you for it.”

He didn’t respond, not with words. But the way he looked at you, soft and reverent, and the way his thumb stroked yours, slow and sure, said more than anything else could.

You grinned up at him, mischief returning to your voice. “You smiled at me like I already had a baby in me.”

He flushed immediately, a pink hue blooming across his cheeks and up the tips of his ears. “That’s not—okay, maybe I did.”

You laughed again, letting your head fall back against the seat, content and warm. “God, I love you.”

And then, quiet, almost playful, voice low and curious, he asked:

“So…when do we actually have a baby?”

You turned your head slowly to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Drive,” you said with a smile, squeezing his hand again. “And we’ll see.”

He didn’t stop smiling the entire ride home.

Extra note: I hope this made some sense to you because it did to me. It's soo canon in my mind. But yep, guys, at least we know where Mittens was when she went missing! 😭

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee @23moonjellies @lolnothx06 @nnab

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[callme-holly]

OKAY OKAY OKAY

so my idea is pretty much darry x reader where reader is helping take care of pony boy while he’s sick, and darry gets like baby fever just watching her be all motherly and sweet while treating pony

just something cute and fluffy, please and thank you !!

(i feel like i see less and less darry writings every day and i love him so 😞💔)

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐲 - 𝐃.𝐂

||۶ৎ in which darry catches your taking care of pony and knows you're going to make a great mama

���₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

The house was strangely quiet when Darry stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a click that seemed to echo off the walls, emphasising the silence and drawing out an ebbing concern. 

The TV was playing low in the background, some commercial for a hair product no one would ever buy, and then—sweet, seraphic, gentle—your voice drifted down the hall, humming a tune he’d only ever heard mothers sing to their children.

He followed the sound like a moth would follow the light of a flame, pushing open the door to Pony’s bedroom and stopping short the moment his eyes registered the sight before him.

You were kneeling by the edge of the bed, fingers gently carding through Pony’s fever-slicked curls, eyes solemn. 

“Hey…” 

You glanced up sharply, expression melting into one that was indelible—filled with such a love that it made Darry’s heart stutter.

“Hi,” you whispered, quiet enough to not wake the lucid boy beside you. “How was work?” 

Darry could only manage a shrug, ignoring the ache in his shoulders as he did so,  his discomfort irrefragable. “It was work. Busy.” 

You nod, opening your mouth to respond, only to turn sharply the moment Pony shifts, a small noise leaving him. He looked entirely marcid, and it broke Darry to see his little brother in such a state… But at the same time, seeing you taking care of him…

“You’re good at this.” The sound of Darry’s boots thumped against the hardwood floor as he stepped towards you, a groan leaving him as he sank down to his knees, hands  coming to rest on the side of the mattress. 

“I tried my best.” The smile yu gave him was guileless, tinted with exhaustion. “He’s… He’s getting better.” 

And as if to emphasise your point, your hand reaches for the rag on the side table, wiping it across his brow, ridding him of any remnant of the fever. 

Your touch is so tender, filled with such a fondness, that Darry swore something in his chest shifted, something cracking open and bearing a craving so raw that it frightened even him. 

“You’re going to make a great mom…” 

The words were out before he could even register them in his brain, spoken with such confidence, such casualness, that he might as well have been telling you the weather. But the way your hand stilled spoke volumes, and you turned to him slowly, brows furrowed.

“What?” 

Darry swallowed thickly. “I mean it.” 

His voice was low, a little hoarse, but genuine nonetheless. “You’re really good with him. And I’ve been thinkin’ about that kind of stuff more lately.” 

You didn’t say anything, just waited. Patient. Expectant. 

“I see you like this, sweetheart, and hell. It does something to me. Makes me wonder what it’d be like to come home to something steady. Real…” 

“Is that what you want?” You mumbled, finally setting the rag aside, turning your body entirely to face him. You don’t look upset, not in the slightest, and maybe that's what fuels him on.

He nodded. “With you? Yeah. Maybe not now. But eventually.” 

And for the first time that night, the tension in his jaw eased, the concern in your eyes dimmed just a little, and you leaned in just enough to press a feather-light kiss to his jaw. 

“Eventually…” 

||۶ৎ darry masterlist

||۶ৎ tag list. @mrsdillonx , @goingdelux18 , @princesshailierawr , @r0seb100d , @groovydonutpost, @rizzraa , @sheepandlams , @marinefreaakk , @sugarrootwrites , @marilyn-girly , @itonlyhastobetruetoday , @dairyfairyy , @williamafton26 , @mystiqueonfleek007 , @atpeacee , @theoneandonly-vrg , @hge-cok , @warped-rabbithole , @muu-5uvii , @fatalloveanddevotion , @marianaissocool , @jamesdeanbby , @alula394 , @goldennviolet , @i3beingcuntyyyy

[spamdelta]

for any of my og followers u prolly know already that in my au aster (lightworld gaster, essentially) is spamton's secret caller/benefactor, and in the process he isolates spamton and forces him to change (setting up for the whole "puppet" transformation) for his own benefits (aka fucking around and finding out until he realizes fucking around and finding out was an entirely BAD idea). but i was thinking, for spamtenna purposes....

when the library laptop is brought to the dreamurr living room and spamton and tenna meet, at first they're like rivals because they're both popular and have similiar qualities and charisma (theyre both like "he's stealing my look!!!!". or at least tenna is). But eventually, word gets out and tenna finds out that spamton pretty much became a bigshot overnight – he was nothing to EVERYTHING in such a short amount of time. And tenna wants to know WHY.

So he reaches out to spamton, proposing a deal: he can make him an even BIGGER bigshot by putting him on tv. He'll be a STAR! All Spamton has to do is tell his little secret; how he became a bigshot in the first place. Tenna hopes this deal will convince Spamton to accept and thus tenna will be able to reap the benefits from Spamton and become a BIGSHOT, too – maybe even bigger than spamton. Hopefully bigger than spamton. But Tenna's not gonna tell him that.

Spamton, of course, refuses. Because Aster would kill him. And besides, Spamton isn't suppose to get close to anybody anymore – he's a bigshot now, it'd get in the way of his work and public persona. He cant get close to anybody. He's not allowed to be himself.

Tenna's disappointed with this, but he doesn't give up easily. Despite their rivalry, he tries to get closer to Spamton.. Gets to know him better. Starts looking forward to talking to him. Starts actually enjoying his company. Starts actually seeing him as a friend. Oh no.

Spamton, on the other hand, is trying hard NOT to be interested in tenna's antics. He's a bigshot! He can't afford friends!!!! His career is ruined if he gets too close to anybody!!!

He brings this up to Aster one day, on a call. Aster thinks on it for a bit... considering options. But then, surprisingly, he suggests Spamton should collaborate with Tenna.. it MAY be a good idea to work with the T.V., since having a collaborator like that WOULD increase his clicks and make him a bigger salesman (though it also might alleviate some work on Aster's part, but he's not gonna tell Spamton that). However, under absolutely NO circumstances, Spamtons CANNOT tell Tenna his secret to success – or about aster, period. Aster doesn't trust Tenna, and does NOT want Tenna to jeopardize everything he's worked for. He want's the situation simple. Controlled.

Spamton is silent at first, then after a beat he agrees. He has to – his benefactor is always right. Always knows what's best for him. After agreeing, Aster immediately instructs what Spamton should tell Tenna next time they cross.

the next time Spamton sees tenna, he immediately strikes up a new deal – similiar to tenna's deal, but... different. Spamton offers they collaborate through both TV and the web: Spamton can show his ads on TV after Tenna's show, and Tenna can learn how to make it in this advancing technological world (because, after being pestered by Tenna so much, Spamton discovered that Tenna is NOT tech saavy with anything beyond tv or plugs. He doesn't even know what an email is!)

Hearing this, Tenna is ECSTATIC! Sure, it's not the original deal he wanted, but it's a start!! And who knows, maybe after some time their partnership and friendship can grow, and maybe, JUST maybe... spamton can finally tell tenna his secret to being a bigshot (now that he likes spamton, he doesn't really want to SURPASS spamton anymore.. but he wants to RELISH in it with spamton). Tenna agrees to the deal, and soon starts the beginning of their new business partnership.

But, as time passes....... they DO grow closer. Very closer. And tenna catches feelings for Spamton. Which is great for Tenna! He loves talking with spamton. He loves when Spamton watches movies late at night when theyre hanging out in the break room after hours. He loves spamton.

But spamton, oh, spamton... He's afraid. As both he and tenna get closer... He really starts seeing Tenna as an actual friend. He's trying his best to deny his feelings, but he just likes Tenna too much. And that's a problem, because he's not supposed to like Tenna as a friend. They're business partners. It has to be professional. If it isn't, and Aster somehow found out...... he doesnt even want to think about it. It wouldnt be good. It'd be disastrous, probably.

And to spamton's dismay, he and tenna start getting closer. And as they get closer, Spamton starts realizing things.. He loves when Tenna talks to him energetically. He loves when tenna walks into the room in mornings and greets him with an enthusiastic "GOOOOD MORNING SUNSHINE!" and smiles. He loves when Tenna smiles and is just... himself. No gameshow, no performance, just himself.

And that's when, Spamton realizes the worst:

He's in love.

With Tenna.

Oh no.

[donutdrawsthings]

why is your doctor called the one who shone?

✨Character Tag

Might as well write out what her whole deal is! I never did because I wanted to write her "introduction episode", but I'm really not a great writer. I'm just an ideas guy, really!

She's called "the one who shone" because her regeneration existed briefly, yet joyously! Her energy was infectious when she existed and brightened everyone's day. This regeneration also existed briefly for atypical reasons. She is a paradoxical regeneration, a regeneration that exists, but isn't supposed to.

The Master had created this Frankenstein's Monster type of Weeping Angel... called The Impossible Angel. Unlike regular angels that feed on "unlived potential" time energy, THIS Angel feeds on the impossible. It feeds on what never should be, paradoxes! paradoxical time energy! You are send to several time periods at once, split into pieces but still visibly whole. You are an impossible part of time and with every breath you take, time decays around you, changing things in ways that were not meant to be.

This creation had touched the Doctor and pulled out a regeneration that was never meant to exist. And since the Doctor is so old, and can live for so very long, her existing in and of itself as a paradox, is enough for the impossible angel to keep on growing stronger and collect more paradoxical time energy than it's actually able to hold.

It is a time bomb, literally! And when it goes off, it resets the entire universe!

Since THIS Doctor is the reason the whole universe is at risk at all, she figured she should find a way to focus this reset on her regeneration alone. Make it so that she never existed in the first place. With some tinkering and quick, smart thinking, she succeeded with her plans, resetting the universe to before she was created and destroying the poor, Impossible Angel in the process.

Elisa still remembers her. Very well, in fact. Every minute she'd spend with her. But when she encounters the Doctor again and sees him stepping out of his TARDIS, she is quickly walked past, making it clear that the woman she knew is truly, gone forever.

I had way more ideas for her story, like her introduction and other episode ideas, but I'll leave those under the cut!

For the Doctor's introduction, she wakes up after regenerating, finding herself crashed in London with no memory of what happened before. Nothing unusual sofar, but then she sees some suspicious activity at a school and starts investigating. This is where she meets her companion, Elisa!

Elisa gets bullied/outcasted heavily at her school and it has her feeling all types of low. She's alone in the girl's bathroom, crying, and a perfect next victim to add to the list of kids with a mysterious sickness that leaves them bedridden. Then the Doctor barges in with this little doohickey she'd build out of a branch. It tracks the source of an alien metal, and the source of said metal would make itself known only seconds later.

It's a Panagralid, otherwise known as a data worm! It chases after the two all over the school, but it's only visible to Elisa, so everyone thinks she's just acting up. They manage to throw it off their scent by literally throwing her school blazer with her scent at it and hiding in a closet.

The doctor catches her up to speed on what's going on, Elisa being frustrated at the Doctor for almost being excited about this horrifying thing, and they discuss what it wants. Data worms feed on information, and the females have these metal plates on their body to store info on for their young. Other species often keep and train female data worms though to obtain certain bits of information in secret (because it can cloak itself!). The doctor has all these plans to combat things, but then gets hit by a wave of post-regeneration sickness unlike anything she's ever felt before, and she briefly blips out of existence. Well, to her it was brief. in actuality she's disappeared for hours, leaving Elisa to go home alone and wonder why the data worm wants HER specifically.

Well turns out, it didn't want her specifically, and she isn't as special as she thought she was.

This trio of aliens has actually set up shop at the school and have trained the data worm to specifically harvest negativity. Apparently, negative emotions are a currency on their planet, and a human school is essentially the perfect place to farm it and become rich. It doesn't matter to them that it leaves the victim basically bedridden with exhaustion.

Anyways, I never worked out exactly how the Doctor would work this out, but it ends in the school basically having exploded and the 3 aliens picked up by space authorities. This leaves Elisa without a school and the lingering hurt still left from being called "not special". So when she sees the opportunity to sneak into the Doctor's TARDIS, she does.

This brings us to the next story: THE PHANTOM SUN

The Doctor discovers Elisa has sneaked in, which is perfectly timed with the TARDIS being dragged towards this space ship from the future. A strong gravitational pull has pulled them in and they can't leave. The Doctor is really frustrated with this because she's not keen on endangering a 15 year old with her travels, while also still struggling to figure out how she came to regenerate and what made her "blip" out of existence.

The ship itself is inhabited by Dutch people (hence why the ship looks like a collection of different styled houses)

The people on this ship are just regular people, a lesbian couple, a family with kids, an eccentric artist, some college students, two doctors and a teacher. The landlord of all these houses is this robot called Larry 4410, and it is created by the same company that build this collective space ship and ultimately the party that will receive all their rent.

Little facts aside, the space ship is also stuck in a strong gravitational pull. Well actually, they're not being pulled towards anywhere, they're stuck in space. It's like they're at the centre of said gravitational pull, but nothing's there. On top of that, something terribly strange seems to be happening on the ship. Furniture goes flying, strange texts appear burned onto the walls, and scariest of all... people seem to get possessed.

When they get possessed, you can't comfortably look at them. your eyes will start watering like you're looking at a bright light, when that's not the case... and within a few second of possession, the possessed person bursts into flames from the inside out. It is up to the Doctor to solve this horrifying mystery!

While the Doctor digs into the technicalities and alien aspect of the scene, Elisa is sat with the residents and venting to them about feeling useless. She's comforted by the family, when she wonders out loud how she can understand these Dutch people and the text on the wall. The Doctor explains that the TARDIS translates things for them, and then Elisa tells her that the residents couldn't understand what it had said before, meaning what the TARDIS had translated, wasn't Dutch. The Doctor goes to turn off the automatic translation feature, and it turns out she was right!

It's an ancient language from a planet that has been absorbed by a dying sun long long ago. This is when the Doctor puts together that the sun used to be alive, much like episode "42", and that they're literally being haunted by the ghost of a long-passed sun that used to be worshipped by a loving planet and cannot find peace after having consumed it. The doctor then teaches the residents the ancient sun worship ritual, and the phantom sun can finally rest in peace.

Suspiciously though, the person the kids have been calling "the teacher" in English, has vanished. Elisa tries to ask about it in broken Dutch, but doesn't know the actual Dutch name for "teacher". the kids help her out and ask if she means "de Meester", which startles the Doctor briefly, before she turns on the translation feature again. The Dutch word for "teacher" can also mean "master" for masculine teachers.

Yup! It was the Master all along. They would from this point on become a frequently recurring character in the Doctor and Elisa's lives, just hanging out with them and seemingly appearing obnoxiously harmless.

(They're not doing anything to the Doctor because they've already done it. The Doctor's existence already feeds their Impossible Angel, so the Master is just along for the ride!)

I also had this story idea that features another scenario with the theme "things that aren't supposed to exist, existing anyways"

These are the Kirios! They are descendants (and visually inspired by) the balhuticaris and come from a timeline in which the creatures of the Cambrian Period never went extinct!

The Doctor goes to this time period to excitedly show Elisa the start of earth life, when they get arrested by 2 Kirios. Turns out, the Kirios created a piece of technology that creates a form of time travel called "pinpoint timetravel". It can only go to 1 specific point in time, essentially putting a "pin" in the timeline and allowing Kirios to travel to it, no second earlier or later.

They do this to protect their existence and world. Their world has a lot of natural disasters and dangers, so the Kirios species is naturally wary, but when they learned that their existence is even more fragile than they thought, they decided to also guard the very start of their life on earth!

I also had some other loose ideas for this Doctor :o)

I designed various aliens for fun. I figured the guy on the bottom right would be the one to tell the Master about the vulnerability of Angels when they're not looked at, since it is a blind creature. Like, that they CAN indeed be harmed!

I also created this alien called "Xor Voncus", which is an alien created to work as a sort of hand puppet :oP its species specialises in 1 skill and then throughout the years they hone their skill more and more, until they're basically the best in the universe for getting the job done! this makes them targets, sometimes </3 when they're really just creatures of passion.

I also had this idea that this ginger cat called Jim would tag along to adventures with the Doctor, even if she didn't want it to. The TARDIS would start taking a liking to it and accommodate more and more to Jim living in the TARDIS.

Then there's also the case of the Blind Teen and the Friendly Angel. Liam and Korstmos!

Liam is Elisa's only friend and basically her handyman when she needs to get anything done without the Doctor, with him being a pickpocketer and lock picker and all. He is a sarcastic jokester type of character, always messing with people for a laugh and using his quick wit to defend himself at school.

Then there's Korstmos, a friendly Weeping Angel with seemingly no need to feed. This of course raised the Doctor's suspicions that it might be up to something, when in actuality it really isn't. It just got caught in the crossfires of what the Master was up to, having touched a human paradox and fed on their time energy. With the hunger of a wild beast no longer aching in her stomach, she found other things to do and began to enjoy the world in a whole different way. That isn't to say that she'll live happily ever after, though... She's dying. Much like the Impossible Angel, she's crumbling under the extreme pressure of all this Wrong Time Energy, it is literally killing her where she stands, veeeery slowly.

When time resets, she's also back to how she used to be, hunting people like a regular Weeping Angel

[ellswritings]

In My Corner

(Part 1), (Part 2), (Part 3), (Part 4), (Part 5), (Part 6), (Part 7), Part 8, (Part 9)

TW: Regular wrestling violence, lots of tension in the flashback.

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling, @scream4mami, @mandmilovehim, @dummylovewp

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

While Christmas was an absolute dream, Y/N was more than happy to get back to work. She enjoyed her time in Davenport with Colby, but she was itching to get back into the ring. Carrying her title over her shoulder into a soon-to-be filled arena is a feeling that she could never put into words.

She smiles over at the camera that’s recording her as she struts towards the entrance. Her sunglasses rest comfortably on her nose. She slides them down slightly, winking into the camera before finishing her journey inside. She can’t wait to hear the cheers that will get later when it’s aired.

Walking into the Bloodline locker room was like sucking in a breath of fresh air. None of them were there just yet, but seeing everything set up for them assured her she was there. It was time to work again despite having all that time off.

She broke her body hundreds of times over and would happily do it again if she could do this for the rest of her life. Y/N took the alone time to start getting ready. She had talked to one of their many seamstresses before heading to the arena, picking up her gear for the night from them. She slipped it on, loving the way it compliments her figure while also remaining true to her character.

Grabbing her phone, Y/N gets ready to head to hair and make up when the door to the room opens. Her head snaps towards whoever’s entering and she yelps when suddenly she’s being squeezed into a bone crushing hug by Jon. Joseph and Joe follow closely behind, shaking their heads at Jon’s dramatics.

“I’m glad you got some time off sis, but damn!” He exclaims. “Don’t ever leave for that long again.”

“He’s bein’ dramatic,” Joe rolls his eyes. “We did just fine.”

“I ain’t said we didn’t do fine,” Jon fires back. “I'm just sayin’ I was bored without her. She’s my only entertainment when yall bein’ all serious n’ shit.”

“You mean when we’re in character?” Joseph quips smartly. “Not all of us can make breakin’ character our entire gimmick.”

“Shade…” Y/N chuckles as she draws out her teasing. “You’re really gonna let him talk to you like that?”

Jon shrugs, “I can’t hit him if he’s right,” he laughs loudly.

That got a chuckle out of Y/N as she slid onto the bench beside Solo — Joseph — who just shook his head silently, a quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Glad you’re back, sis,” Solo said simply, bumping his shoulder against hers.

“Glad to be back,” she replied. “Even if you three are a whole circus act.”

“Hey, we kept it together while you were off living your Hallmark movie life,” Jon teased, gesturing toward her title belt. “You and Colby had the internet in a chokehold, I’m just sayin’.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You stalking Twitter again?”

“I’m a man of the people,” Jon said, hand on his heart. “And the people saw the look that man gave you and nearly combusted.”

Solo leaned back, arms crossed. “That the same look you gave him when he dipped your cocoa and stole the first cookie?”

Y/N laughed, “He’s lucky he’s cute.”

“Cute enough to get the mistletoe treatment?” Jon wiggled his brows.

“Y’all are too invested.”

“Hey,” Roman added, pointing casually in her direction, “just sayin’ — man looks at you like that, you might as well book the venue.”

Y/N choked on her water. “Can we not plan a wedding when we’re not even dating?”

Jon grinned. “That sounds like something a future wife would say.”

She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Okay, okay. Everyone calm down. It was just a good Christmas, alright? Colby’s family was great. Kevin — his dog — loved me. And yes, I did wear matching pajamas. There. Happy?”

Jon threw his arms up. “Ecstatic.”

Roman nodded. “Good. Just remember — it’s nice to see you happy, but don’t let the guy distract you from what’s waiting out there tonight.”

Y/N straightened slightly, the energy shifting. “He wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t let him.”

Solo gave her a firm nod. “Iyo’s coming in hot. You ready for that match?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she said, tightening the strap on her gear. “She’s fast, she’s sneaky, but I’ve watched every match she’s had since she stepped into WWE. I’ve studied her like she’s a final exam.”

Roman stood slowly. “Then handle it like you always do. Like a champ.”

A comfortable beat passed between them, the family energy grounding her like always.

“Yeah,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “Even got a weird little confidence boost, honestly. It’s stupid, but…”

She trailed off, caught mid-thought.

“But what?” Jon asked, eyeing her.

“It’s dumb.”

“Spit it out,” Roman said.

Y/N glanced at her hands. “I got a call on Christmas. From… Phil.”

That shut everyone up for a second. Jon’s eyebrows lifted slightly, more curious than anything. Solo didn’t react much, just gave a slow blink. Joe’s expression, though — Roman’s — shifted. His arms folded a little tighter across his chest, jaw flexing in that way that said he had thoughts but wasn’t saying them yet.

“He just called to say Merry Christmas,” Y/N added quickly. “I didn’t even recognize the number at first. Said it didn’t feel right not saying it to me, knowing it’s my favorite holiday.”

The air got heavier, just slightly.

Roman finally spoke, voice low. “You okay?”

She paused, then nodded. “I think so. It was weird. Not bad… just unexpected. He said he wanted to talk more eventually.”

“You gonna let him?” Solo asked.

“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly. “I think I needed to hear it, even if it didn’t change anything.”

Roman studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing like he was reading between lines she hadn’t written yet. But before he could say more—

A knock at the door.

One of the crew leaned in, headset over his ear. “Hair and makeup’s ready when you are.”

Jon stood with a flourish. “Perfect! I need to make sure my hair still scream ‘main event.’”

Solo muttered, “You don’t even have a match.”

“I’m in the match of life, uce.”

Y/N smiled faintly, grabbing her belt and adjusting it over her shoulder. As they headed toward the hallway, Roman fell into step beside her.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “You looked good out there. Happy.”

She glanced over at him, surprised by how soft his voice had gotten. “Thanks, Joe.”

He looked ahead again, nodding once. “Just don’t forget who you are. Or what you came back for.”

Y/N nodded too — steady, grounded “I won’t.”

And she meant it. Tonight, she was Y/N — champion, sister, storm. Let the rest figure itself out later.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N moved through the backstage hallway like she owned the place — because, in a way, she did. Title snug over her shoulder, sleek gear shimmering under the overhead lights, her stride was easy but purposeful. She’d missed the buzz of live nights like this — the way energy practically vibrated through the concrete floors before the crowd even saw a single entrance pyro.

The camera followed her closely, capturing every detail: the confidence in her step, the way her sunglasses sat perched on her nose, and the slight curve of a smirk that tugged at her lips as crew moved out of her way like they knew better.

And then he stepped in her path.

LA Knight.

Leaning against a stack of production crates like he had all the time in the world and nowhere better to be. Arms crossed, smirk carved deep into his face like it had been made for that mouth. Y/N slowed, sighing before even bothering to push her sunglasses up into her hair.

“Wow,” she said dryly. “Should’ve figured you’d pop up like a bad Christmas rerun.”

LA Knight’s smile widened — irritatingly pleased.

“Didn’t come lookin’ for you, sweetheart,” he said, eyes dragging down to the title on her shoulder. “But I gotta say — hard to miss you when you strut around dressed like a prize.”

Her brow arched. “Takes one to recognize one, huh? You’ve been chasing the spotlight for months and still can’t land a single damn thing without a mic in your hand and a miracle on standby.”

“Better that than hangin’ off the arm of the Bloodline like some loyal little sidekick,” he fired back. “Especially when your taste in men is as trash as that Christmas sweater Seth calls a personality.”

Y/N’s expression barely flickered — but her smile did sharpen.

“Funny coming from the guy who spends more time getting knocked on his ass than actually winning.”

“Oh, I win,” he said, stepping in closer — close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne and the cockiness laced into every word. “Just haven’t decided if I want the gold… or the woman wearin’ some.”

The air between them shifted — thicker now, charged.

Y/N didn’t back down. She never did. Her lashes fluttered as she glanced down at where his fingers now brushed lightly, mockingly, over the gold on her shoulder like he had any right to it. Her chin tilted up, lips parting like she was about to throw a verbal grenade.

But he beat her to it.

“I mean, tell me I’m wrong,” he said, leaning in the tiniest bit, just enough to make it look more like a secret than a threat. “You act like you’re untouchable, but you walked into Raw and let Seth Rollins make you soft.”

Her smile froze.

Knight’s grin deepened.

“There it is,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “That look. The one that says ‘I’d slap you if I didn’t want to see where this goes.’”

She exhaled a slow, almost amused breath and brushed past him — but not before dragging her gaze from his boots to his jawline like she was calculating just how hard she’d have to hit him to leave a dent.

Then, right as she passed, she glanced over her shoulder and shot him one last parting shot.

“You can barely handle Roman Reigns without two other guys holding your hand,” she said coolly. “What makes you think you can handle me?”

LA Knight didn’t reply — just turned slowly, watching her walk off with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth and something much more dangerous in his eyes.

And Y/N? She kept walking toward Gorilla, head high, pulse doing something traitorous in her throat.

But the second she turned a corner, with the camera no longer catching her face, she bit back a laugh — cheeks flushing despite herself.

What the hell was that?

And why, for a split second, did it make her heart stutter like she'd just main evented WrestleMania?

——————-

Back in Chicago, Phil stared at his screen, face void but thoughts were swirling behind those big blues. He sat on the edge of his couch, arms crossed so tight across his chest he could feel the tension in his shoulders begging to snap. The TV was muted, but it didn’t matter — he didn’t need sound to see everything.

He’d been flipping through the show out of habit. Out of curiosity. Out of something else he didn’t care to name.

And then she showed up.

Y/N, backstage. Full of fire and command. Title slung like it belonged to her — because it did. Every step she took, every glance at the camera… yeah, she still had it.

He wasn’t surprised by the swagger.

But LA Knight?

The second he appeared on screen, something twisted.

And the second that guy brushed her hair behind her ear — that light, casual, intimate touch — Phil’s jaw locked hard enough to ache.

He didn’t have a right to care. He hadn’t for a long time.

And yet…

He could see through it. That wasn’t just scripted tension. That wasn’t “work.” That wasn’t one of those buzzworthy moments fans joked about.

That was real.

The kind of electricity that didn't come from clever dialogue or camera blocking. It came from the way her eyes had widened. From the breath she didn’t take. From the way LA Knight had looked at her like he knew he could ruin something and wanted to.

Phil’s fingers curled into fists against his knees.

He didn’t know what pissed him off more — the fact that Knight saw her that way, or that she let him.

He inhaled sharply, standing up and muting the TV completely now. The room went quiet, save for the dull hum of something angry behind his ribs.

He hadn’t even meant to call her on Christmas. It had just… happened. That stupid, awkward call he regretted and didn’t all at once. Her voice had sounded surprised. Not cold. Not warm either. Just… open enough.

Why did he do it?

Because he still cared?

Because he hated how they left things?

Because deep down, seeing her again — really seeing her — made something twist in his chest in a way that felt too close to guilt, too close to missing her?

He didn’t know. All he did know… was that LA Knight was gonna be a problem. A real problem.

And for the first time in years, Phil didn’t know if he wanted to yell at her… or just be near her again.

Which, honestly, scared the hell out of him more than anything.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The thunder of Iyo Sky’s entrance music echoed through Gorilla.

Y/N stood just out of frame, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, her title belt snug over her shoulder. Her breathing was steady, but her eyes were laser-focused on the monitor in front of her, tracking Iyo as she made her confident, chaotic walk to the ring. The Genius of the Sky was no slouch—and she wasn’t coming to play games.

From behind, a hand clapped her shoulder.

“You got this,” Jon grinned at her, half cocky, half brotherly. “Go out there and remind ‘em who runs this division.”

Y/N snorted, shaking out her arms, but the smile tugged at her mouth. “Damn right I do.”

He gave her a little nudge toward the curtain. “Kill that shit.”

The cue hit. Her music started. The crowd erupted.

Y/N stepped into the lights, her presence a shockwave of charisma and confidence. The fans popped immediately—those thunderous screams that always seemed to shake the rafters when she showed up. She held the title high over her head at the top of the ramp, basking in the reaction, her body language cool and sharp and full of swagger. Her new gear shimmered under the lights—black and deep crimson with silver accents—and her hair was pulled back into a sleek, powerful ponytail. The crowd fed off her energy as she made her way down the ramp, slapping a few outstretched hands, her eyes never leaving the ring.

Inside, Iyo was pacing, watching with narrowed eyes.

“She looks laser-focused tonight,” Kevin Patrick noted from commentary. “Y/N knows what’s at stake. Iyo Sky is dangerous. A high-flyer, a technician. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”

“Walk in the park?” Corey Graves replied. “Try a war zone. Iyo’s the best Damage CTRL’s got, and Y/N’s been making enemies on all sides. She's got a target on her back the size of Roman Reigns’ ego.”

Y/N stepped through the ropes and climbed the turnbuckle, hoisting her title to another roar from the crowd. Then she hopped down, handed the belt to the official, and turned to face her opponent.

This was it.

The bell rang.

And they were off.

The first few minutes were measured—wrestler’s chess. Y/N caught Iyo in a wristlock, but the Genius of the Sky twisted out with almost inhuman flexibility, countering into a quick armdrag. Y/N hit the mat and popped back up with a grin.

Game on.

They traded sequences—Iyo with the agility, Y/N with the grounded power. A back-and-forth flurry of technical chain wrestling gave way to harder offense. Y/N nailed a running knee that nearly took Iyo’s head off, but the challenger rolled outside for a breather.

Y/N didn’t give her the time. She hit the ropes and launched herself through them with a suicide dive, driving Iyo into the barricade and sending the crowd into a frenzy.

“AND THE CHAMP TAKES TO THE AIR!” Kevin shouted.

Back in the ring, Iyo mounted a comeback—trapping Y/N in the corner and unleashing a barrage of lightning-quick palm strikes. Y/N grunted under the impact, ducked the last one, and spun into a powerful German suplex that folded Iyo in half.

One… two… kickout.

The match stretched on. Near-falls piled up. Each woman pushed herself harder—Y/N’s chest heaving, Iyo’s lip bleeding slightly from a stiff elbow. The crowd could feel the shift. This wasn’t just a match. This was a fight to prove something.

At one point, Iyo locked in a modified crossface that had Y/N’s fingertips clawing the mat—but she refused to tap. The ropes were inches away. With a guttural yell, she dragged herself to the bottom strand and wrapped her fingers around it. The ref forced the break.

“THIS is what it means to be champion!” Corey yelled.

Y/N hit a spine-shattering powerbomb. Iyo landed a top rope moonsault that nearly stole the match.

And then, with both women collapsed in opposite corners, the boos rained down.

Bayley. Dakota. Kairi.

Damage CTRL swarmed the ramp, yelling, circling like vultures, ready to tip the scales in their favor.

But before they could reach the apron—

Bianca. Michin. Zelina.

The crowd exploded.

The chaos at ringside had reached a boiling point. Michin launched Kairi into the steel steps. Zelina hurled Dakota over the barricade. Bayley’s furious screams were muffled by Bianca’s boot to the stomach. The referee, overwhelmed, didn’t even know who to watch anymore.

But inside the ring — it was quiet. Still.

Y/N stood in the center, chest rising and falling like thunder rolling through her lungs. Sweat clung to her jawline, her eyes wild but focused. Iyo, disoriented and staggering, tried to find her footing near the corner, her body trembling after the war they’d just waged.

One second… Two. And then Y/N moved. Not rushed. Not frantic. Methodical. She grabbed Iyo by the wrist and yanked her forward with calculated force, spinning her around in a tight arc until the back of Iyo’s head was perfectly aligned over the canvas.

The camera zoomed in.

Y/N stepped back — one step, then two — her boot scraping across the mat like the first drag of a matchstick before the flame. Her eyes never left Iyo’s skull. The crowd started rising again. The rhythm was building.

Boom. Boom. Boom. The echo of stomps against the mat. Like a countdown. Like a war drum.

She lined it up — one leg planted, spine straight, lips parting around a breath she hadn’t realized she’d held since Christmas morning.

There was a flicker in her expression. Just the smallest shift. Not anger. Not aggression. Something reverent. Something personal.

And then she struck.

Her boot came down like a guillotine from the gods, crashing onto the back of Iyo Sky’s head with flawless precision and unforgiving power. Iyo’s face hit the canvas with a sickening smack. The sound of it rang out like the final chord of a symphony.

The arena erupted. Not a cheer — a detonation. It was more than a finisher. It was a homage. It was a message. It was a moment. The stomp was so undeniably his. From the snap of her form to the vicious velocity, every inch of it screamed one name — one man — and the crowd knew it.

Kevin Patrick’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Oh my God—she hit it. She hit his move!”

Corey Graves practically stood up at commentary. “I can’t believe it—Y/N just blacked out Iyo Sky with the damn stomp! That was—that was Seth Rollins’ stomp!”

Y/N didn’t go for the pin right away.

She stood over Iyo’s crumpled form, chest heaving, hair sticking to her face, as the fans chanted in waves, a mix of her name and his. Her gaze flicked briefly toward the hard cam, and though she didn’t smile — didn’t wink or play it off — the knowing glint in her eye said everything.

This wasn’t for show. This was intentional. Then, slowly, with the crowd still losing their minds, Y/N dropped to her knees, hooked Iyo’s leg, and leaned in close.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rang. Her music hit. But the stomp was still echoing.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Heelheatdaily

Liked by Wrestlingupdatesdaily, thewrestlingclassic, undisputedwife, and 30,597 others

Heelheatdaily: NOT THEM FLIRTING AND FIGHTING IN THE SAME BREATH 😭😭

LA Knight and Y/S/N in each other's faces again and somehow it's hotter than it should be??

She really hit him with the “you can’t even handle Roman, what makes you think you can handle me?” 💀🔥

#WWE #YSNRising #LAKnight #BackstageTension #ChemistryOn100

View all 9,256 comments

sapphiresuplex: the tension is ILLEGAL. I’m sweating.

burnitdownbabe: LA Knight being flustered??? she's got that dog in her.

bloodlinebabyyy: Not him going full “you got trash taste in men but damn I’ll risk it all” energy 😭

pipedreamsphil: listen I’m Team Punk forever but that was hot and I’m not blind.

wrestlewivesunite: their enemies-to-lovers arc is writing itself and I’m not mad.

ishouldbesleeping: Punk somewhere punching air and doesn’t know why.

——————————

WrassleObsessed

Liked by wwerollins, Y/S/Nwwe, chrisvanvliet, and 48,756 others

Tagged: wwerollins, Y/S/Nwwe

WrassleObsessed: NO CAUSE THE STOMP??? TO THE HEAD???

She really said ‘This is for you’ to Seth Rollins live on SmackDown.

That was poetry. The way the crowd LOST IT.

#YSNRising #IyoSky #WWEWomen #ThatStompTho #BurnItDownEnergy #SethApproved

View all 15,539 comments

burnitdownbabe: I screamed. She hit that stomp like a love letter.

curbstompqueen: it was the most beautiful stomp I’ve ever seen and I’ve watched Seth’s career since NXT.

troublelikeyn: That wasn’t a move. That was a statement.

ysngodmother: When she hit that stomp it felt like the universe aligned for .3 seconds.

bloodlineluv: everybody knew they spent Christmas together and then she hits that?? girl 💀

cmpunksbitterheart: Not me yelling “TRAITOR” and also crying at how gorgeous that stomp was

kevininfurcoats: Even the stomp was in character. The boots, the pause, the BOUNCE. She knows what she’s doing.

heelheatdaily: She stomped her like she meant it. Like she felt it. I’m obsessed.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The moment Y/N stepped through the curtain, the sound of the crowd was still ringing in her ears — a thunderous, sustained cheer that had followed her all the way to the back. Her chest rose and fell quickly, adrenaline still pulsing as a stagehand handed her a water bottle and clapped her on the back.

“You killed it out there,” someone said — she wasn’t even sure who, but it made her grin.

As she walked through the maze of gorilla and production crew, people kept stopping her with congratulations. A few hugs. Some high-fives. Triple H gave her a proud nod from where he stood near the monitors. Zelina passed by on her way to another segment and grabbed her arm with a beaming smile. “Girl. That stomp? You knew what you were doing.”

Y/N just laughed breathlessly, still trying to come down from the match high. Her ribs ached. Her thighs were already burning. And yet, she felt weightless.

She finally rounded the corner to the locker room and was met by Michin and Bianca, both of them grinning like proud sisters.

“Okay, Miss Main Event,” Michin teased, tugging her into a hug. “I know that triple threat match is supposed to be the show of the night, but it’s gonna be hella tough to top that.”

“Yo, when you hit that stomp?” Bianca shook her head like she still couldn’t believe it. “Pam and I almost had to stop fighting out by the barricade. Thought somebody got RKO’d through the stage.”

Y/N collapsed onto the nearest bench with a groan, running a towel over her sweat-drenched face. “I was worried my leg was gonna give out with the way Iyo kept working it, but when I saw the opening…”

“You made the opening,” Bianca corrected, nodding with respect. “That was storytelling. You knew exactly how to get a reaction.”

Y/N looked up at her, still catching her breath. “You mean besides nearly blacking out mid-air?”

Michin tossed her a protein bar and pulled out her phone. “Oh, and by the way… social media’s already lost its damn mind.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, peeling the wrapper. “Already?”

“Oh yeah,” Michin said, swiping fast. “You’ve been posted by every fan page within a ten-mile radius. The LA Knight moment? Trending. The stomp? On loop. Someone already made an edit of the stomp with a slowed-down Burn It Down chorus in the background.”

Y/N let out a groan as she buried her face in her hands. “Oh God.”

Bianca laughed. “Girl, don’t act like you didn’t know that was gonna happen. That was a whole declaration of affection in stomp form.”

“I wasn’t thinking about—” Y/N started to protest, then paused, sighed. “Okay. I was thinking about it. But I didn’t expect people to, like… notice.”

Michin lifted her brows. “You stomped that woman with the same finesse Colby uses on his Monday best. Of course people noticed.”

Y/N slumped back against the wall with a small, tired smile. The only thing people didn’t know was that Colby wasn’t the one who taught her the stomp. “Great. Can’t wait to read the comments saying I’m the WWE bachelorette again.”

Bianca tilted her head. “Girl, you stomped someone’s skull on national television and then left with the title still on your shoulder. You’re doing more than being someone’s anything. Don’t let the noise water you down.”

That made Y/N pause. She took a breath. “Thanks.”

But back in Davenport Iowa, Colby’s focus was completely on the woman on his screen. He didn’t even realize he’d stood up. One moment, he was sunk into the couch with Kevin draped lazily over his legs, and the next, he was hovering in front of the TV like a man drawn to fire. The replay had already started — the moment.

Her moment.

Iyo Sky staggered upright, blood in her eye, exhaustion in every muscle — and then Y/N surged from the ropes like she had every right to be there. The way she moved, precise and poised, her body a blade honed by years of fighting and failure and rising again.

And then — the stomp.

A hush fell over the arena on-screen, only to be swallowed whole by a roar. The crowd came alive in a single, unified scream. And Colby… he felt it echo in his chest.

“Damn,” he muttered, lips parting slightly. His fingers twitched by his side, like his body wanted to feel what hers had just executed.

She hadn’t just used the move. She’d delivered it. Elevated it. Put her soul behind it.

It was the cleanest stomp he’d ever seen from someone who wasn’t him.

And she knew what she was doing. Knew what it would mean to him. Knew what it would mean to everyone watching.

“God, you’re good,” he murmured, almost to himself. His smile came slow, like it was being pulled from somewhere deep. That’s my girl, he thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. Not even to Kevin.

He didn’t own her. Hell, they hadn’t even defined what they were yet. But something in his chest burned warm and anchored.

Then he saw the LA Knight clip pop up on his Instagram feed when he opened his phone next.

Their backstage tension — inches apart, biting words, the electricity so thick you could cut it. And that look she gave as she walked away, the ghost of a blush on her cheeks.

Colby’s jaw tightened.

He ran a hand through his curls, suddenly feeling like the house was too quiet. Kevin perked his head up at him, curious, sensing the shift.

Colby exhaled slowly and shook his head. “Not jealous,” he said out loud, voice dry. “Not jealous. Just… aware.”

But it felt a lot like jealousy. Which was a surprise. Colby was used to being the confident one, the cocky one, the man with the girl on his arm.

But Y/N wasn’t a girl to be held onto. She was wildfire, and somehow, he didn’t want to control her — he just wanted to be the person she ran back to after burning down the ring.

And if other men were drawn to her?

Well, yeah. Of course they were. They’d be stupid not to be.

But only one of them had spent Christmas morning watching her make pancakes in his kitchen, dancing in stupid matching pajamas. And that had to count for something.

Colby sat back down, but the smile didn’t fade from his face — not entirely. It lingered in the corners of his mouth as the stomp replayed again, the sound of the crowd still ringing in his ears. She’d done it. She’d delivered that move with such precision and intent that he almost forgot to breathe. She was fearless. Unstoppable. And hers was the kind of magic that made him fall just a little harder every damn time.

But on the other side of the Midwest, in a Chicago apartment that still looked like it hadn’t been unpacked despite him living there for over a decade, Phil Brooks didn’t smile at all.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes locked on the same footage. No sound in the room except the low hum of the TV and the creak of his own jaw as he clenched it tighter with every second.

She looked good. Too good. Comfortable under the lights, magnetic in the way only she could be — and when the camera caught her mid-strut, lips quirked like she knew exactly what she was doing? Phil hated how well he still recognized that look.

Then came the stomp.

It landed with almost surgical precision — one clean, devastating blow straight to Iyo’s skull. She’d planted that foot like she owned the damn ring. The crowd erupted, and he didn’t move.

He didn’t need to rewind it. He didn’t need to see it again. He’d know the feel of that stomp anywhere — because he’s the one who helped her perfect it.

And now?

Now the whole world was losing their minds over what they thought was a tribute to Seth Rollins.

Phil rubbed his mouth, dragging his fingers across the rough stubble on his jaw. He didn’t even know why he was still watching. Why his pulse picked up when LA Knight’s segment rolled again. Why his chest felt tight when she laughed — really laughed — at something that loudmouth idiot said.

He didn’t want to care. Didn’t want to feel any of this.

But the worst part wasn’t the jealousy. It was the fact that, for the first time in years, he couldn’t tell if he wanted to fight her, forgive her… or just figure out how the hell he’d let her get that far away.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Phil was already cranky.

He didn’t try to hide it — not when he stalked into the dusty training facility, threw his bag into the corner like it had personally wronged him, and ripped off his hoodie with a sharp tug that made the sleeve tear a little.

“This is why I don’t do tag teams,” he muttered, not for the first time. Or the second. Or even the fifth.

From the opposite side of the ring, Y/N draped over the top rope like it was a hammock, casually winding her wrist tape and watching him with all the energy of a cat eyeing a laser pointer.

“You’ve said that,” she said lazily, “a lot.”

“Because it’s true,” he shot back, his voice sharp and echoing in the quiet. “Tag teams are a waste of time. Dead weight. I don’t trust anybody else to do the job right.”

He glared over at her. “Especially not someone who thinks sugar cookies are a viable character trait.”

She scoffed, whipping the tape around her wrist. “Excuse you. Just because I enjoy a little sweet treat after a match, doesn’t mean I make it my entire character.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And for the record,” she pushed off the ropes and began slowly circling the ring, hips swaying with deliberate ease, “I’m not the one sulking in the corner like a middle school kid who didn’t get picked first for dodgeball.”

Phil opened his mouth, a scathing retort already forming—

And then he looked up.

She was facing him now — full-on. Tight black shorts hugging her hips, an old oversized tee tied at the waist and hanging off one shoulder, exposing the glisten of sweat on her collarbone. Her legs were already a little bruised from drills, and she looked like she didn’t give a single damn.

She smiled when his eyes paused a little too long on her bare thigh.

That made it worse.

“C’mon, sensei,” she said, beckoning him with a finger. “Teach me your ways.”

He grit his teeth. Climbed onto the apron. Ducking through the ropes felt like surrender.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, “if you treat this like some damn So You Think You Can Dance audition—”

“I’ve never even seen that show.”

He eyed her. “Yet you give off such ‘please validate me’ energy.”

She gave him a sarcastic little bow. “Only from you, sweetheart.”

He cursed under his breath and stalked toward her. “You want to learn the stomp or not?”

“Depends,” she chirped. “You gonna actually help? Or just mansplain while staring at my thighs again?”

He stopped short. Blinked. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” She smirked. “It’s okay. I’m flattered.”

Phil made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

She turned away from him, bending into position like she hadn’t just said that, hands braced on her thighs. And when she pushed her hips back slightly — just enough to make sure he noticed — he almost walked out right then and there.

Instead, he stepped behind her.

“Your footing’s all wrong,” he muttered, and placed his hands firmly on her hips. “Your power starts from here. You need to widen your stance.”

He nudged her knees outward, guiding her weight down until her posture was solid. Then his hands slid up her sides, slowly, palms pressing into the curve of her waist to straighten her spine.

“You’re too upright,” he murmured, voice dipping low. “You want to feel it in your core. Not your knees. Control lives in your center.”

She was silent now. Still. Until: “Mm. You talk dirty to all your tag partners, or am I special?”

He froze. Then leaned in — lips brushing her skin, just below her ear, right where her pulse ticked like a warning. His lip ring ghosted against the base of her neck as he murmured: “Breathe out when you land. Push the air through your body like it’s a release. Controlled. Precise.”

She shivered.

“Was that also for alignment?” she asked, voice a notch lower now. Less teasing. More breathless.

Phil didn’t answer. He just stepped back.

“Again.”

She hit the ropes, bounced clean, and slammed her boot into the center of the pad with a stomp that echoed through the room like thunder.

Clean. Perfect. Fucking lethal.

Before she could think, she turned and launched herself toward him.

“I did it!”

Phil didn’t have time to react. She barreled into him, legs lifting as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He caught her automatically, instinctively — hands locking under her thighs, her momentum bringing her up and off the mat until he had no choice but to hold her there.

His breath hitched. She was laughing against his shoulder, flushed and beaming and victorious.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You ever not throw your body at people?”

“Not when I nail something that hard,” she said, chin on his shoulder. “That felt awesome.”

Her breath was hot against his jaw. He stared at the far wall, hyper-aware of every point where her body was pressed into his. She wasn’t clingy. She wasn’t faking it. She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And that irritated him more than anything.

Because he wanted to impress her.

Phil slowly set her down, her feet hitting the mat like nothing had happened. He stepped back.

“I still think this tag team is a joke,” he muttered, voice rougher now.

“Oh, you’ve upgraded from disaster to joke. That’s improvement.”

“Vince must’ve been high when he signed off on this.”

“Or maybe,” she said slowly, tugging her shirt down and sauntering past him with extra swing in her step, “he just saw something you don’t.”

Phil’s eyes locked on her — the curve of her back, the strength in her shoulders, the confidence that wasn’t shaken even once by his constant jabs.

He didn’t trust her. Not yet. But damn if he didn’t want more of whatever the hell that was.

She glanced over her shoulder, saw the twitch in his jaw — subtle, but there — and smiled. “Careful, Punk. Keep looking at me like that and people might think you like working with me.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She just hopped out of the ring, heading toward the lockers.

And Phil? He ran a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth, feeling the cold metal of his lip ring press against his fingers. He muttered something about stupid tag teams and having better things to do. But it didn’t have the same bite anymore. Not now.

Not after that.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N shoved a piece of fruit into her mouth as she ran back out into the hallway. She forgot she had a small segment with Damage CTRL and Bianca in the next couple of minutes. It was a simple backstage confrontation, Y/S/N putting Bayley and Iyo in their place. She utters apologies as she weaves in and out of the crowd backstage.

Once she sees Bianca, she knows the segment has already started. She stays as quiet as possible, careful not to give away her presence. One of the camera men nod at her, signaling that she’ll walk on screen shortly.

“But you Bayley on the other hand, you’re gettin’ a little ahead of yourself,” Bianca says sassily. “Because that little plan you talkin’ about. Yeah. That got a flaw. Because, um,” she clears her throat. “You’re not winning the Royal Rumble. Because I’m entering the Royal Rumble. And I can’t wait to KOD you over the top rope. See, what’s gon’ happen is that I’m gonna win the Royal Rumble for the second time. And then at Wrestlemania I’m gonna take back my title. And then, the Y/S/N era will finally come to an end.”

Before Bayley could fire back at Bianca, the camera shifted slightly, just in time to catch the confident, deliberate strut of Y/N rounding the corner.

Title glinting under the fluorescent lights, she slung it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing — though everyone watching knew exactly how heavy it was with legacy and dominance. Her smirk was slow, teasing, built from years of knowing no one could touch her at the top.

“Wow,” she said, voice smooth like honey laced with venom. “You say my name like it’s a curse, B.”

She winked toward Bianca, tilting her head. “You sure you don’t mean ‘Y/S/N era will go down as the most dominant reign this division’s ever seen’?”

The crowd just off camera erupted — a roar breaking from behind Gorilla as talent and crew watched the monitor like it was the main event already.

Bianca didn’t look offended. In fact, she grinned, folding her arms. “Oh, I mean it, sis. Don’t get it twisted. You’ve been killin’ it. Almost three years with that title? That’s legacy talk.” She stepped forward, the tension playful but still electric. “But you know how this works. Everybody’s time comes eventually. Even yours.”

Y/N looked her up and down, biting back a grin. “I’m not afraid of eventually. I just don’t think it’s showing up this year.”

That’s when Bayley let out a laugh — loud, sarcastic, and entirely grating.

“Okay, okay,” she said, stepping between them, hands up like she was trying to mediate peace. “Can we get real for a second? Because I’m so sick of the two of you standing here, throwing praise and shade like it’s a damn brunch buffet.”

Iyo stood silently behind her, arms crossed, gaze narrowed like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Bayley jabbed a finger toward Y/N. “You’ve been ducking real competition for months. Iyo had you beat twice and you needed a whole squad to help you keep that title. And now Bianca’s acting like she’s already won the Rumble when she hasn’t even entered the ring yet?” She scoffed. “Please. You’re all hype. Iyo’s the future.”

Y/N’s smile disappeared slowly, replaced by something colder, sharper. She stepped closer to Bayley, title gleaming like a second spine over her shoulder. “You wanna talk about ducking, Bayley? Where was this energy when I ran through half of your faction over this last year? Where was it when I pinned you in the center of that ring just two weeks ago?”

The camera zoomed in as the audience popped again backstage, a few staffers stifling grins as they watched from the sidelines.

Y/N leaned in, her tone dropping like a loaded gun. “Let me remind you. I’ve been carrying this division while y’all kept shuffling stables and failing upward. You think Iyo’s the future? I am the present. And until someone pries this title out of my cold, dead hands—” she looked to Bianca briefly, then back at Bayley, “—you’re just living in my reign.”

Bianca chuckled, even as she shook her head. “Girl’s got a point.”

Iyo stepped forward suddenly, the silent storm finally striking as she got in Y/N’s face, barking something sharp in Japanese. Y/N didn’t flinch — just tilted her head, unfazed, eyes locked with hers like they were already mid-match.

Bayley quickly wedged herself between them again, holding Iyo back with one arm while pointing at Y/N with the other.

“This isn’t over,” Bayley snapped. “Not by a long shot. Mania’s coming. And you will break.”

Y/N smiled again, all teeth now. She slung the title off her shoulder and held it up between them like a mirror they didn’t want to look into.

“You better pray I do,” she said coolly. “Because if I don’t… I’m walking out of WrestleMania still champion. Again.”

And with that, she turned on her heel, strutting out of frame as the camera lingered just long enough to catch the slow, deliberate roll of her hips — and the absolute chaos she left simmering behind her.

Y/N walked away from the aftermath of the segment like she didn’t just verbally slap half the women’s division into next week. Her title sat proudly on her shoulder, her boots echoing confidently through the hallway as the WWE crew made way for her.

She turned a corner and headed toward the one place that felt like home no matter what arena they were in — the Bloodline locker room.

Inside, the air buzzed with tension and anticipation. Jon was bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing in front of a mirror with one glove already on. Joseph sat leaned forward in a folding chair, taping his wrists in deliberate silence, while Joe was half-sitting on the armrest of the couch, surveying the room like he owned it. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.

Y/N cracked the door open with her hip and smirked. “Room full of danger and egos. Gotta be the Bloodline.”

Jon turned first, wide grin splitting his face. “Heeey! The champ is here!”

She strutted in like she hadn’t just thrown verbal grenades at Bayley and Iyo five minutes ago. “Damn right I am.”

“Watched that segment,” Joe said with a slow smirk, arms crossed over his chest. “You ate. No crumbs.”

“You already know.” She winked as she tossed her belt onto a nearby bench and leaned against the lockers. “Honestly, I should get hazard pay for dealing with Bayley’s loud mouth and Iyo’s death stare. At the same time.”

Jon chuckled, pulling off his warm-up hoodie. “You told Bianca to keep your name outta her mouth and told Bayley to sit down. That's peak Bloodline behavior.”

Joseph said nothing — as usual — but offered her a subtle nod of approval, which from him might as well have been a standing ovation.

“Where’s my hug?” Jon demanded, arms open.

“You’re sweaty.”

“So are you!”

She groaned dramatically and walked into his open arms anyway, letting him squeeze her tight before she jabbed him in the ribs. “You better not get all clingy when I’m gone.”

“You’re leavin’?” Joe asked, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N leaned down to tie her boot. “Yeah, I’ve got a 4 a.m. flight to New York. Some early press before the Rumble hype kicks in. Gotta go charm a few media outlets, pretend I’m not running on caffeine and attitude.”

“4 a.m.?” Jon repeated with a wince. “Girl, you’re a different breed.”

“Can’t help it,” she said with a shrug. “The grind loves me.”

Joe smirked, sitting up a little straighter. “Don’t let them soft journalists play you. They love asking dumb questions like, ‘What’s it like being the only woman in a faction full of men?’ Just hit ‘em with the stare and remind them you’ve been champ for three years.”

“I got this.” She popped a piece of gum in her mouth and offered them a lazy grin. “Besides, y’all are the reason they ask dumb questions. Look at you — tall, muscly, brooding… Joseph doesn’t even speak. He just vibes.”

Joseph blinked at her. Jon laughed. Joe shook his head.

“I ain’t brooding,” Jon said.

“You are,” Joseph muttered.

Y/N grinned as she slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her title again. “Anyway, I just wanted to wish you all luck. I know you’re about to go stir the pot in that triple threat match.”

Joe cracked his knuckles. “Knight, Orton, and Styles think they’re running something. Time to remind them who we are.”

“You gonna pop up on commentary again?” Y/N teased Joe. “Tell ‘em you run the table, the show, the whole damn company?”

He shrugged, his grin dangerous. “If the crown fits.”

“Y’all better stay safe out there,” she said, walking toward the door again. “And make sure Jon doesn’t do anything dumb.”

“Hey!” Jon called, offended.

Joseph stood now, tightening his gloves. “What time you land?”

“Around nine-twenty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “I’ll sleep on the plane. Maybe.”

“You won’t,” Joe muttered knowingly.

“Nope,” she called back. “But I’m still gonna show up lookin’ better than everyone.”

Jon leaned into the hallway, cupping his hands. “Sweet dreams, champ!”

She blew them a kiss over her shoulder without breaking stride.

“Kill it tonight, boys.”

The door swung shut behind her, and for a second, the locker room was quiet.

Then Jon clapped his hands together. “Man, I love her.”

Joe nodded once. “Don’t really gotta choice. She’s family.”

Joseph didn’t say anything. But he smiled.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The hotel was quiet when Y/N stepped inside, her footsteps muffled by the carpet and her body running on sheer adrenaline and exhaustion. Her duffel bag slung over her shoulder and title cradled in her arm, she fished her phone from her pocket and scrolled absently through the notifications blowing up her socials.

The internet was already on fire — clips of her dragging Bayley backstage, the stomp that echoed through the arena, fans calling her the true face of the division. A short laugh slipped from her lips as she hearted a few edits and slowed to a stop at her room.

She smirked, letting the screen dim as she reached her door — only to come to a full stop.

Because standing right in front of it, bouquet of flowers in hand and nervous energy practically radiating off of him, was Colby Lopez.

“Uh…” she blinked, confused. “I must’ve concussed myself. You are not supposed to be here.”

His head tilted slightly as that crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Nice to see you too, trouble.”

She gawked. “What the hell are you doing in Canada, Colby?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, nodding at her duffel. “Weren’t you supposed to be passed out with a protein bar and your title by now so you could sleep before your flight?”

“Don’t change the subject,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re supposed to be in Davenport. Or literally anywhere else.”

He shifted his weight. “Yeah, well… plans changed.”

“You flew all the way here tonight?”

Colby shrugged. “Caught a late flight. Got here like thirty minutes ago.”

She stared. “Why?”

He hesitated. And for a moment, she saw it — the flash of something in his eyes he hadn’t quite untangled yet.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then let out a breath. “I… wanted to be here. For your first title defense of the new year.”

She folded her arms, heart thudding in a rhythm that had nothing to do with exhaustion. “You could’ve texted me. Or called. Or literally waited until morning. You showed up at my hotel.”

“I know.”

“You’re holding flowers.”

“I know.”

Her voice dropped, wary but curious. “Why?”

Colby looked at her — really looked at her — like he was still working through it in real time.

“I watched that segment,” he said finally, voice low. “With Knight.”

Her brow arched. “And?”

“And I don’t know,” he said quickly, biting down on the words. “I just… it got under my skin. The way he looks at you. The way he talks to you like he has a right to. I hated it.”

Y/N blinked. “Colby—”

“I’m not proud of it,” he muttered, eyes flicking away. “I’m not trying to be that guy. I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the loose bun even more. “I saw him in your space again and I… I didn’t want him there. I didn’t want anyone there.”

The silence sat between them like a lit fuse.

He finally looked back at her, jaw clenched like the admission physically pained him. “I don’t want to share you.”

Her breath caught. “Colby…”

“I know we’re not—this isn’t—” He gestured vaguely between them, like trying to categorize it would break it. “But I don’t like seeing someone else circle you like that. Not when I’ve been right here this whole time.”

The hallway felt smaller suddenly.

Warmer.

Louder.

She stepped forward slowly, dropping her duffel with a dull thud. Her expression was unreadable. Her heartbeat was not.

“I didn’t know it bothered you,” she said softly.

“I didn’t either,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Not like that.”

There was a beat.

She reached up, fingers brushing against the stem of the flowers still in his hand. “You got jealous.”

“Yeah.”

“You brought flowers.”

“...Shut up.”

She grinned.

And then she grabbed him by the hoodie, pulled him in close, and kissed him like the world could wait.

Colby made a low sound in his throat — surprise, awe, surrender — before dropping the bouquet entirely and dragging her against him like he couldn’t bear a single inch between them.

His hands were warm on her hips, then in her hair, lips parting against hers like this had been waiting in the wings all along — quiet, patient, aching.

Y/N pressed up onto her toes, fingers curling into his hoodie, heart hammering with every movement, every breath. His beard scraped softly against her jaw. His mouth was warm and demanding, but unhurried — like he wanted to memorize how she tasted.

When they finally broke apart, their chests heaved in tandem. His forehead touched hers.

Neither of them moved.

She exhaled, dazed. “That was…”

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “It was.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re kind of an idiot.”

He smirked. “I flew to a different country. I think I’ve earned that.”

“I wasn’t going to kiss you.”

He raised a brow. “Sure didn’t look like that.”

She laughed, the sound low and breathless. “Well. You were holding flowers. That’s basically emotional blackmail.”

He grinned, eyes crinkling. “So… what now?”

She paused, still tucked against his chest. Her fingers twisted into his hoodie like she wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But you’re not the only one who didn’t want to share.”

And for Colby?

That was enough for now.

They stood there for another beat, wrapped up in each other, lips still tingling, heartbeats gradually slowing. His hands hadn’t left her waist. Hers hadn’t let go of his hoodie. For a moment, they weren’t champions, performers, coworkers, or complications.

They were just two people in a hallway at a random hotel., admitting something without saying everything.

And neither of them noticed the quiet click of a phone camera from the far end of the hall — a fan or maybe a hotel staffer caught mid-cleaning shift, frozen with wide eyes and a trembling grip on their phone, staring down at the blurry-but-undeniable photo they’d just snapped.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t move. They just scurried back around the corner in silence, already opening Twitter.

Because this?

This was about to break the internet.

And Y/N and Colby were too wrapped up in each other to have any idea.

VisionaryVixen_

Liked by Squaredcirclesource, Hottagdaily, Kayfabeconfessions, and 100,235 others

VisionaryVixen_: I was just trying to find the vending machine and walked into THIS. Y/S/N. Seth Rollins. A hallway. A kiss. Flowers. I don’t know whether to faint or scream but I took the photo anyway. You’re welcome. 🥀👀

#WWE #Rollins #YSNSZN #WHATDIDWEJUSTSEE

View all 18,978 comments

wrestlingwithdrama: THE BAG. SHE DROPPED HER BAG FOR HIM. 😭 this isn’t a soft launch, this is a war declaration

bloodlinebaddie: First the stomp tribute and now this??? oh yeah, she’s his.

heelheat4ever: He flew in JUST to see her after defending the title?? He wasn’t even supposed to be in Canada!! That’s real main event energy 😭���

Punkscollarbone: Punk flipping off his phone somewhere in Chicago rn

Knighttimethirst: LA Knight seeing this after flirting all night: 😐

burnitdowndaily: Not Colby looking like a teenage boy in love after YEARS of teasing. I feel ill

yn&flairfan: She wins a brutal match, shuts down Bayley, drops a STOMP, and makes out with Seth in the hallway??? Queen behavior

tagteamtease: If this is what happens after a title defense… what’s gonna happen at Mania???

lipsandlineage: I haven’t breathed since this hit my feed. This is my Roman Empire.

[fnzktn]

hype girl

abm!haerin x abm!reader

synopsis: she never said much. but every choice she made brought her closer to you.

includes: slowburn!!!, thesis💔, soft jealousy, slight favortism but she's never gonna admit that, r is oblivious to haerin's crush😞

word count: 9.9k

part of the shs!njz series

a/n: literally had to bribe my former abm bsf to give me the link to their thesis that won when we were in 12th grade so i could use it to this fic💔 worth it

the first thing people say about kang haerin is that she’s quiet. not in a cold way, not even in the sharp, untouchable way people might expect from someone who looks like her. just quiet.

quiet in a way that feels deliberate. in a way that makes you pay more attention to the sound of your own voice when you speak to her, like anything too loud might crack the space she keeps around herself.

she doesn’t talk unless she has something to say. she doesn’t walk in groups unless she’s needed there. she never lingers in doorways the way most of your classmates do, never stays behind to gossip or stretch out her presence just to be seen. and yet, somehow—she’s always seen.

some people think it’s because she’s pretty, which is true. she is. the kind of pretty that isn’t accidental. it’s practiced, almost polished, in a way that hints at structure. school-pressed uniform, hair always neat, minimal jewelry that still somehow looks expensive even when it isn’t.

there are campus stories—her parents run businesses you’ve seen on EDSA billboards. someone once said she modeled for a school campaign when she was in junior high. you’ve seen one of those posters in the admin building. her face is half-turned, eyes slightly downward, the edge of a smile on her lips. it doesn’t look posed. it just looks like her.

but it’s not just that. it’s not the beauty that draws people to her. it’s the silence. or rather—how she uses it.

haerin’s the student council treasurer. always on time, always speaking with just enough confidence to hold a room without overpowering it. she doesn’t argue with teachers, but she doesn’t shrink in front of them either. she listens. she folds her arms and tilts her head slightly when she disagrees. when she answers, her voice is calm. measured. decisive.

there are videos on her instagram story highlights—short clips of her dancing in a studio. muted lighting, big mirrors. she never tags anyone. no captions. just her. sometimes she posts on weekends and deletes them after a few hours. it’s always a little unexpected. it’s like seeing someone blink mid-statue. movement in the middle of all that stillness.

you don’t talk often. just sometimes. usually when you don’t understand something in fabm, or you need help finding a formula for business math. she never seems bothered by your questions, but she doesn’t exactly invite them either. she answers plainly. writes things down if you forget. slides her notes your way when you ask.

she’s always been kind. just… distant.

but then came the first day of inquiries, investigations, and immersion.

third period is supposed to start at ten. but at 10:03, the iii teacher still hasn’t arrived.

the classroom isn’t loud, but it isn’t quiet either. students half-slouched over their desks, refreshing gc messages and half-finished quizlets, poking at leftover food with plastic forks. someone yawns dramatically near the back. two boys in front are sharing one earbud each. your seatmate is drawing on the corner of their paper. from where you’re sitting, you can see three people using ai to finish their business case drafts. someone opens a bag of chips. it crackles too loudly. no one tells them to stop.

you’re sitting in your usual seat—third row from the back, by the windows. it’s a decent spot. close enough to hear but not enough to be noticed. you like it that way.

outside, the clouds are thick and slow-moving. the sunlight coming in is pale, almost watery. not golden, not sharp. just soft. a tuesday kind of light.

haerin’s seat is two columns away from yours, diagonal. she’s not doing anything, just flipping a pen between her fingers. there’s a reviewer open on her desk, but her eyes aren’t moving across the page. she looks like she’s reading, but you know she’s not. she does this sometimes—sits very still, lets the world move around her like she’s not quite part of it.

someone calls her name across the room. she blinks, looks up. nods. doesn’t say anything. then goes back to her pen.

the door clicks open at 10:06. finally.

the teacher walks in, holding a manila folder. they look serious. everyone starts sitting up straighter.

you reach for your notebook instinctively.

“okay,” the teacher says, not wasting time. “since we’ve already covered your research orientation last week, we’re moving straight to groupings.”

you feel something in your stomach fold in on itself.

groupings.

you glance around. a few people are already side-eyeing their seatmates, mouthing names. some groups are obvious. some are already forming under desks. haerin hasn’t moved.

“this semester, you’ll be working on your research papers in fixed groups of five,” the teacher continues, adjusting the folder. “the subject is designed to simulate a business environment, so we’re treating this like a project-based task. not just research, but immersion. you’ll conduct field work, you’ll propose your own focus, and yes—you will defend your findings by the end of the term.”

no one’s speaking anymore.

then, the teacher adds, “and to make this more interesting, we’ll be assigning leaders. four of them. the rest will be drafted—yes, drafted—into teams.”

groans. tension. disbelief. but nothing new. this teacher is known for curveballs.

“the four team leaders,” they say, reading from a small card, “will be…”

there’s a pause. a paper shuffle. then names.

you don’t hear your name. you barely react. not disappointed—just relieved.

but then, “kang haerin.”

heads turn.

she blinks once, sits up straighter. her pen stops moving. she doesn’t look surprised. she never does.

your teacher continues. “team leaders, you may now choose your members. one by one.”

and then—

“we’ll go in reverse order. kang haerin, you’re up first.”

you freeze.

she stands up, notebook still closed. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t even glance at anyone for a cue. just says your name.

calm. clear. definite.

your name. first.

your name leaves her mouth and lands in the room like a dropped pin.

not loud. not dramatic. not dragged out with emphasis or flair. just said. simply. like it made sense.

and for a second, no one reacts. the class seems to hesitate—like the name didn’t register because no one was expecting it. not even you.

especially not you.

your first thought isn’t even a thought. it’s more of a physical thing—like something invisible tapping against the inside of your ribs. a second of blank stillness before the wave reaches your head.

she called your name.

haerin. kang haerin. student council treasurer. the one who’s good at decision trees and breaking down amortization schedules in under ten lines. the one who always walks just slightly apart from everyone, like she exists on a different plane of focus. that haerin. she said your name. first.

you blink. you aren’t sure if you heard it right. maybe it was someone else with a similar name. maybe she meant to pick someone sitting near you.

but then people start turning.

not dramatically. just little glances. a few shifting shoulders. the sound of someone snorting quietly to your right. someone from the back whispers, “wait—what?”

your body doesn’t know what to do. your hands are suddenly too still. your notebook feels like the only thing anchoring you to your seat. you don’t move. not until the teacher clears their throat and looks at you.

“that’s one,” they say, making a note on the clipboard. “next?”

the rest of her group fills in slowly, but no one remembers their names.

not really.

because the surprise of your name hangs in the room longer than it’s supposed to, stretching through each new pick like a secondhand echo. your classmates shift back into polite focus as the other leaders begin to choose, but the tension has already cracked. now there’s an edge of curiosity under it. something tight and low and wordless. like you’ve been pulled into the center of a story that hasn’t even started yet.

you watch her. carefully.

after you, she calls a quiet boy from the top ten. next is a girl from the debate team—someone articulate, good under pressure. then, someone unexpected again, a transfer student who barely speaks unless prompted. and that’s five.

five people. including you and haerin.

when the teacher nods, announcing that the groupings are final, you nod too. but yours is automatic. you’re still looking at her.

there’s a stillness to haerin’s posture as she sets her pen down and folds her hands, like nothing about this morning has been surprising to her. like this was the plan all along.

you don’t know what to make of that.

the rest of the draft moves in a blur.

other leaders are called. names are picked. teams slowly form. you hear your classmates call out to each other, some joking, some groaning, some whispering predictions like they’re betting on exam scores. someone claps when two people who clearly wanted to be grouped end up together. the noise returns, gradually. the room fills with movement again.

but you stay quiet.

you can’t seem to shake the feeling that everyone’s a little more aware of you now. not in any intense way—just in the corner-of-the-eye, side-of-the-mouth kind of way. glances that are too quick to be kind, too casual to be real. you catch someone whispering something to their seatmate, eyebrows raised. another girl leans forward to whisper, “since when were they close?”

you aren’t sure what to do with your face. you don’t feel smug, but you don’t want to look confused either. so you keep your eyes on your desk and your hand on your pen and pretend to take notes that don’t matter.

from the corner of your eye, you see haerin turning to the teacher to confirm your team schedule. her voice is calm. her hands are still. she could be discussing stock returns and she’d sound exactly the same. no shift. no weight. just certainty.

when the bell rings, people start rising immediately. the scraping of chairs, the shuffle of bags. your name’s been called three times before you realize someone’s waiting for you by the door.

you stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. haerin’s already halfway down the hall, her steps slow, precise. she doesn’t wait for you. but you know you’re supposed to follow.

you catch up outside the building.

she’s walking beside the trimmed hedges, the sun catching at the edges of her hair where it’s tied back loosely. she’s scrolling through her phone, probably checking the new group schedule.

“hey,” you say, not too loudly.

she looks up. slows. waits for you to fall into step beside her.

you walk together for a few seconds. quiet. just the gravel beneath your shoes, the hum of the afternoon.

then you ask, carefully, “why’d you pick me?”

you don’t look at her when you say it. just keep your eyes ahead.

she doesn’t answer right away. you hear her thumb tap the side of her phone. she breathes in once. then—

“you were the only one who asked last semester if immersion could be off-campus.”

you blink.

“i remembered that,” she adds, tone even. “you asked about real-world application. no one else did.”

you’re silent. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you’re realizing you didn’t know she’d heard that. that she'd remembered it. you’d said it in passing. to the teacher. to no one, really.

she noticed.

“i thought,” she says, slower now, like she’s choosing her words as she walks, “that someone who asks questions like that… probably has ideas worth listening to.”

your heart knocks a little too hard against your ribs.

you swallow. nod. “okay.”

she hums softly. a small sound. almost a smile, but not quite.

then she pockets her phone, adjusts her grip on her bag strap, and says, “our first meeting’s on friday. i’ll message you.”

friday afternoon. room 302.

it’s a quiet, out-of-the-way classroom on the third floor, usually reserved for electives or teachers who don’t like being interrupted. the lights are dimmer here. the windows are dusty, only half-open. the air smells like paper and whiteboard ink and faintly of rain, even though the sky outside is still clear.

you’re the second to arrive.

haerin is already seated by the far window, a half-drunk bottle of water beside her, her hair tied loosely in a way that feels more lived-in than usual. she’s reading something—a printout, probably the class syllabus—eyes scanning, pen tapping once against the edge of her notebook.

she doesn’t look up when you enter, but she tilts her chin slightly, just enough to acknowledge that you’re there.

you sit two chairs across from her. not beside. not yet.

the rest of the group trickles in slowly. you know them, more or less—two boys, one girl, all smart enough to keep up but casual enough to get distracted when things get too abstract. one of them—the taller guy with the chain necklace who always carries an iced americano into class—is already talking about presentation templates before he even sits down.

haerin waits until they’ve settled. then she speaks.

“so,” she says, flipping her pen around, “we’re finalizing our direction today. whatever we pick, we commit to it.”

no one answers immediately. someone shifts in their seat.

then the girl says, “we could do something safe. like e-commerce growth post-pandemic. everyone’s doing that.”

the others nod. something easy. something passable. nothing risky.

you hesitate. the idea forming in your head is half-formed, but it’s there—has been there since last week. it’s not as clean, not as familiar. a little ambitious. maybe too much.

but it’s the only one you’ve been thinking about.

so you speak. quietly.

“what if we did something on small community-based startups?” they look at you. you continue, voice a bit more certain now. “like sari-sari stores that restructured after lockdowns. people who used to sell in-person but had to shift models completely. it’s still e-commerce, technically. but from the ground up.”

you feel the weight of silence right after.

the guy with the iced americano frowns slightly. “that’s… a bit messy, isn’t it? hard to quantify.”

“data’s gonna be hard to pull,” the girl adds. “and those places don’t keep records.”

you nod, slowly. already pulling back, already regretting speaking.

and then—

“it’s our strongest lead so far.”

everyone turns.

haerin isn’t looking at anyone in particular. just writing something down in the corner of her notes.

“the rest are surface-level,” she continues, voice calm. “this one has depth. and flexibility. and a unique angle for our defense.”

her words are quiet, but they don’t need volume. they settle into the space with finality.

no one argues.

someone says, “okay.” another nods. the iced americano guy leans back, quiet now.

you’re still processing.

because she didn’t just accept your idea. she claimed it.

not to be nice. not to make things easier, but because she actually meant it.

you glance at her. she’s still writing. doesn’t look up. doesn’t need to.

and for the first time, you think—maybe you’re not just here because she remembered something you said. maybe you’re here because she trusts the way you think.

the hallway outside the faculty office is quiet except for the low hum of electric fans and the occasional scuff of shoes along the tiles. the light through the windows is weak and diffused, more gray than gold, casting everything in the tired color of early morning nerves. it’s pitch day, a formal pre-immersion presentation for all iii groups, and the whole class has been instructed to show up in full business attire.

the result is a corridor filled with uneven collars, ill-fitted coats, and classmates swapping belts. you’re standing just beside a dusty mirror bolted to the wall, trying to fix the same necktie for what feels like the fourth time. the knot keeps slipping sideways, no matter how tightly you pull it.

your fingers are clumsy with the fabric—too stiff, too smooth, like it refuses to cooperate with the rhythm you vaguely remember from a tutorial you watched the night before. you try again. pull, loop, fold. no good. it still sags a little to the left. you sigh under your breath and glance at your reflection. not awful. but not great, either.

“you’re doing it wrong,” comes a voice just over your shoulder. low, steady, no trace of teasing.

you glance up. it’s haerin.

she’s already fully dressed, neat in a crisp navy blazer over a pale blouse, sleeves fitted just right, a pair of simple earrings you haven’t seen her wear before catching a bit of the light as she tilts her head. her hair is tied loosely at the back, a little messier than usual, but it suits her. she looks like she’s already been calm for hours. like there was no part of this morning that could’ve unsettled her. she’s looking at your tie now, not you.

“i know,” you say quietly, almost embarrassed.

she steps in without another word, raising her hands to your collar. “stay still.”

you do. you try not to breathe too loudly.

her fingers are light but certain as she undoes the knot, slipping it free in a single practiced motion. she moves carefully, not slow, not fast—just enough for you to feel each adjustment. the pull of the fabric. the brief press of her knuckle against your chest. the clean slide of the tie being straightened, tightened, tucked.

she doesn’t comment on how off-centered it was, doesn’t sigh or frown or act like she’s doing you a favor. she just works quietly, like it’s nothing new. and yet, the air between you shifts into something quiet and careful, like even she feels the weight of this simple thing being shared.

when she finishes, she steps back. “there.”

you look down. the knot sits perfectly now—centered, flat, almost sharp against your shirt. her fingers had only brushed your collarbone once, but it lingers more than it should. you glance at her. she meets your eyes for a second. there’s no smile, no expression of pride, just that familiar neutral calm. but something about the moment feels like it’s been folded and placed somewhere you’ll return to later.

“wear it like that from now on,” she says, not waiting for a response, already turning to leave as one of your groupmates calls her name from the other end of the hallway.

you watch her walk off, blazer catching slightly at her sides as she moves. you reach up once, touch the edge of the knot again, as if to prove it’s real. it is. still firm. still exactly where she left it.

the week after, she grows quiet.

not in a cold or distant way. just quieter than usual. a kind of gentle withdrawal. she still shows up on time for meetings, still replies to the group chats, still submits her deliverables without reminders. but her presence feels dimmed, like someone lowering the brightness on a screen. she listens more than she speaks.

she stares at her laptop a little longer between sentences. she doesn’t interrupt jokes, doesn’t offer side comments, doesn’t even give you that usual nod when you walk in a room. she’s not ignoring you. but she’s somewhere else.

the others don’t seem to notice. you do.

you try not to overthink it. but it follows you—through meetings, through class, through the way your eyes keep flicking toward her even when you’re supposed to be writing.

it takes until friday to ask.

you’re the last two left in the room after a group check-in. the others have already left for lunch, leaving papers half-folded on the desks and a bag of barely touched snacks on the windowsill. haerin’s packing slowly, folding her charger neatly, checking her usb twice before putting it away. her face is neutral, tired maybe, but not upset.

you stand there for a moment, watching her. “are you okay?”

she doesn’t look up. not at first.

“yeah,” she says after a second. it’s not curt. just soft.

you wait. she zips her case.

“sometimes i just get like this,” she continues. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

you nod, even though she still isn’t looking. “okay.”

a few more seconds pass. she finally straightens and meets your eyes.

“i didn’t mean to shut you out.”

you weren’t expecting that. not from her. not out loud.

you search her face—calm as always, but this time there’s something else there. something quiet and unguarded. not vulnerability exactly, but a flicker of honesty that feels new.

“i get it,” you say, and you do.

she nods once. doesn’t say anything else.

you walk out together. there’s no need to talk.

but the space between you feels different now. not wider. not heavier. just more real.

the immersion site is just two jeepney rides away — still within the city, though farther than most of your classmates are assigned. it’s a quieter part of town, nestled past the marketplace, near a line of low-rise apartments with rusting gates and cracked sidewalks. the streets aren’t unfamiliar, but they’re quieter than what you’re used to.

your group is assigned to a small home-based printing business run by a married couple and their niece. they take bulk orders for stickers and packaging from nearby cafés and shops, operating mostly through facebook and instagram dms.

everything is done in their living room — orders lined up on a folding table, samples stacked inside plastic drawers, handwritten records clipped together with binder clips. no official branding. no business cards. just a steady, humble system that keeps the orders moving. when they describe their process, it’s with phrases like, “we just figured it out along the way,” or “as long as the supplies don’t run out, we’re okay.”

they’re generous with their answers. open, even if they don’t fully understand why you’re asking what you’re asking. haerin leads the interview. she sits across from the couple with a small spiral notebook and a list of questions she barely glances at — she knows most of them by memory.

her tone is soft but confident, her posture straight without looking stiff. she listens closely. never interrupts. and when she does speak, her questions feel more like conversations than interrogations.

you sit nearby with the recorder, mostly quiet, logging timestamps and checking battery levels. your pen stays near the edge of your notebook, unused except for the notes you jot quietly between answers.

until something catches your ear.

it’s the fourth or fifth question. haerin is asking about when the business moved online, and the husband answers easily, saying it happened around june. but something doesn’t line up. earlier, they’d mentioned having a surge of graduation orders that came through dms, which shouldn’t have happened midyear. you glance at your notes. march. that’s what they said the first time.

you raise your hand a little, quietly.

“sorry—can i ask something?”

the couple pauses. the group turns. not startled. just slightly surprised.

you glance at haerin once — she nods — then look back to the interviewees.

“earlier you mentioned that you were already receiving graduation orders through instagram,” you say slowly, “but just now you said you moved online in june. did you start using digital channels earlier than that? maybe around march?”

the wife turns to her husband. he blinks. then nods, smiling like he’s only just now remembered.

“yes! you’re right. it wasn’t june — it was march. we only said june because that’s when we opened the new account.”

the niece laughs. “i told you it started earlier.”

the husband chuckles. “good catch,” he says, glancing at you. “thanks for clarifying. we always mix that up.”

your groupmate beside you scribbles the correction into their notes. you nod, quietly writing it down as well. the others move on. but for a moment, you feel something different settle into the air around you — something small, like the sound of a quiet switch being flipped.

from across the table, you feel haerin watching.

she doesn’t say anything. just picks up her pencil and draws a small circle next to a timestamp. that’s all.

but later, when the interview ends and the group is filing out of the house, tired but satisfied, she walks beside you for the first few steps. she doesn’t speak. doesn’t make it a point.

but she stays close.

someone suggests stopping somewhere nearby before heading back. no one argues. there’s a café at the edge of the barangay, tucked beside a small clinic and a dental lab. the kind of place students go to finish essays or kill time between errands. it’s narrow, air-conditioned, with a glass counter full of uneven brownies and labeled drinks in stickers. two fans spin lazily overhead. the stereo plays a soft acoustic playlist, half drowned out by the whir of the blender.

you take a table by the window. haerin sits across from you.

your groupmates are still near the counter, debating over who’s paying for what, distracted by iced coffee options. no one notices the way the sunlight lands gently across your table. your drink arrives first. hers, a bit later — something warm, even in this heat. she pulls out her notes before she even takes a sip.

you watch her underline a word.

“you’re still working?” you ask, not in criticism — just observation.

“if i don’t mark what stood out now,” she says without looking up, “i’ll forget what mattered.”

you nod. you understand that.

she circles a line. taps once near the edge of her page.

you glance at her again. “you noticed the timeline thing too, right?”

this time, she does look up. her eyes meet yours. “yes. but you spoke first.”

she says it plainly. not like she’s impressed — more like she’s confirming something. acknowledging it.

you don’t respond. not immediately.

she tears a small square from her paper. writes a timestamp in her sharp, slanted handwriting and slides it across to you. “use this when you cross-check your audio.”

you fold the paper without thinking and tuck it into your pocket.

you don’t talk much after that. but there’s no pressure to. the quiet stretches naturally between you. outside, a motorbike rolls past, followed by the slow, hollow bark of a dog. inside, the light is soft, and the fan hums, and for a while, the rest of the group just blends into the background.

when it’s time to go, she stands first. your straw wrapper is still on the tray. she picks it up and throws it away without a word.

the classroom is warm. not hot, not uncomfortable — just warm in that way old rooms tend to be when the lights have been on too long and the windows barely let the breeze in. it’s late afternoon, maybe an hour before dismissal.

your group is gathered around one of the long wooden tables in a half-circle, laptops open, papers fanned out. you’ve just presented your revised framework to the supervising teacher. this is meant to be the mid-point consult — where flaws are spotted, adjustments made, and promising directions are encouraged. but it doesn’t feel like encouragement today.

you’re halfway through explaining your proposed angle when the teacher leans back in his chair and frowns.

“i don’t think that’s feasible,” he says, tapping his pen lightly against the table. “how do you plan to measure something as vague as that? what are your indicators?”

you blink. “well—”

“and if you’re basing it on self-reported data,” he adds, interrupting, “how do you plan to account for bias? you’re not psych students. i don’t want assumptions passed off as findings.”

you nod, swallowing back the words you were going to say. you weren’t expecting praise — just not this. not this fast. you glance at your notes, unsure where to begin defending something that hasn’t even been fully shaped yet. your fingers fidget near the edge of the printout. one of your groupmates shifts uncomfortably.

and then, quietly — from your left “we’ve accounted for that.”

it’s haerin.

she doesn’t raise her voice. doesn’t sit up straighter. just speaks clearly, like she’s adding a line to a conversation she was always part of.

“the variable isn’t vague,” she continues. “it’s emerging behavior. it’s supported by existing business literature, especially in informal microbusinesses. we plan to isolate it by observing purchasing decisions over a fixed period. we’re not using abstract metrics. we’ve broken it down.”

the teacher raises an eyebrow. but says nothing.

“as for bias,” she adds, “we know our limits. that’s why we’re framing it as patterns, not conclusions. we’re not interpreting motive. just documenting action.”

she says it calmly. like this isn’t about proving anything — just about making sure something true doesn’t get misunderstood. her hands stay folded near her notebook. she doesn’t even glance at you.

the teacher leans forward again, slower this time.

“that’s a good point,” he says, more thoughtful now. “make sure to write that in the limitations. and don’t bury it. i want it on the first page.”

haerin nods. “yes, sir.”

he stands a few minutes later, dismissing the session with a reminder about submission deadlines. your group gathers their things. someone jokes about how intense that felt. someone else sighs in relief.

you don’t say anything. not right away. you’re still sitting where you were, watching her close her folder. she does it like it’s done — no celebration, no tension. just another task folded neatly into the afternoon.

as the others move toward the door, you linger behind. your bag’s half-zipped.

“thanks,” you say.

she looks up. “for what?”

you gesture vaguely to the space between you. “that.”

she shrugs. “i knew you were right.”

you smile, small, unsure.

“you don’t have to explain things perfectly the first time,” she adds. “that’s why we’re a group.”

it’s such a simple thing. said without weight. but it lands somewhere soft inside you. you don’t know what to say back, so you just nod.

she turns to leave, walking ahead of you by a few steps. not far. just enough that you watch her for a moment before following.

and for some reason, you feel lighter than you did before the meeting even started.

later that night, the group call drags past midnight. it starts as a discussion, turns into document formatting, and eventually dissolves into half-sentences and background yawns. someone falls asleep without leaving the call. someone else plays music too loud. you and haerin stay silent for most of it, cameras off, both of you working in parallel without speaking.

at 12:43 a.m., she messages you privately.

“your idea made the whole framework work. just so you know.”

the second immersion takes place in a busier district, not far from a university belt. the roads are uneven, lined with shops that never close, and people who never seem to walk slowly. it’s not unfamiliar, but the pace is sharper — everything louder, faster, more unpredictable. your assigned business is a compact booth that sells thrifted clothing and repurposed accessories. it's owned by two sisters in their late twenties, both former design students who decided to build something of their own after dropping out.

the stall is tucked inside a commercial strip between a milk tea place and a print shop. it’s barely wider than a classroom door. the walls are made of thin plyboard, painted by hand with swirling yellows and greens. shirts hang from the ceiling. bucket hats drape over plastic hooks. there’s a mirror framed with mismatched stickers and a glass counter full of mismatched earrings.

your group arrives in two batches. you’re in the first, along with haerin and one other. the sisters are welcoming, excited even, and they talk fast — explaining how they source items, how they price, how sometimes the business makes enough for rent and sometimes it doesn’t. you and haerin take turns asking follow-ups. she stays composed, unhurried. you find yourself adapting to her rhythm — letting her ask the questions that shape direction, then chiming in to fill the gaps.

at some point, one of the owners compliments the structure of your questionnaire. “you two are very organized,” she says, pointing to your clipboard. “most students don’t ask about our struggles. just sales.”

you glance at haerin. she says nothing, but nods once. you’re not sure if it’s meant for them or for you.

after the interview ends, your group decides to eat nearby. the others still haven’t arrived. the three of you step into the street — bright, noisy, overfull. it’s the kind of late afternoon that feels stretched too thin. cars honking, motorcycles weaving, people brushing past your elbows without pausing. you feel a little dazed by it.

you glance at her once. she doesn’t look back. just says, softly, “you ask good questions.”

you turn. not quite sure if you heard her right.

she’s still looking straight ahead, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard—just something she said because it was true.

“you’re good at noticing things,” she adds, a little quieter. “you don’t talk much, but when you do, people listen.”

it’s quiet for a while after that.

the milk tea shop is cramped, overly air-conditioned. you share a table by the window, your drinks sweating between you. she takes your straw wrapper when you forget to throw it away. doesn’t say anything about it. just does it. later, when someone starts talking about deadlines, she passes you her checklist without being asked.

no one else notices anything. not the compliment. not the way your eyes follow her hands more often now. not how her voice sounds less distant when she’s speaking just to you.

but you do.

and you start to wonder if maybe she notices it too.

your group has settled into a rhythm. not perfect — but stable. every few days, you meet in the same corner classroom at the end of the second floor hallway, the one with the loose window lock and the flickering ceiling light that no one ever fixes. sometimes it’s too cold from the aircon, sometimes too warm when it’s turned off, and someone always arrives fifteen minutes late. but no one complains. you sit. you work. you try not to get overwhelmed by how much of the research still doesn’t make sense yet.

today’s focus is data sorting.

haerin is at the whiteboard, breaking the variables into columns, her handwriting small but sharp. the others are hunched over their laptops or fidgeting with printed transcripts. your group is quieter than usual. there’s something about messy data that flattens everyone’s mood. too many numbers. too many phrases that mean nothing unless you squint at them sideways.

you stare at your section of the spreadsheet. you’ve been trying to code your notes into usable insights, but everything looks off. inconsistent. like you missed something. you keep reading and re-reading your own writing, and the more you stare, the less confident you feel. there’s a margin note you don’t remember making. one timestamp doesn’t line up. you scroll too far, then lose your place.

one of your groupmates sighs. “none of this matches the framework.”

someone else adds, “i think we should just redo this part.”

your stomach sinks. they’re not talking to you directly. not even criticizing. but your fingers pause over the keyboard anyway.

you feel it. that low, quiet kind of doubt. it creeps in softly — the thought that maybe you’re dragging things down. maybe you’ve been silent too long. maybe they’re right to redo it.

you glance across the table.

haerin’s not looking at the board anymore. she’s looking at you.

“it matches,” she says, to no one in particular.

the others stop. look up.

“this part here,” she continues, stepping toward your end of the table. she places one hand lightly on the printed sheet you’ve been working on. “it doesn’t look like the rest because it was tracked by behavioral pattern, not by product type. that was intentional.”

you stare at her.

she taps one of your notes gently. “it’s consistent. just not with the parts you were expecting it to match. but it lines up with our first visit.”

someone frowns. opens the photo log. someone else flips through the observation record.

she stands there calmly, not defending — just clarifying. just stating something that needed to be said.

one of the groupmates nods. “she’s right. this part actually strengthens the framework.”

another mutters, “we should’ve started from this, honestly.”

you don’t say anything. just sit there, still, unsure how you feel.

after a few minutes, the others shift back to work. someone goes back to color-coding. another asks if anyone brought snacks. the conversation resets.

you lean slightly toward haerin as she returns to her seat.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, low enough so only she hears.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i know.”

a pause. “but you’re too quiet when you get unsure.”

you glance at her. her gaze stays fixed on the whiteboard. her voice doesn’t change.

“and i don’t like watching you disappear like that.”

you don’t know what to say.

so you don’t.

you just sit there beside her, quiet, feeling the air shift around that one line — like she handed you something you hadn’t realized you were missing.

by the time the session ends, the light outside has dimmed enough that someone finally notices the flickering ceiling bulb above. the group starts gathering their things. chairs scrape gently against the floor. someone jokes about ordering fries on the way out. no one moves too fast — everyone’s tired in that content kind of way, the kind that follows a day that wasn’t perfect, but felt like progress.

you’re slow to pack. you move your notes carefully into your folder, double-check your usb, uncap your tumbler and find it empty.

beside you, haerin closes her laptop with a soft click. she doesn’t rush. doesn’t speak.

but as you reach for your bag, she taps her knuckle lightly against the edge of your table.

you look up.

“don’t second-guess it next time,” she says.

her voice is quieter than before. almost like a reminder she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

you nod.

she slings her bag over one shoulder and heads toward the door, her steps unhurried.

you follow after a few seconds, her words still repeating in your head, like something written in the margins, half-faded but carefully placed.

the auditorium isn’t loud, but it isn’t silent either. it’s the kind of in-between sound that settles under your skin — a steady murmur of folders being flipped open, heels tapping against the aisle, the low whirr of a dusty projector bulb warming up on stage.

the air-conditioning is colder than it needs to be. the lights are too white, flickering slightly at the edges. a bottle cap rolls faintly across the floor before someone stills it with their shoe. it’s the last hour of the program. your group is next.

you sit in the third row with your hands locked loosely on your lap, fingers twitching beneath the hem of your blazer. you’ve adjusted your tie four times now, but it still feels crooked. your name tag is pinned too close to your collar. someone behind you sneezes. a teacher coughs. you’re not really hearing any of it.

haerin sits to your left. her legs are crossed neatly at the ankle, posture perfect. her folder is closed, clasped in her hand like she doesn’t need it. and maybe she doesn’t.

you’ve seen her recite her part so many times you could mouth it along if you wanted to. she hasn’t spoken since your group was called earlier, but she’s alert — eyes focused, shoulders still. calm in a way that makes your own breath feel too loud in comparison.

the current group presenting wraps up with a shaky thank you. the audience claps politely, and the panelists — three professors seated at a long table just below the stage — begin scribbling their final notes. they don’t look impressed. the emcee adjusts her mic, her voice low but practiced as she calls the next group.

“representing the ABM strand group four, under the research of kang haerin.”

you stand when the others do. haerin leads. you follow. your steps are quiet on the wood-paneled stage. your blazer pulls slightly when you bow. the lights aren’t blinding, but they’re bright enough to make your skin feel warmer than before. you try not to look at the crowd. you focus on the screen. then the panel. then haerin.

she’s already at the laptop, plugging in the usb. the title slide appears. she takes the mic, doesn’t test it, just lifts it calmly and says, “good afternoon.”

her voice doesn’t shake.

“the study we’ll be presenting today is titled ‘purchasing patterns in low-visibility microbusinesses: a behavioral lens.’” her tone is measured. no filler. no notes in hand. just the rhythm of someone who’s rehearsed something until it lives in her bones.

she outlines the context — a breakdown of your chosen stalls, your decision to focus on low-foot-traffic areas, the nuance of your behavioral angle. she paces her words carefully, not rushed, not drawn out. there’s something magnetic in how she speaks. not performative, not flashy — just sure. like she knows what she’s saying and doesn’t need anyone’s approval to say it.

the first slide clicks. then the second. your groupmate presents the methodology, the field structure, the decision tree behind your customer approach. then it’s your turn.

haerin looks at you once — just a glance — as she hands you the mic.

your fingers brush.

your hands are colder than they should be. the mic feels heavier than usual. you step forward and look at the screen, but not for too long. you inhale, just once.

you begin.

“for this segment, we’re focusing on a behavior cluster observed during our third immersion visit — specifically, patterns that deviate from predicted logic-based decisions.”

your voice doesn’t sound like much at first. it’s softer than you meant it to be, and the reverb in the room makes it echo oddly. but you keep going. you frame the deviation, then introduce your anchor subject — the customer who repeatedly chose the more expensive vendor out of habit, not price. you explain the three-site comparison, then gesture toward the color-coded map. it’s the slide you made. the one haerin told you not to take out even when you were unsure it made sense.

you reference it now with more ease than you thought you’d have. your language stays sharp. the panel doesn’t interrupt. one of them — the visiting lecturer — leans forward. nods, once.

you close your section with the phrasing you’ve practiced exactly three times. “we interpreted this behavior as spatial habituation under limited cognitive engagement — a response not to price or brand, but to perceived effort and routine anchoring.”

the room doesn’t react. not right away. you hand the mic back without looking up.

haerin takes it again, voice soft but even, weaving your points into the study’s final conclusions. she doesn’t repeat anything. just folds everything in, word by word. her final sentence lands cleanly, “we propose a behavior-first lens not just for customers, but for how microbusinesses position themselves in low-competition markets.”

you all bow. the panel doesn’t move.

then applause — not rushed. not loud. but held just a second longer than expected.

you step off the stage slowly. your hands are sweating. the group sits down again. no one says anything for a while. you wipe your palms against your pants once. haerin is already adjusting her name tag.

but after a few breaths, she leans in and whispers something only you can hear. “you didn’t even look at your notes.”

you don’t say anything. but your pulse skips.

the rest of the congress passes like a blur you’re only half in. the last strand presents — TVL, a case study with too many text-heavy slides. then comes a panel commentary segment, then closing remarks from the research coordinator. you nod when you’re supposed to. clap when everyone else claps.

and then the emcee returns to the mic, card in hand.

“we’ll now announce the recognition for best output and best presenter across strands,” she says, her voice bright, a little too rehearsed. “for best research study—”

a pause. then your group’s name.

“—ABM strand, group four.”

there’s a beat of silence in your chest before you hear the others beside you react. one of your groupmates exhales a sharp “no way,” then gets to his feet. someone behind you claps. someone else gasps a soft “wow.” your body feels like it hasn’t caught up to the words yet.

you stand slowly.

the host reads the next line.

“and for best research presenter—” another pause, “—y/n l/n, also from the ABM strand.”

you feel it land.

this time, you don’t move. not until haerin stands beside you, her hand brushing your sleeve. not until she nods once — not telling you to go, just reminding you that you earned it.

you walk up to the stage again. your name is called. you’re handed a framed certificate, the edges cool against your fingers. one of the panelists leans in as she passes it to you.

“you speak like you’ve done this for years,” she says quietly. “you paced it perfectly.”

you murmur something polite in return. you don’t remember what.

the camera flash catches you mid-blink.

you don’t look for her after the program ends. but somehow, she’s already waiting at the back hallway, where the noise dies down into faint applause and footsteps echo off the cement walls. you’re rebuttoning your blazer, still holding the award folder when you feel her hand on your wrist.

she doesn’t say anything. just rests her fingers there for a moment — light, almost unsure — before reaching past you to push open the door beside you. the small restroom tucked behind the curtain partition. dimmer, quieter, unused.

you glance at her once, but she’s already stepping in.

you follow.

the door closes softly behind you.

you stand there, a little too close. neither of you speak at first. the light above flickers faintly, casting a pale wash over the floor. your award folder is still in your hand. your collar is slightly uneven. she notices — straightens it with a quiet touch.

your eyes meet.

and for a second, that's all it is.

then she lifts a hand — not confident, not certain, but slow — like she’s still waiting for you to move away. when you don’t, she touches your face. just barely. her thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone, a careful, searching motion like she’s never done this before. maybe she hasn’t. maybe she has, but not like this.

you don’t lean in. not yet.

it’s her. it’s always been her.

she draws just a little closer. her gaze flickers to your mouth and back again. and then finally — only when she’s close enough to feel your breath catch — she kisses you.

gently.

not rushed. not deep. not even for very long.

just once. light and hesitant, like she isn’t sure she’s allowed to.

when she pulls back, she stays near. her hand hasn’t moved. she looks at you like she’s still somewhere inside that moment, somewhere between the breath she took and the one she forgot to exhale.

“you looked really good up there,” she says. her voice is low. steady, but quieter than usual. “i couldn’t help myself.”

she doesn’t smile. but she doesn’t look away, either.

and neither do you.

for a moment, nothing moves. the air feels heavier than it should — like even your breath might shift the balance if you’re not careful. her hand lingers near your jaw, still half-raised, but she’s not touching you anymore. her fingers hover like they forgot how to rest or retreat. her eyes flicker to your mouth again, just once, then stop halfway — as if thinking better of it.

she draws back half a step. not because she wants to, but because she thinks she should. her gaze drops to the folder you’re still holding, and for some reason, that makes her expression soften — like she’s only just now remembered where you are. what all of this just came from.

“we should go,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t move.

you nod. or at least you think you do.

neither of you walks to the door. not right away. she leans back against the sink counter, arms crossed loosely now, but her posture isn't composed anymore. it’s a little messier — just slightly. the collar of her blouse has shifted beneath her blazer. the hand that kissed you now curls against her side like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

you stay where you are.

and for a while, you just look at each other.

there’s something quieter than silence between you — not heavy, not awkward. just full. like everything that needed to happen already did, and now you're both standing inside the space it left behind.

eventually, she exhales. “thank you,” she says.

it takes you a second to understand.

“for what?” you ask.

her eyes meet yours. and this time, there’s no hesitation.

“for making it feel easy,” she says.

she doesn’t explain. and you don’t ask.

because maybe you understand anyway.

you don’t leave right away. not until the hallway outside quiets again — until the echo of chairs being scraped across the auditorium floor fades into something distant. she straightens first, brushing a wrinkle off her skirt, fixing the loose strand of hair tucked behind her ear. you mirror the motion, slower. the silence between you doesn’t feel strange. just full.

when she reaches for the door, she doesn’t look back to check if you’re following.

she already knows.

the hallway is empty when you step out. the hum of the venue remains faint in the background — laughter in clumps, teachers calling attendance, someone’s name shouted near the exit. she doesn’t rush. her steps are even, light, as if she’s conserving the last of her energy. your pace falls in line with hers without thinking.

neither of you speak.

the folder stays tucked beneath your arm, its corner pressing into your ribs. your award certificate peeks slightly through the plastic sleeve. you catch your reflection in one of the windows you pass — uniform straight, tie slightly loosened now, cheeks still warm. you wonder if anyone would notice anything just by looking.

haerin doesn’t touch you again. but she walks close. close enough that your elbows nearly brush with every step. her bag strap slips once down her shoulder, and you almost reach to fix it — but she pulls it up herself.

when you reach the courtyard, she slows.

the group’s still gathered there, under the trees, trading food from their packed lunches, animatedly reenacting parts of the earlier presentations. they haven’t noticed you yet. your classmates are laughing about something. someone waves their certificate like a fan.

haerin stops beside a low stone bench and exhales.

you stop too.

“do you want to go back now?” you ask, voice quiet.

she looks at you. studies your face for a second like she’s memorizing something.

“in a bit,” she says.

so you sit down next to her, shoulder to shoulder. you rest your hands on your knees. she folds hers in her lap. the breeze moves through her hair. you feel her glance at you once, then look away just as fast.

and for the next few minutes, you don’t talk.

you just sit there together.

not waiting for anything. not needing to explain. just letting whatever this is — settle.

later that night, she messages you.

the event is minor — just a local showcase for the business track, held in one of the open halls behind the annex building. it’s loud, cluttered, not too formal. tables lined with folders and sample mockups. students huddled in clusters explaining brand plans to wandering teachers, a few alumni visiting, two unfamiliar faces from another senior high. everyone’s either in pastel polos or tucked-in uniforms, sleeves rolled up, name tags pinned crookedly to collars.

your group — the same one from III — had been tapped last-minute to present your now-award-winning paper as an example. not for judging. not for competition. just for show. a “model output,” they’d said. something for others to look at.

so you stand near the center table, beside the neatly propped-up trifold board, repeating the same summary you’ve now memorized by heart. your voice is calm. your hands stay still. you’ve done this too many times to stumble now.

haerin is just a few feet away, talking to a teacher who keeps nodding at your visuals. she’s in full student council mode — neat, composed, perfectly poised as she explains how the framework could be applied to local vendors. but she glances at you every so often. you catch it each time.

and you don’t think much of it — not until later.

you’re halfway through walking a visiting college rep through your feasibility metrics when someone new approaches your table. another student — not from your class. tall. unfamiliar. easy smile. they wait until the rep leaves, then lean slightly closer to your side of the table, gesturing to your summary sheet.

“you’re the one who spoke at the congress, right?”

you glance up. “yeah, that was us.”

“you were really good. like, actually made the topic sound interesting.” they smile, easy and a little too smooth. “kind of rare.”

you laugh once under your breath, polite. “thanks. we just rehearsed it a lot.”

“you didn’t look like you were rehearsing. you looked like you knew exactly what you were talking about.” they point toward the flowchart pinned to the board. “can you walk me through this part?”

you nod and begin to explain — outlining the data sequence, the way your group layered in comparison samples, your voice steady, hands gesturing just a little. they stay attentive. too attentive. and when you glance to the side mid-sentence, you see haerin.

she’s standing near the corner, not too far, one hand resting on her elbow, gaze trained directly on you.

you keep your explanation calm, voice even, but you can feel the weight of her stare. the other student smiles again. “seriously, you made this look easy. if you’re planning on taking business, i hope we end up in the same course.”

“i’m… not sure yet,” you say, half-distracted.

“well, you’d do great either way.” they step back just slightly. “and if you ever need help with mockups or design stuff—”

“hey.”

the word lands light but firm. you both glance up. haerin is at your side now, expression composed but unmistakably cool.

“we’re packing up,” she says to you, not looking at the other student. “you ready?”

you nod quickly. “yeah, let me just—”

“i’ll handle the rest,” she cuts in. “come on.”

you follow.

she walks toward the hallway behind the annex building, the quieter one where most students rarely go unless they’re cutting through. her pace isn’t hurried, but it’s not slow either. focused. when you reach the end, near the faculty lounge, she stops. you stop too.

she turns to face you fully now, her eyes sharp but unreadable. “you’re popular today.”

“that was just someone asking about the panel.”

“they weren’t asking about the panel. they were asking about you.”

“haerin—”

“you looked good,” she says. “too good.”

your breath catches, just slightly. “what?”

“when you explain things. when you stand like that. like you don’t even realize how serious you look when you’re focused.” her voice is quieter now. “people see it. they start thinking things.”

you don’t respond, unsure if this is irritation or something else. she takes one step forward.

“they think they can get close. like you’re available. like you’re theirs to impress.”

another step. she’s close now. just inches away.

“i don’t like it.”

you meet her gaze. “why?”

her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t blink. “because they don’t know you the way i do. and they shouldn’t get to look at you like that.”

you hold your breath.

“you’re mine,” she says. low. final.

and then she kisses you.

no hesitation. no asking. just her hand reaching up to your collar, the other at the side of your face, pulling you in with a quiet intensity that makes the whole hallway disappear.

it’s not rushed, not showy — just firm and certain. like something she’s been keeping in for weeks. her lips press warm against yours, lingering. and when she finally pulls back, she doesn’t move far. her forehead leans lightly into yours.

your eyes stay closed for a moment. then you open them.

“you’re bold today,” you whisper.

“i was being patient,” she murmurs. “you made it hard.”

you laugh under your breath, fingers brushing lightly against hers.

she doesn’t let go.

neither do you.

the convenience store is mostly quiet now. a few students linger by the window, waiting on rides. the overhead lights buzz faintly, casting pale reflections on the table between you. your tie is folded in your pocket. haerin’s hair is slightly mussed, one sleeve rolled higher than the other. your fingers keep brushing the condensation on the shared milk tea cup, half-watching the swirl of pearls at the bottom.

neither of you have brought up the kiss.

but it’s there. humming underneath everything. the shared glances. the way she sat beside you, not across from you. the way her leg stayed pressed lightly against yours. none of it accidental.

you look at her. “so.”

she stirs the drink once with the straw. “so.”

“you kissed me. again.”

“you let me.”

“you called me yours.”

she pauses.

“i meant that,” she says softly.

you turn slightly to face her better, cheek resting against your knuckles. “mm. i liked it.”

her gaze flickers toward yours, unreadable.

“but,” you add, “i feel like i should know what that makes us.”

she blinks. “…what?”

“am i just someone you kiss in empty hallways? or do you have a title in mind?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“but charming,” you counter. “and curious. what are we, kang haerin?”

her fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “you’re mine. isn’t that enough?”

“sounds like a placeholder.”

“it’s not.”

“then what am i? say it.”

she exhales. you can see the internal battle behind her eyes. not because she doesn’t want to say it — but because saying it makes it real. makes it more than just what’s been simmering between you since the first day of immersion.

she murmurs something, too low.

you lean in. “huh?”

“…you’re my girlfriend,” she says, clearer now. voice low, firm, not looking directly at you.

you grin. “one more time?”

she finally looks at you. “you’re my girlfriend,” she repeats. then adds, quieter, “do you want me to write it down, too?”

“maybe.” you lean back, smug. “school record. printed. laminated.”

she rolls her eyes, but her ears are pink. “you’re ridiculous.”

“but officially yours?”

a pause. then, “yes.”

“girlfriend,” you repeat, a little softer. “mine, too.”

you bump her shoulder lightly. she doesn’t move away.

outside, the street is emptying, headlights sweeping by in slow motion. inside, under the soft hum of cheap fluorescent light and a nearly finished milk tea, haerin reaches for your hand. doesn’t make a show of it. just lets your fingers slip together, quiet and sure.

and just like that, it’s official.

girlfriend. hers.

finally.

[i-messed-up-big-time]

Someone Precious III

a/n: i am in no ways a medical professional so pls dont mind if some medical stuff sounds weird, i did my best to research beforehand. also im so sorry it took me so long to write and release this, its been nonstop working and no sleep for me so i havent had the chance to actually sit down long enough to write much. also sorry that it's so short but stay tuned cause the next chapter is gonna be JUICY

Divider creds @/cafekitsune

tags: mentions of blood, female reader, not a medical professional, dark themes, mentions of depression, body image problems.

word count: 1.3k

masterlist

series masterlist

taglist: @aneertawrites @eurydiceknowshesloved @angelichiaro @nommingonfood @ynovaes @animegamerfox @melonssoup @iamawkwardandshy @novthirty @rosevelt632 @sleepless-cloudy @justpassingdontworry @sleepykittyenergy @ijustwannabeyourmuse @iiyumii @eolivy @asakiyu @dekiruxxx @unwaveringcosmicmemory @flora98

MC was definitely panicking, rushing to get everything before helping you into the car and giving your doctor a call to let her know what was happening.

She quickly helped you into the back, making sure you had enough space and you were as comfortable as you t could be, and that's when the first contraction hit.

You groaned in pain, which only worried MC, she glanced at you in the rearview mirror.

"Is it the contractions?"

She asked, you could only nod as another contraction hit you, this one more painful than the first.

You groan out in pain, clutching your stomach.

"Step on it."

You said in between deep breaths. Out of the corner of your eye you could see MC hesitate, but you repeated yourself with a little bit more edge to your voice.

It wasn't meant to sound as harsh as it came out, but you know MC wouldn't take it to heart considering the condition you're in right now.

●・○・●・○・●・

MC had managed to get you guys to the hospital at a decent speed, although it still had you complaining from the back that she was driving too slow and at that rate you might as well have your kids in the back of the car.

Your contractions were getting worse, you were timing them but the pain had you lose count.

MC helped you out of the car and got you into a wheelchair. You don't know how you could have made it without her.

She flagged down a nurse and told her your water had broke and you were having contractions.

They got you into a room and changed into a gown.

"We're gonna monitor you for a bit until you're ready to give birth, if you need anything just press the call button."

The nurse gave you a polite smile before leaving you and MC alone.

The room was filled with your laboured breathing and words of encouragement from MC as she held your hand.

"Have you thought about any names for the kids yet?"

MC asked, trying to get you to focus on something else instead of the pain.

You were about to respond when you felt this agonizing pain in your stomach and the feeling of something wet in between your legs.

You clutched your stomach and tried to move but the pain was too intense.

MC then spotted the blood pooling between your legs and wasted no time in pressing the call button.

The nurse came in and before she could even ask what you needed she ran out just as quick as she came in.

The nurses and doctors were here within seconds, you couldn't hear a thing as the pain kept increasing and caused a ringing in your ear.

You could only pray your babies would be okay.

●・○・●・○・●・

MC watched as they gave you anesthesia and wheeled you away to an operating room.

She didn't understand what they were saying, it was all a blur, but what she knew for sure was that they needed to perform an emergency c-section or else both the mother and the babies would be at risk of not making it.

MC felt at a loss that there was nothing that she could do but pray and hope everything turns out okay.

●・○・●・○・●・

More than an hour had passed before you were brought back into your room with two little cribs with your babies wrapped in baby blue blankets.

MC couldn't help but tear up, not just out of happiness but also out of sadness for her friend that went through so much not just today but this past year.

The doctor said that you'd be asleep for a little while longer and to press the call button when you woke up so they could do some checks on you and the babies.

MC brought up a chair next to your bed and decided to send a text to Xavier with a list of things to get before you woke up.

●・○・●・○・●・

When you woke up, you were greeted with the site of MC cuddled up on a chair with Xavier and the room decorated with congratulation balloons and bouquet of your favourite flowers.

Out of the corner of your eye you spotted a box that looked suspiciously like the one from your favourite bakery.

You heard your babies start to cry and before you could even get up to check on them MC woke up and made her way over to you.

"Don't get up just yet, the doctor said you need to rest and not over exert yourself. That means I'll be doing the moving for you."

MC pushed you back down and rolled the cribs closer to you so you could pick up your crying babies.

It was a bit difficult at first but you got comfortable real quick holding them both. Your entire world was in this small hospital room, and you wouldn't trade them for the world.

The doctors and nurses kept coming and going, running tests and monitoring both you and the babies to make sure everything was okay.

It wasn't long before MC asked what you planned on naming your boys.

This was something you spent your entire pregnancy thinking about, wanting it to be perfect but you also just wanted to go with the flow of the moment.

"Lucian, my light, and Calix, my little gift."

●・○・●・○・●・

You were discharged a few days later.

The doctor had informed you that recovery would take about 4-6 weeks and that it was vital that you didn't strain your body during this time and that you had ample amount of rest.

The moment you stepped into the house someone popped a confetti bomb.

There stood Xavier with a silly little hat on and a banner behind him that said 'Welcome Home!'

You turned and gave MC, who was holding a camera, a big hug as you burst into tears. The love that this woman gave you could never be rivalled.

She told you to go shower and settle in while she took the boys to their room to sleep.

The shower was exactly what you needed after being stuck in a hospital room for a couple of days.

●・○・●・○・●・

Three months later

You were struggling, not with the kids, but with yourself.

It was hard to sleep at night, you were constantly plagued with thoughts about Caleb, even though you tried really hard not to think about him.

Your beautiful baby boys were carbon copies of him, your genes didn't even bother putting up a fight, but you wouldn't trade them for the world.

They were just as handsome as their father, you just know they're gonna be trouble when they get older.

You spent countless nights crying and wishing some things could be different, wishing you could've had him by your side throughout all of this.

It pained you to raise your precious babies without a father but what could you do?

It didn't help that you were struggling with looking at yourself in the mirror. You know you shouldn't, but the scar on your stomach made you feel so ugly.

You know you shouldn't feel this way, but it was hard. You just wanted to be loved, was that so hard to ask for?

Your mind constantly drifts back to the day you woke up and saw that note, and your heart shatters all over again.

You thought time would heal all wounds, but it seems impossible for this one.

MC noticed your change in moods, the way you looked so downcast when you think no one is watching. She knows you like the back of her hand so she's aware of what you're thinking about.

She doesn't ask questions but always makes sure that you know that she's there for you no matter what choice you make. As long as you're happy.

[strawberrypinky]

strawberry's fic recs - first half of 2025! 🍓✨

Nobody asked but I delivered—it's once again time for my favourite little tradition of sharing my fic recs and spreading some love and positivity!

With the first half of 2025 having drawn to a close, I'm sharing some of my favourite reads from this year (thus far!). It genuinely brings me so much joy to celebrate and uplift the incredible work of so many talented creators. I'm also terrible at commenting, so yeah this might be me trying to make up for the fact that I never comment, lol.

Anywho—without further ado, here are my fic recs for the first half of 2025:

I started playing DA: The Veilguard at the end of 2024, and having not played the previous games in the series, it took me a little while to warm up to the fandom, as there’s so much established lore that I simply wasn't familiar with. Even now, I still haven't played the earlier titles and only have a marginal grasp of the broader series. I also have my fair share of critiques about Veilguard itself, but, credit where it's due: The fandom has produced some absolutely phenomenal fanfiction that I’ve truly loved and deeply appreciated 💕

📚Full length fics:

Rookie [Viago de Riva & Rook, Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook] - @grad-writes 📖 The plot: "Rookie" follows the early life of Isadora "Rookie" de Riva, tracing her journey from a fledgling of House de Riva to the Hero of the Veilguard—navigating growing up, falling in love and coming into her own. 🍓's thoughts: I know this fic was already featured in my "Best of 2024" recs but I👏🏻am👏🏻FERAL👏🏻 for this fic. I love a good found family trope—it's quite possibly my favourite trope of all tropes—and "Rookie" does a spectacular job of bringing it all together. Beyond the incredible (but mildly dysfunctional) father/daughter relationship Rook and Viago share, her friendships with her fellow Crows already give you the most beautiful story long before she meets Lucanis or any of the Veilguard. I've said it before, but the writing is phenomenal; pitch-perfect pacing and just the right blend of detail, headcanons, and canon divergence. Whilst the romance takes some time to build, the wait is worth every second, and don't even get me started on the way Illario is redeemed in this fic. Between "Rookie" and "The Wigmaker Job", I have become a full-blown Illario apologist 💀😤 1000/10 – this is a masterpiece! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Note: This work is part of a series.

the divine right (circumstance never sent a fair foe) [Viago de Riva/Rook] - @rook-de-rivas 📖 The plot: Following the fall of the Evanuris, Ashara/Rook returns to Salle, only for the Crows to end up embroiled in a mysterious series of murders of Merchant Princes, Crows and Fulgeno II's bastards—all with silver ribbons affixed to their throats and a note with the words "By the will of the Maker, the One King of Antiva will rule, for this is the Divine Right of Kings". 🍓's thoughts: Viago/Rook can definitely be hit or miss for me, considering they are somewhat presented to have a more family-like bond in Veilguard (at least how *I* have interpreted it). HOWEVER, this is just masterful. The relationship between Ashara and Viago just...works. Whilst they are somewhat dysfunctional at times (though I expect nothing less from the Crows, lol), they are equal amounts tender and gentle and sensual. They compliment each other so well and their relationship as well as any interactions they've got with others feel very natural. Viago is also so pathetic sometimes istg it's just 🤌🏻 *chefs kiss* He does not want to have any feelings and is bombarded with all of them 💀 This story is such a fresh take on post-canon fics—the storyline is incredibly compelling, and I find myself genuinely looking forward to every single update. Incredibly well-written and engaging.

Note: This work is part of a series. Read the tags and proceed at your own discretion.

Amaretto Sour [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] - @farore05 📖 The plot: Distinguished neuroscience professor Emmrich Volkarin becomes unexpectedly entangled with one of his students—only for his estranged ex-wife and mother of his son to return from prison, threatening to upend the already fragile balance of their lives.

🍓's thoughts: I'm pretty sure "Amaretto Sour" is one of, if not the, most famous Emmrich fics—and for good reason. First of all, Human!Manfred is the best boy and deserves all the love, and second of all, Ivy and Emmrich are an adorable pairing. Yes, a student/professor dynamic would, under normal circumstances, be incredibly toxic, but we can ignore that for the sake of good fiction and these characters 😌 The overall plot, beyond the romance, feels both original and intriguing at all times. As the end approached, I genuinely felt as if I needed to hold my breath because the tension was palpable, and I was so invested in these characters getting their deserved happy ending.

I, Carrion [Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook] - @ttrevelyan 📖 The plot: An alternate take on the events of "Eight Little Talons", in which a recently returned-from-exile Rook meets Lucanis at a masquerade ball, where the two must work together to unmask the enemies hiding within their ranks. 🍓's thoughts: I came across this due to the incredible artwork from @rookanisstuff, and I pretty much fell in love at first read. I had read 8LT just shortly before, and this was a refreshing, hilarious and intriguing take on the plot. I love stories of Rook de Riva's and Lucanis meeting before Veilguard, but this one is definitely my favourite. The tension between them from the first meeting, building up over the course of the story as they work together, is simply delicious and ugh, I could eat this story. Absolutely magnificent 😤

Note: This work is part of a series and currently has an ongoing sequel (which is also incredible–hello???)

The Punishment of Fools [Lavellan/Solas, Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] - @scaryanneee 📖 The plot: While aiding the remnants of the Inquisition in their desperate struggle to stop the blighted Evanuris from unmaking Thedas, Mourn Watcher Athera Ingellvar uncovers she is the lost daughter of Inquisitor Siona Lavellan and the Dread Wolf himself, Fen’Harel. Thrust into an uneasy reunion at the edge of the world’s unraveling, Athera, Siona, and Solas must confront their own entangled legacies. 🍓's thoughts: This is definitely a read that would've been easier to understand if I had any knowledge of the previous Dragon Age games, but alas, this is still so absolutely spectacular that I was vibing through nonetheless, lol 😭 The complicated family dynamics, paired with the yearning between the Inquisitor and Solas make for a compelling story. Without spoiling the entire fic, I can only say the main twist concerning Athera was genuinely shocking (at least to me, lol), and I'm so scared of the outcome. I think seasoned fans who have played previous games would really enjoy this, as quite a few characters from Inquisition show up here, too (at least from what I understand 😅).

Note: This work is part of a series.

The Arrangement [Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook] - @hi-jinkx 📖 The plot: With their marriage arranged by Caterina, Lucanis and Rook find themselves caught between their own desires, the stirrings of something deeper, and the mounting pressure from both outside forces and inner turmoil. 🍓's thoughts: Mhm, I love reluctant love stories, especially when they stem from concepts like arranged marriages. Delish. Rook and Lucanis are understandably not really happy about the arrangement, but I love that they still respect each other as human beings. Rook taking care of Jacobus is just adorable (I love that this fandom has collectively decided Jacobus is Rook's son ok?) and I love how Rook and Lucanis steadily fall in love, even if they're a tad idiotic about the whole thing. Caterina is an absolute cunt, which is a concept I generally love bc f that b – even if I am massively intrigued by her, lol. The Venatori being the main antagonists makes so much sense, though I fear what's going to happen with the whole Lucanis/Spite situation and how it'll affect their marriage. Anywho. Loved reading this thus far!!

Steal my heart [Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook] - @frotees-corner 📖 The plot: Marchioness Caterina Dellamorte has declared it's time her grandsons marry. Her grandsons, however, have other plans. So does Rook—deemed a hopeless spinster at the age of twenty-six—whose parents have reluctantly agreed to give her one final season to secure a match. United by their mutual disinterest in marriage, Rook and Lucanis strike a deal: survive the season together, and avoid the parade of suitors and debutantes at all costs. 🍓's thoughts: YOU CAN PRY THE REGENCY AUs OUT OF MY COLD DEAD HANDS 😤 Anyone who knows me knows my favourite historical period of all time is the Regency period, so it should be no surprise this fic is on my list. The YEARNING. The PINING. The peak idiot to lovers 😩 Ugh—obsessed. The storyline is somewhat comparable to Daphne and Simon in Bridgerton, except Rook is more of an Eloise rather than Daphne if that makes sense? In any case, it has a superb storyline, massive bonus points for it being a Regency AU and an overall sweet and wholesome love story. Neve being there for the tea and drama was hilarious (plus she and Bellara are just the best), and I loved Uncle Emmrich. The Illario plotline was adapted in a way that made it very fitting for the time period whilst losing none of the mystery and intrigue. 10/10, I loved every second!!

pathos [Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook]- @karinamay 📖 The plot: When her brother and longtime skating partner Viago is sidelined by injury, Rook believes her career is over—until he pushes her to keep going. Meanwhile, Lucanis is ready to quit after losing his partner, but his own coach/grandmother Caterina Dellamorte has other ideas. Thrown together by circumstance, Rook and Lucanis form a reluctant new pair in a high-stakes bid for gold.

🍓's thoughts: I'm usually not that into modern AU's (funny how several ended up on here, though, lol), but I do love figure skating and "pathos" was just exceptional. The begrudging alliance between Chiara and Lucanis moving into this tension-filled push-and-pull dynamic bleeds into every aspect of the story—from their relationship to their skating—and it works so well. The description of the skating itself was hauntingly vivid and beautiful and so emotionally laden that I actually had tears in my eyes at one point 🥹 The dynamics between other characters truly only added to the overall feeling, and I loved seeing Rook stand up to Caterina. "You don't get to break me like you broke your grandsons" haunts me to this day 😭

The sequel is still on my TBR, but I can only wholeheartedly recommend the first part!!

Note: This work is part of a series.

you're in my blood (like holy wine) [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] - @selkiemaid 📖 The plot: An alternate take on the quest "The Sacrifice of Souls", where Rook makes the ultimate sacrifice to defeat Hezenkoss—leaving a romanced Emmrich at a crossroads, forced to choose between embracing lichdom or finding a way to bring her back. 🍓's thoughts: I'm suing. I'm actually suing. This was pure angst start to finish but mate was it good. Rook being the one to sacrifice herself to defeat Hezenkoss? Diabolical 😭 The prose of this fic was sensational. I'm not even joking. I could practically feel everything Emmrich felt throughout the entire story as if they were my own emotions—vivid and complex and gutwrenching. I genuinely wish I could read this for the first time.

Note: This work is part of a series.

Crystal Desires & Crystal Fragements [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook/Lucanis Dellamorte] - by BabiesAteMyDingo 📖 The plot: Following a confrontation with a desire demon, Rook, Emmrich, and Lucanis (and Spite) try to navigate the end of the world whilst unearthing parts of themselves they thought long forgotten—and confront truths they never imagined. 🍓's thoughts: Phew, this one is a ride but mate is it worth it. As someone who wished they could've romanced Emmrich and Lucanis at the same time (don't judge me) this was a treat. This story genuinely has so many twists and turns that I was reeling by the end of some of it, but honestly every single thing just made this story more exceptional. The romance between Rook, Emmrich and Lucanis was equal amounts tender as it was sensual and I loved to see how devoted they all were to one another. Rook's backstory is insane and perhaps it's my lack of DA knowledge that had me shook with every reveal, but mate – The gasps I've gusped. Unreal.

📜 One shots & short stories:

From the Journal of Emmrich Volkarin [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] by @mediocremillie99 All Roads Lead to Halamshiral (9:50 Dragon) [No pairing, though mild Illario/Rook if you squint] by TheListener on AO3 Let Me Love You [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] @silshinobii Codex: Bond Theory [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] by @farore05 (I know this is technically crack but damn I love it and I won't apologise) Confession & Revelation [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] by @ximmortalis [TW: Non con] concrete feet [Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook] by dead_tulips on AO3 the bliss you give [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] by @devnmon A Study of Hands [Emmrich Volkarin/Rook] by @sorceresssundries SIX for gold [Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook] @grad-writes

Ahhhh, Baldur's Gate, my beloved 😌💕 I've been hooked on this game for over a year now, and at this point, I fear it'll have to be pried from my cold, dead hands. My love for the fandom, the characters, and the story runs deep. While I'll admit that some of my (admittedly limited) focus this year has "wandered" over to the DA:TV fandom, I've still come across some truly incredible Baldur’s Gate fics. This fandom will always have a place in my heart—no matter what. I'm sure my recs for BG3 will be a bit longer by the end of the year, because my TBR for that fandom is long.

📚 Full length fics:

goodnight, my love [Astarion x Tav] - by @goodgirlgonebard 📖 The plot: Luna, a high-elf wizard, flees the constraints of an arranged marriage and a controlling father when she is swept up by fate when a nautiloid descends upon Baldur’s Gate and abducts her. Now infected with a mind flayer tadpole, she stands at a crossroads: return home to rescue her father from a lifetime of debt, or embrace her long-awaited escape. Torn between duty and freedom, Luna’s path is further complicated by an unexpected and all-consuming bond with a certain pale vampire. 🍓's thoughts: Now, I will wholeheartedly admit that I haven't yet finished reading this story (Forgive me, Ambs), but GML still secures itself a spot on this list because I love it, ok? 😤 Luna had my heart within the first couple of seconds and I just want to give that girl a big hug, wrap her in a fluffy blanket and hand her a big cuppa. Her and Astarion are shaping up to be such an adorable pairing—I am unfortunately a sucker for "healing each other" and I fear this fic is doing a tremendous job at showing how to people can help each other through trauma. I'm so ready for exams to be over so I can catch up with the rest of GML, but istg it's incredible thus far!!

So long as it has meaning [Shadowheart x Tav] - by ohHOLYmoves 📖 The plot: Shadowheart harbours a deep resentment for their Selûnite leader, Izar—her unwavering kindness only fuelling her anger. And yet, despite herself, she finds an inexplicable pull toward her. As their journey to Baldur’s Gate unfolds and long-buried secrets come to light, the dynamic between them begins to shift. 🍓's thoughts: Honestly I am not even sure what to say about this fic because even after having finished it sometime in March I am still speechless?? I honestly didn't even know how to summarise this 💀 Selûnite Paladin Tav x Shadowheart is bound to be an incredible combo, given how hateful Shadowheart is towards Selûnites at the start of Baldur's Gate, but my God 😭 That lesbian enemies to lovers got me good and genuinely all I can say is read this. Smh someone put this fic in a museum 😭 "I can live with Shar, I cannot live without you." — JAIL 😭

The Sweet Invention of a Lover's Dream [Wyll x Tav] - by @heyitszev 📖 The plot: Father Thynerias, a devoted monk of the Preservers of the Ordered Way, had once been content when he was surrounded by his books, his duties, and guiding novices under his care, fully believing a life of structured knowledge was all he would ever need. That is, until the damned Nautiloid—and the famed Blade of Frontiers—shattered that certainty. 🍓's thoughts: ZEV YOU BASTARD COME HERE AND ANSWER FOR YOUR CRIMES 😤 "Maybe someone else, in some other time, lives the life I dream of having with you" - HOW DARE YOU?! 😤😭 The way Tav's faith and sense of divine purpose intertwined with his love story with Wyll was so refreshing and compelling. His internal religious conflict felt authentic, and the dynamic between him and Wyll—how they balanced each other's flaws while still holding one another accountable—made this one of the most memorable and beautifully layered romances I've read all year. Even if it was, for all intents and purposes, a slow burn. No notes at all—this was perfect.

Note: This work is part of a series.

The Arrangement [Astarion x Tav] - by @fangswbenefits 📖 The plot: Having convinced Astarion to abandon the Rite of Profane Ascension, leaving him a vampire spawn still bound by his hunger, Tav offers him blood in the absence of a cure. Though the two had agreed to remain just friends back at Moonrise Towers, the line begins to blur again as other cravings stir beneath the surface. 🍓's thoughts: Not me writing Tav in for the plot when it's an 'x reader' but ON WE GO- Ugh, the push-and-pull dynamic between Tav and Astarion is delicious. That messy blend of "sort-of exes" and "kind-of enemies" who are still hopelessly in love with each other? Perfection 🤌🏻 They're both such idiots, and the banter is genuinely hilarious. As a survivor myself, I'm also incredibly moved by the way Astarion's journey with intimacy is handled—the slow arc of him reclaiming it on his own terms is raw, and whilst also painful, it is also incredibly real, so I can’t recommend this story enough 🩷

The times you will never remember [Gortash x The Dark Urge, Astarion x The Dark Urge] - by Maladaptive_daydreaming 📖 The plot: When former allies cross paths at the Gortash's coronation, Astarion finds himself unraveling the tangled history of the bond his lover shared with the Chosen of Bane. 🍓's thoughts: Astarion's inner monologue/commentary had me dead HAHAHA. Gortash is, of course, an absolute piece of shit (as he should be, my favourite lil rat <3), but he was right in calling Astarion a yapper 💀 Either way, this is such a fun story that also expands on Durge's backstory in a way that works really well with the canon information that we do have. Durgetash are so insufferably horrible and cannot be normal and I just love it. At the same time, Astarion keep making one horrible decision after the other and I'm on the edge of my mf'ing seat to see how/where the story is going to end.

Deadly Ambition [Gortash x The Dark Urge] - by @elinorbard 📖 The plot: U.S. Congressman Enver Gortash eagerly accepts Governor Richard Bhaal’s offer to join his presidential campaign as running mate, only to discover that the true power behind the operation is Bhaal’s enigmatic and ruthless daughter, Elegy. As the campaign hurtles toward the White House, Enver and Elegy find themselves entangled in a dangerous web of ambition, secrets, and manipulation. 🍓's thoughts: WOMEN IN MALE DOMINATED FIELDS YALL >>> Once again a modern AU has made the list, but I swear Gortash as VP Candidate is diabolical work. Elegy is... well, let's just say the author did an incredible job of making Durge work in a modern context (I love that lil insane baby) —that woman is vicious. Insanely smart, but vicious. Truly a case where I was rooting for the evil cunts to win and my God did this serve. Quite frankly, I need more.

Note: This work is part of a series.

Don't Wake Me Up [Rolan x Tav] - by @seabirdsong 📖 The plot: Tav and Rolan share a complicated past—though only one of them knows it. Years ago, she watched him from afar, until Elturel fell, and everything changed. Now, bound by necessity, they find themselves side by side, crossing the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and discovering that some wounds can only be mended by those who carry the same scars. 🍓's thoughts: Full disclosure: Much like GML I am still reading this fic and haven't fully caught up with every chapter, but I do love Rolan and I do love everything I have read thus far, so "Don't Wake Me Up" is getting a place on my rec list 😌 This is somewhat of an enemies to lovers (well, one-sided enemies to lovers) slow burn, but it's that delicious kind of slow burn where Rolan is just peak idiotic and I like 'em like that. This is another exceptional case of "helping each other through trauma" and I cannot reiterate how much I love it. Once Rolan got over his initial Mr Darcy Default Front he became the best boi and I'm eagerly awaiting my holiday so I can finally catch up with the rest of this incredible fic 🩷🩷

📜 One shots & short stories:

midnight call [A!Astarion x Tav] by @again-please A Fitting Reunion [Astarion x Tav] by @deadly-diminuendo Dhampir Dreams [Astarion x Tav] by @bardic-inspo unburdened and becoming (an interlude) [Shadowheart x Tav] by @shadowhaert The Light in the Shadows [Shadowheart x Tav] by @sorceresssundries Petrichor and Parchment [Gale x Astation] by @forethott (with art by @calolily) Tongue of Silver [Shadowheart x Tav] by @gunpowdercarousel patchwork [Shadowheart x Nocture] by @aevallare Supply and Demand [Astarion x Tav] by luftballons99 Confession (Astarion's POV) [Astarion x Tav] by @vixstarria

Please give these amazing authors some love—kudos, comments, likes or a reblog can mean the world. If you have fic recs of your own, drop them in the comments or tag me! I'd love to keep the love going and discover even more gems. Let's continue to foster positivity and kindness in these spaces, particularly in times like these where those two go a long way 💕🍓

P.S: If any of the AO3 authors mentioned have a tumblr account that is not tagged, feel free to tag them. I have tried my best to look everyone up, but I'm not infallible and might've accidentally missed someone.

[n30ncr1ptid]

Simon likes to wander, to just exist

What do I mean?

Ghost likes to roam. At night, especially if it's midnight or in the early hours of the night, when it's pitch black and there's no one out.

On first glance he could look creepy, of course he does he's out walking at ungodly hours, walking around the block or deep into town with his black facemask on, hoodie on with the hood over his face and his hands in the fabric

On ops it's a habit that helps, he can keep watch at night and be just fine in the morning, he can memorize layouts of the place where they are before his team has even had breakfast, he may even go the extra mile and check out from afar the zone of town where they're gonna go

But this habit isn't something he learned in the army, it wasn't drilled into him with hours of rehearsal, it wasn't something he learned between military uniforms and cold showers, no.

It's something he brought from home, it's part of his insomnia, it's his body telling him to stay vigilant because his father's going to come home soon and he doesn't know who the old man's gonna decide to pick on, it's his body telling him that those are the free hours he gets to hang out with his friends or sneak out and catch a break

He sometimes goes out and memorized all the opening times for the shops he plans to go to later in the day

Or sometimes he just packs a couple snacks in his pockets and catches the metro somewhere for no reason, he's given up on trying to make his brain go to sleep, he knows he'll be able to catch up on his sleep later so it's better to just use up his time instead of stressing over not being able to go back to sleep

He's come to enjoy getting out of the house at odd hours and just existing outside, to some point it's relaxing, being able to melt into the night and not fully exist, he's not his rank here, he isn't his mask here, he's not "ghost" here but he isn't fully Simon either

He's in a transient state, during these bouts of insomnia he rarely talks and usually he just walks around, he has found that there's a couple tourist spots close by that are completely empty at night, he's also found that there's a small convenience store in the middle of god knows where tucked between an alley and an old empty shop that has been for rent as long as he can remeber

Somehow this place always has a large stack of his comfort foods and somehow it's open at three in the morning, the Chinese lady behind the counter has one airpod in and she's the sweetest

His team doesn't know, he has only let laswell and price know about his habit, the other found out by chance, they were staying in his flat to keep him company during the holidays and when Gaz and Soap got up to get some water and a midnight snack they noticed that he was gone

After that he started to tell them about the things he got up to during the night which translated into them occasionally coming along for the ride, price doing a couple stretches and putting his shoes on to trail behind him, Kate rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and placing a hand on his shoulder to let him know she's coming..

It also means that Gaz and Soap (who prefer to stay asleep except for the occasional day) wake up to their favorite obscure snack from the convenience store downtown or get roped into going swimming in a little piece of shore that he found during his latest adventure just after they eat breakfast

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

I might expand on this later

Yes I am projecting my insomnia onto ghost why do you ask?

Tag list:

@bean-cream

[onlyangel4]

the dogs are barking. bron breakker. smau.

bron breakker x animal shelter owner!reader

synopsis: when wwe decided to cash in on bron breakker’s viral "dogs are barking" catchphrase with a surprise pr visit, you were just trying to make sure none of your rescues peed on his sneakers. but between muddy paw prints, chaotic puppies, and awkward first impressions, something unexpected sparked. you had built your life around caring for animals, not falling for loud, growly men with championship belts, and yet, bron couldn’t seem to stay away.

y/ninsta posted a story

written: i swear my arms are always full

the vegas heat hit him like a clothesline the second he stepped out of the car. dry, relentless, and already crawling down the back of his neck, despite it barely being noon. he adjusted his shades and looked up at the modest, sun-washed building in front of him. a hand-painted sign read "pawsitive futures animal rescue." cute.

"this is such a stupid idea", he muttered, mostly to himself.

it was pr. that’s all. some intern at wwe thought it’d be hilarious to send him to a shelter because of his "dogs are barking" catchphrase. a marketing tie-in during wrestlemania week. they slapped together some camera crew, threw him a branded shirt, and said, "be likable."

he’d rolled his eyes the entire drive here. until he saw you.

you were outside, kneeling in the dirt beside a chain-link fence, coaxing a chubby pit mix away from chewing on the hose. your hair was pulled back, a streak of something that looked suspiciously like peanut butter on your cheek, and you were wearing a shirt that read "adopt. don’t shop." in cracked block letters. you were laughing, not the kind of polite, performative laugh he was used to in this industry, but something real. easy.

he stopped in his tracks. for a moment, it was just the vegas sun, the sound of dogs barking, and the weird tightening in his chest.

"uh. bron?" the handler said behind him, nudging him forward.

right. pr.

he stepped through the gate, and the first thing that happened was a german shepherd launched itself at his legs, tail wagging like a weapon.

"dude! zeus, no!" you called out, running over and grabbing the dog’s collar with practiced ease. you looked up at bron, squinting against the light. "sorry, he thinks every new person is here to take him home."

bron chuckled, brushing dirt off his jeans. "he’s very sweet, seems to like you"

"right" you said, smoothing your shirt and flashing a quick smile. "you’re the wwe guy. here to meet the dogs. or... bark with them. or something?"

he let out a breathy laugh. "yeah, that’s the one. barkin’ on brand."

you snorted, actually snorted, and he decided then and there that this pr stunt might not suck after all.

y/ninsta posted a story tagging bronbreakkerwwe

written: today at the shelter we are joined by wwe's bron breakker (who i am gonna make carry all the heavy stuff)

bronbreakkerwwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: if you want to get jacked carry big dogs like y/n

if someone had told bron breakker that he'd spend his tuesday helping a three-legged chihuahua into a tiny wheelchair while a beautiful stranger smeared peanut butter on a chew toy, he probably would've speared them on instinct.

but here he was. and he hadn't even hated it.

the day started awkward. bron was used to being the biggest presence in the room, but your shelter had a way of shrinking his ego without even trying. you handed him a scoop and pointed toward the kennel aisle like it was just any other tuesday, like he was just any other guy.

he respected that. weirdly liked it.

breakfast duty was chaos. one dog barked until his bowl hit the floor, another tried to climb bron’s leg to see what was inside the scoop, and you calmly directed the whole scene like a zookeeper who'd already accepted their fate. at some point, bron got yogurt on his shirt. you didn’t laugh, you just handed him a paper towel and said, "you’ll learn."

after that came walk rotations. bron offered to handle the big ones, the german shepherds, the pits, the hound with paws like bricks and you didn’t question if he could. you just tossed him a leash and said, "good luck with tater tot. he’s dramatic."

tater tot was, in fact, very dramatic.

bron ended up being dragged three blocks and almost losing a shoe in a puddle, but by the end of the walk, he was grinning like an idiot. You waited by the gate with a water bowl and that look in your eyes, amused, but kind. you offered him your water bottle like you’d known him for years.

you had lunch on the back steps, sitting in the sliver of shade between the rescue’s broken ac unit and the garden hose that never worked right. you had packed a sandwich in tupperware but offered him half without hesitation. he shared a protein bar in return. it wasn’t a date, but it also kind of felt like one.

the camera crew came and went, capturing a few clips of Bron playing tug-of-war with a rescue named muffin and helping a senior golden retriever into a kiddie pool. but the best moments weren’t filmed.

like when you showed him the wall of adopted animals, polaroids, hand-written names, happy endings. or when you paused to rub the ears of a blind spaniel and whispered, "she still wags her tail when she hears someone smile."

he didn’t even know dogs could do that.

you made him help clean the outdoor pens before the sun dipped low. It was hot, smelled terrible, and bron swore he stepped in something suspicious, but you were right there beside him, sleeves rolled up and laughing about how he looked like he was trying to suplex the poop scoop.

by the time the day ended, he was filthy. his back ached. his shirt was stained beyond salvation. but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this grounded.

as he leaned against the doorframe, watching you say goodnight to each dog by name, bron realised something strange.

he didn’t want to leave.

not because of the cameras, or the pr stunt, or the fan buzz waiting for him back on the strip.

but because of you. because for eight hours in a dusty vegas shelter, he got to be someone else. someone real.

bronbreakkerwwe

liked by y/ninsta, wwerollins, bronsonishere and 432,294 others

tagged: y/ninsta

bronbreakkerwwe: i spent today at a hidden gem in vegas. pawsitive futures animal shelter was opened by founder y/n y/ln three years ago and since then she has helped more than a thousands dogs find homes. i had the best day meeting all of the unique residents. if you are seeing this from the vegas area and are interested in rehoming a dog please do give y/n a call.

view all 8,228 comments

y/ninsta: thank you for all your help

bronbreakkerwwe: thank you for having me

user1: wwe sending bron to a shelter is so fucking funny to me

user2: omg that dog in a wheelchair

user3: just put a form in for tater tot

user4: these dogs are so cute omg

y/ninsta posted a story

written: guys lil man goose has a visit in two days, i'm gonna cry

you weren’t expecting him to actually show up.

sure, bron had texted like he might come by, throwing out that whole "what time do y’all open tomorrow?" line but you'd assumed it was one of those flirty, non-committal goodbyes people say when they’re being polite.

but at 8:59 am sharp, there he was.

leaning against the fence like he’d done it a thousand times, wearing a plain black tee and joggers, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and holding a coffee in each hand.

he caught your eye through the office window and gave you that grin, the one that was all teeth and no ego. the one that made something flutter in your chest, annoyingly fast.

you opened the door, biting back a smile. "look who decided to be on time."

bron held up the drinks like a peace offering. "i brought caffeine, that earn me points?"

you took the coffee and nudged the door open wider. "you’re still on poop duty."

"brutal."

but he followed you in.

the morning was quieter than his last shift. most of the dogs who’d starred in the viral post had already been picked up or were prepping to go home. you gave bron the grand tour again, only this time slower, letting him ask questions, telling stories you hadn’t gotten to share the day before.

like how tater tot had once escaped his kennel and curled up on the desk chair like he ran the place. or how Millie, the senior lab, had started wagging her tail more since his last visit. as if she knew.

bron listened. not just the polite kind of listening, but real listening. the kind that left you feeling a little exposed, but in a good way.

at one point, you ended up in the outdoor play yard, sitting on the edge of the sandbox while muffin, the tiny chaos gremlin of a terrier, zoomed in circles. the sun was warm, your coffee had cooled, and bron sat beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched.

"this place is kinda magic", he said suddenly, watching muffin faceplant into a patch of grass.

you looked over. "it’s a lot of work. not always magic."

"still", he said. "it’s real. i like that."

you were quiet for a beat. then, "i didn’t think you’d come back."

he shrugged, voice softer now. "didn’t think i'd want to."

you turned to look at him, really look. he wasn’t just the loud, confident athlete who barked in promos and flipped guys over ropes. there was something else here, something gentler, steadier. something that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected from someone built like a human linebacker.

"glad you did", you said, voice low.

bron tilted his head, his eyes locking on yours like he was deciding something. then, carefully, like he was giving you the chance to back away, he leaned in.

you didn’t.

the kiss was soft, almost shy, like neither of you expected it to happen but couldn’t stop it once it did. it wasn’t the kind of kiss that burned hot and fast, it was the kind that made time slow down. that said i see you instead of i want you.

when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a breath.

"so" he murmured, "does this mean i get to skip poop duty tomorrow?"

you smiled against his mouth. "absolutely not."

and just like that, it was official.

you had six less dogs, one more kiss, and a new favourite person.

bronbreakkerwwe

liked by y/ninsta, wwerollins, bronsonishere and 432,294 others

bronbreakkerwwe: wrestlemania + the best side of vegas

view all 11,228 comments

user5: as soon as i saw those posts from his first day at the shelter i knew he was gonna stay for a while

user6: mr breakker wrestlemania was three weeks ago tf you doing

y/ninsta: thank you for the best few weeks of my life

bronbreakkerwwe: so many more to come

user7: this man is in love

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

The tags-The kisd being horrified by Stan's new life of crime, watching Ford break down, shoulders shaking. Them apologising frantically, Dipper flipping through the journal to see if they might have gone on an adveenture this summer that messed him up... Ford looks up with a massive smile, the tears were of happiness. Goes and hugs his brother, offers to come along on the next heist, they'll call McGucket, it'll be great. Dipper and Mabel demanding answers as to why Ford is so ok with this...

Mabel and Dipper never knew crime crazy Stan, they only know boring old man Stan. They're frantically flipping through their journal, trying to figure out how they went wrong with the Power of Love so bad they made Grunkle Stan do donuts in the grocery store parking lot, pickpocket twelve peoples pens, then drive his indestructible car into the stationary store and steal every scrap of paper they had. Mabel's really loving all the variations, but they didn't get frog in a boiling pot used to Stan's antics, they're going straight into watching a guy who used to push paper for a living cackle like a mad man and start ranting about how he can use his excellent reputation to get away with so much before people start catching on.

(This is the first real laugh they hear out of Stan, and its over his new criminal career. )

Even Grunkle Fords upset! He's crying because they messed up his brother so bad!

Dipper: Oh no! We forgot to teach him about morals Mabel! He has feelings but doesn't know other people also have them!

Mabel: We're terrible parents to our old man child! We nurtured his heart but forgot to teach him about being considerate towards others!

Dipper and Mabel: We've failed in raising our Grunkles feelings! No Grunkle Stan, you can't just do whatever makes you happy! Thats how you become a drug addict! I know it feels good but you have to control yourself!

Then Ford bursts into laughter and hugs Stan. He's smiling wider than they've ever seen, even more when Stan made pancakes. Fords praising Stan's cleverness, how amazed he is he could get away so cleanly, how good his hands are he got so many pens without notice! Fords gonna start getting safes! He'll lock a bunch of stuff up around the house! Stuff his pockets so Stan can practice! Get back into shape! How can they help rob Stan's target! Oh! Wouldn't Mabel make an excellent distraction, and Dipper can help you with the details! He's great at details isn't he Stan! Fiddleford can be the get away driver, and Ford can make them disguises! Alibis! Does Stan want to start with the bank, or would he be open to breaking into the hardware store first? Steal some lock picking tools maybe. Anything Stan wants to do, Ford will help make happen. He's so happy.

Then the twins get hit with the fact that before Stan became the most boring old man alive he lived a wild life of crime and scamming. This is the ideal Stan, a man who laughs at others pain, takes joy in the misery of others, and thinks breaking the law is a fun pass time.

Then they have to talk their grunkles out of robbing a bank. Maybe do something that won't get them prison for life if they get caught. Fiddleford is only somewhat helpful in this.

[junkuna]

°❀.ೃ࿔* ink me like one of your friend girls - sukuna x reader

chapter 7 : collab ˎˊ˗

─────────────────────

࿔ pairing - tattooartist!sukuna x tattooartist!fem!reader

| summary - sukuna asks you (indirectly) to collab on a tattoo album, tension rises over disagreements in initial designs (how will you deal with your frustration? 😈)

࿔ warnings - not really smut but, intense kissing. also slight mention of mahito from previous chapter, mahito is a warning in himself

࿔ fic tags - ࿔ fic tags - they're both idiots so 0 communication, DEFO gets frustrating at times / shameless smut, mostly vanilla though for the chapters ive already written / megumi is ur apprentice which is cute / sukuna + yujir BROTHERS / mahito is an asshole, mentions of attempted sexual assault. / enemies (ish?) to lovers / trying 2 go 4 a slow burn but i fear it's not as slow as i wanted it to be. will add more as we progress probably be i suck at describing my work / HATE KISSING + sex

࿔ a/n - oooouh they hate each other but they love each other but they hate each other HATE KISS HATE KISS yes yes love it LOVE IT

࿔ wc - 5k

50 junebugs !! :D thank you 4 all the love + support on this silly fic

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The next morning, you woke up feeling like you hadn’t slept at all.

Your body was heavy, muscles sore from how tightly you must have been holding yourself all night. You peeled yourself out of bed, blinking against the thin sliver of sunlight that bled through your curtains. For a few seconds, you just sat there, elbows on your knees, head in your hands.

You didn’t want to think about yesterday.

Or about the bruises.

Or about the way Sukuna’s face had twisted when he saw them.

You dragged yourself into the shower, letting the hot water scald your skin until the tight knot in your chest loosened a little. After, you threw on a loose sweatshirt and some soft old jeans, not bothering to make yourself look remotely professional. You doubted you’d see anyone important today anyway.

You padded downstairs, hair still damp, and flipped the lights on. The familiar hum of the fluorescent bulbs above you was comforting in its own way. Safe. Normal.

You wiped down your station, tidied up the sketchbooks Megumi had forgotten to take with him, and made yourself a coffee that was mostly milk and sugar. Outside, the street was still waking up, a few cars humming by, the occasional person hurrying past the window.

For a while, you just leaned against the counter, sipping your coffee and staring out at nothing.

Then the door creaked open.

You looked up, heart leaping stupidly before your brain even registered it wasn’t Sukuna.

It was Yuji—bright, bouncy, an easy grin stretched across his face despite the early hour.

“Hey!” he chirped, waving a hand. “Sukuna said you might need some company.”

You stared at him, then blinked. “Did he now.”

Yuji bounced into the shop without waiting for an invitation, dropping his backpack by one of the chairs. “He’s busy with appointments, but he said you’ve been looking ‘depressingly lonely’ lately.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. “Rude.”

Yuji just grinned wider. “So what’s the plan? You got any clients today?”

You shook your head, setting your coffee down with a clink. “Not until the afternoon. And even that’s just a walk-in.”

“Cool,” Yuji said, kicking his legs up onto the chair and lounging like he owned the place. “I’ll hang out, if you don’t mind.”

You didn’t. You weren’t about to admit it out loud, but you were grateful for the company. For the way Yuji filled the space without making it feel suffocating.

The morning passed easily. Yuji helped you organize the ink shelf, made terrible jokes about some of the more cursed color names, and tried to convince you that “Satan’s Blood Red” was an underrated choice for wedding tattoos.

For the first time in what felt like days, you laughed until your stomach hurt.

You wiped at your eyes, the sound tapering off into a breathless sigh. Yuji was grinning across the room like he’d won some kind of prize, arms stretched out like he was asking for applause. You tossed a crumpled napkin at him, which he caught with an exaggerated gasp of betrayal.

“Hey!” he whined, slouching dramatically in his chair.

You smirked, going back to wiping down your station. “That’s what you get for nearly knocking over a whole shelf of ink, you menace.”

Yuji only laughed, swinging his legs lazily off the side of the chair. There was a lull after that—comfortable, easy. You moved around the shop, cleaning out a few trays, half-listening to the steady thrum of cars outside.

Then, out of nowhere, Yuji said, “Hey… uh, do you think you’d ever take on another apprentice?”

You looked up, surprised. His voice was casual, but you could tell from the way he toyed with the string of his hoodie that he was serious. You straightened up, wiping your hands on a rag.

“Why?” you asked carefully.

Yuji shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “I dunno. I’ve been hanging around Sukuna’s shop for a while now. Watching him and Megumi and all that. It’s cool, but…” He hesitated, tapping his fingers against the side of the chair. “I don’t really wanna do his style, y’know? Like… it’s awesome, but it’s not me.”

You tilted your head, studying him. He was earnest, open in a way few people were. It made your chest ache a little.

“I want to do stuff like you,” Yuji continued, his words picking up speed, like he was afraid if he didn’t get it all out now, he’d lose his nerve. “You mix things, like, you do realism but not boring realism, and you’re not scared to make stuff softer. Like, tattoos that mean something to people but don’t have to scream about it. I think that’s cool.”

You stared at him for a moment, thrown completely off balance.

You hadn’t realized he noticed.

You hadn’t realized anyone noticed.

Yuji scratched the back of his neck, looking a little awkward under your silence. “I mean, if you’re not looking for an apprentice, it’s fine! I’ll just, y’know, figure it out. No big deal.”

You set the rag down, stepping closer. Your heart thudded oddly against your ribs.

“Yuji,” you said quietly. “You want me to teach you?”

He grinned, wide and a little bashful. “Yeah. If you want to.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek. It was a big commitment. You knew that. An apprentice wasn’t just some helper — it was someone you trained, invested in, believed in. It was trust. But looking at Yuji’s bright, hopeful face, you realized you wanted to say yes. You wanted to believe in someone again.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, but your voice was softer than before, the edges worn down by something warmer.

Yuji beamed. “Take your time! I’m not in a rush or anything. Plus, I’m still technically, like, under Sukuna’s eye or whatever, so it’s not like he’d let me vanish without throwing a tantrum.”

You laughed, a small sound. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

Yuji grinned back at you like he’d just won some kind of prize, kicking his feet against the counter. The atmosphere was light, finally—like someone had thrown open a window and let the stale air out.

You were about to tease him again when the door to the shop swung open, the little bell above it jingling, and Nobara came sweeping in like a force of nature.

“There you are!” she cried, hands on her hips like she’d been searching for you for hours.

You blinked, then cursed under your breath, quickly tossing your rag aside. “Shit, Nobara, I totally forgot you were coming!”

She just laughed and walked straight into you, pulling you into a tight hug without hesitation. You hugged her back, surprised at how easy it felt. A few days ago, she’d been just another stranger from the other shop, someone orbiting Sukuna’s little world. Now, it was like you’d known her for years.

Over the past few days, between late-night drinks and trash-talking tattoo horror stories, you and Nobara had gotten… close. The kind of fast, loyal friendship that you usually only found under fire—under messy circumstances that made people cling to each other harder than usual.

“You smell like disinfectant,” Nobara said, wrinkling her nose as she pulled back.

You snorted. “Better than smelling like beer and regret.”

Yuji made an offended noise from the counter. “Hey, I don’t smell like regret!”

“You still smell like beer though,” Nobara said sweetly, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she flopped dramatically onto the old couch in the corner.

Yuji gasped. “You take that back.”

“Never,” Nobara said, grinning.

You leaned against the counter, smiling despite yourself, letting their bickering fade into the background for a moment. It felt good, having people here. Filling the shop with noise again. It almost felt like it was yours again—something you were building, not something slipping away piece by piece.

“So,” Nobara said after a beat, stretching out and propping her boots up on the table like she owned the place. “I heard a little rumor.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Apparently Sukuna’s been talking about you.”

Your stomach tensed automatically, but you forced your face to stay neutral. “That sounds fake.”

Nobara snorted. “No, seriously. He’s been telling people he wants to collaborate with you. Like, properly.”

You blinked, stunned. “A collab?”

“Yeah.” Nobara picked at a thread on her sleeve, looking unbothered. “Big piece. Two artists. Shared wall. He’s got it all planned out, apparently.”

You stared at her, the words struggling to compute.

Sukuna wanted to work with you? On purpose?

Yuji nodded eagerly like he was confirming a weather report. “Yeah, he was talking about it yesterday! Said you’re, uh…” He scratched his cheek awkwardly. “Like, good with stuff he’s not good at? Detail stuff. And balance.”

“That’s—” you started, then faltered. Weird.

It was weird.

Sukuna, who had spent months — years, even — making digs at your work, calling your minimalist pieces “skin stickers” and your fine-line portraits “overhyped Instagram bait,” now wanted to collaborate?

You didn’t know whether to be flattered or suspicious.

Probably both.

Nobara gave you a look, like she could read your mind. “He’s a dick, yeah,” she said, shrugging. “But when he respects someone, he respects them. Even if he’s, like, physically incapable of saying it like a normal person.”

You blew out a slow breath, rubbing your palms against your jeans. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Yuji leaned forward, eyes bright. “You should do it! It’d be cool!”

You stared at them both, heart thudding strangely in your chest.

It wasn’t a bad idea.

…It was just an idea.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, voice steady even though your mind was a mess.

Nobara grinned and launched into another story after that, something about her stealing one of Sukuna’s shirts because it was “wasted on his ugly personality.” You let yourself get pulled back into the noise, the teasing, the laughter. It was easier to let the thought of collaboration drift to the back of your mind, where it could sit quietly without bothering you.

You sat back against the counter, letting Nobara and Yuji argue over something ridiculous. Typical. The sounds of their playful bickering filled the shop, making you smile despite yourself. It was nice to feel like you were part of something. It almost made you forget the weird knot in your stomach from earlier.

Still, Sukuna’s mention of a potential collaboration lingered, gnawing at you in the back of your mind. You’d decided you’d message him, if only to shut your brain up for a little while.

You grabbed your phone from the counter and unlocked it, fingers hovering over the screen as you paused, wondering exactly how you should phrase things. You didn’t want to come off too eager, nor did you want to sound like you were backing down.

A quick glance at Nobara and Yuji, who were now debating over who was the better cook (you could almost hear the eye rolls), and you figured, whatever—just message him.

You tapped out the text with a simple message.

You [13:23]: You know, if you wanted to collab with me, you could’ve just asked instead of using Nobara as your messenger.

You stared at it for a moment.

You hit send.

Almost immediately, the three dots appeared.

You watched them, holding your breath for a second as you waited for him to reply. The response finally came, and you felt an unexpected rush of nerves as you read it.

Sukuna [13:24]: So you’re in?

It wasn’t much. A few words. But they were firm, and the bluntness of them almost felt like a challenge. Like a dare to prove you could hang in the ring with him.

You [13:24]: Yeah.

Just as you hit send, Yuji and Nobara’s argument reached its peak, and Nobara shot you a wide grin, clearly proud of herself for something she’d just said. You glanced up, the faintest smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “You two done?”

Nobara shrugged, feigning innocence. “I think Yuji finally conceded that I’m right. Don’t you think so, Yuji?”

Yuji groaned, dramatically covering his face with both hands. “You’re impossible,” he mumbled, but there was a fondness in his tone.

Nobara winked at you. “You know, I think you should stop keeping all this talent to yourself. You’re gonna get so much better working with someone like him.”

You bit your lip, fighting the urge to ask, Who, Sukuna?

Instead, you shoved your phone in your pocket, standing up from the counter and stretching your arms over your head. “Alright, alright. Enough with the bickering.”

Yuji and Nobara broke into another round of teasing, and you let yourself relax again. They made it easy to forget. Easy to laugh.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself feeling oddly light. It was a good distraction, at least, even though Sukuna’s offer had done its job—now you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Just as you were about to turn off the lights in the shop and head out with them, your phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a longer message.

Sukuna [16:56]: Cool, see you tomorrow at 2pm.

“Hey,” you called over your shoulder to Nobara, who had just finished reapplying her lipstick in the bathroom. “Can you do me a favor tomorrow?”

Nobara raised an eyebrow as she stepped out, fixing her lipstick one last time. “Sure, what’s up?”

You gave her a quick look, then glanced down at your phone again. “Could you cover the shop for me for a bit? I have to go meet someone.”

The smirk on her face was instant. “Someone, huh? Is this about a certain collab?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, the heat rushing to your face as you tried to hide a smile.

Nobara chuckled, rolling her eyes. “You know, if you say ‘no’ to Sukuna’s offer, I might have to cry for you.”

You groaned, leaning back against the counter, suddenly exhausted.

Yuji, who’d been oddly quiet for a few moments, now piped up. “What if it’s a trap?”

You glanced at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, casually grabbing a bottle of water. “I don’t know. Just… he’s kinda unpredictable. Be careful, okay?”

You gave him a skeptical look, not sure if he was being serious or just messing with you. But then again, the concern was obvious in his voice.

“Yeah, I will,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant as you slid your phone into your back pocket.

As you stood there, Yuji’s words lingered, a small seed of doubt planted in your mind. But just as quickly as it appeared, you pushed it aside.

Sukuna wanted this collaboration—wanted it bad. And you weren’t one to back down from a challenge.

—

The next day arrived faster than you expected. Your nerves were on edge all morning, trying to shake off the lingering sense of doubt from the night before. You couldn’t quite tell if it was excitement, apprehension, or just sheer curiosity, but you knew one thing for sure—you weren’t looking forward to spending time with Sukuna.

You hadn’t messaged him back since that cryptic “I’ll see you at 2 PM” text. You couldn’t bring yourself to care enough to send another reply, and part of you was hoping he’d just forget about the whole thing. But, of course, that wasn’t going to happen.

You tried to keep busy, tidying up the shop, but your mind kept wandering back to that damn collaboration. What could it possibly involve? Why was he so insistent? Was he just using you because of your skills, or was there something more to it?

The clock ticked closer to two.

By the time the sound of a car engine rumbled outside the shop, your stomach was tied in knots. You stood by the counter, arms folded, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

A honk from outside pierced through the silence of the shop.

You exhaled sharply, rolling your eyes to yourself as you grabbed your jacket. This was happening.

Walking outside, you saw his car parked out front, the sleek black vehicle too damn expensive for your taste, and there he was, leaning against it with that smug grin plastered on his face.

You had to bite back a sarcastic comment.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, keeping your arms crossed as you approached him.

Sukuna glanced at his watch, smirking. “By like, five seconds. You’re always on time, aren’t you?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

He straightened up as you reached him, opening the passenger door of the car with a flourish, like some kind of obnoxious gentleman. “After you, then.”

You hesitated for a moment, then muttered under your breath, “I’m not getting in that thing.”

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “What? Are you scared? It’s just a car.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your car,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him.

He didn’t even flinch. “Whatever. You can walk if you want.”

That was the moment you realized, despite how much you disliked him, this whole situation was probably something you needed to go through—whether you liked it or not.

So, without another word, you slid into the car, more out of stubbornness than anything else. He didn’t need to know how much you actually cared about the potential opportunity.

Sukuna shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side, slipping in and starting the engine. The car’s engine hummed to life, and the smooth sound of it matched the cool air that settled around you both.

“You know,” Sukuna started, voice casual but still carrying that edge that made you want to strangle him sometimes. “You could just admit you’re excited about this.”

You scoffed. “Excited about being roped into whatever weird thing you’ve got going? Not in a million years.”

He smirked. “You’re more fun when you’re pissed off.”

You shot him a glare, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes were on the road, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his gaze.

The ride felt longer than it was. Maybe it was the quiet tension between you two, or maybe it was just the realization that, despite all your resistance, you were still on your way to whatever he had planned.

The city passed by in a blur of neon lights and busy streets. As you looked out the window, you couldn’t help but wonder how much of this was going to be a game to him. And how much would actually involve your work.

You weren’t sure which one scared you more.

As the car slowed to a stop at a red light, your eyes wandered over to Sukuna’s arm, which was resting on the armrest. The light from the streetlamps cast a soft glow over his skin, and for a moment, you almost forgot how much you hated him. Almost.

That was until your gaze landed on his forearm, and there it was.

The little flower tattoo you’d given him.

It was small, delicate, tucked just beneath the curve of his elbow, and there was no mistaking it. The fine lines, the careful shading—your work.

A strange thrill ran through you. You couldn’t help it. You had been so sure you’d imagined it the night before, especially in your drunk stupor, but there it was, proof that you hadn’t hallucinated anything.

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “I knew I wasn’t seeing things,” you muttered, still staring at the tattoo. “My eyesight’s great even when I’m drunk.”

His eyes flickered to you, his lips twitching into that familiar smirk. “Yeah, I work out.”

“What? No, that’s not what I noticed.” You glanced at him, unable to hide the small satisfaction bubbling up. “The tattoo. I knew you didn’t get rid of it. You’re such a liar.”

His gaze hardened, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “I never said I got rid of it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes the fuck you did! You said you got it removed the day after.”

Sukuna kept his eyes on the road, the occasional flicker of amusement in his expression betraying his cool facade. “So? And what are you going to do about it?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had won some unspoken battle in that moment. Sure, he still had that arrogance, but now it was a little harder to ignore the fact that, despite everything, he actually cared enough to keep the tattoo.

The car pulled into a parking spot, and Sukuna shifted the gear into park, turning to you with a slightly more serious look in his eyes. “Ready for this?”

You exhaled, pretending to look unbothered, but your nerves were on edge again. “Yeah, sure. Let’s just get this over with.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Atta girl.” Sukuna said with a grin, slamming the car door a little too hard behind him. You rolled your eyes but followed him toward the building anyway, keeping a good two steps behind just on principle.

The evening air was cool, brushing against your arms where your jacket had slipped off one shoulder, but you didn’t bother fixing it. Your mind was too occupied, still buzzing with the sight of your flower inked into his skin. He kept it. He kept it.

You shook your head, chasing the thought away as you caught up to him. “You’re walking too fast, asshole,” you grumbled.

He threw a look over his shoulder, smirking. “Maybe you’re just slow.”

You flipped him off without a word, and he barked out a low laugh before pushing open the door to the empty shop space he’d rented for your “collaboration.”

Inside, the lights were already on, buzzing faintly overhead. The walls were bare, the scent of cleaning alcohol sharp in the air. A few folding tables were set up, each littered with sketchbooks, stencils, and supplies. It was clear he’d set it up in a rush, but somehow, it still felt organized — chaotic in a way that was him.

You hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a moment while he strode in like he owned the place. Typical.

“So,” you said, crossing your arms. “What’s the plan? You drag me all the way here to… stare at you?”

Sukuna dropped into one of the folding chairs, kicking his feet up onto the table with a lazy kind of swagger. “Not my fault if you can’t keep your eyes off me.”

You snorted. “Fuck you.”

He smirked again but didn’t push it this time. Instead, he grabbed a sketchbook from the table and flipped it open, sliding it toward you. “Figured we’d start with something small. One piece. Both our styles mashed together. Get a feel for it.”

You eyed the sketch suspiciously. It was a rough draft, clearly, but even in the messy lines, you could see flashes of his signature bold, street-style strokes intertwining with finer, more delicate details—details that felt suspiciously like your work.

For a second, your breath caught. Not because it was good (though it was), but because it looked natural. Like somehow, even though you hated each other, your styles… fit.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Whatever. I can work with this,” you said, refusing to show how impressed you actually were.

Sukuna caught the flicker of something on your face—something close to approval—and looked smug as hell about it.

“Thought you might,” he said casually.

You sat down stiffly across from him, dragging a pen closer so you could start refining the design. You didn’t bother with more banter. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if something sarcastic or something way too honest would come out.

So you worked in silence, the scratch of pen on paper filling the space between you. Every now and then you caught him glancing at you, his gaze heavy but unreadable. You ignored it. Or tried to.

After a while, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, and said, “You know, you’re not nearly as annoying when you’re concentrating.”

You threw a pen at him without even looking up.

It bounced off his shoulder harmlessly, and he just laughed—a low, genuine sound that made your stomach do something you refused to acknowledge. You scowled down at the paper harder, your face burning.

Nope. No way.

You still hated him.

Definitely.

Probably.

…Maybe.

“Focus,” you muttered to yourself under your breath, and heard him snicker again across the table. You kept switching sketchbooks, refining his work while he made dark, bold lines that overshadowed your thinner ones. You stayed quiet at first, aware that a collab was a long and tedious process, taking time to make sure each party was happy with their contribution.

You sat there for as long as you could, tapping your pen against the table, trying to suppress the frustration bubbling under your skin. But the longer you looked at the sketch you were supposed to be “collaborating” on, the more irritated you became.

It was obvious — painfully obvious — that Sukuna was taking over the whole thing. Thick, heavy lines dominated the design. His bold strokes swallowed the parts you’d tried to add, twisting your delicate touches into something almost unrecognizable.

You set your pen down, jaw tightening.

“Are you even trying to make this a collab?” you snapped, pushing the sketchbook across the table toward him. “Or did you just drag me here so you could jerk yourself off with your own art?”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, lounging back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “Maybe your style’s just too small to hold up against mine,” he said lazily, mouth twisting into a slow, mocking smirk.

That did it.

You shoved your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor, standing up so fast your knees banged against the table. “You know what? Screw this.” You grabbed your jacket, slinging it over one shoulder. “If you just wanted an audience, next time ask someone who actually gives a shit.”

You turned sharply on your heel, already stalking toward the door — but you didn’t get far.

Before you could even reach the handle, a hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, fingers wrapping tight around your pulse.

You twisted around, furious — ready to tell him to get his fucking hands off you — but the look on his face stopped you cold.

Sukuna wasn’t smirking anymore.

He was standing right in front of you, chest heaving slightly, something dark and electric crackling in his red eyes.

His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly — not painful, but firm enough to pin you there, to make you feel him.

“You’re so goddamn annoying,” he muttered low, voice rough around the edges.

And then, without another second of warning —

He kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was vicious.

His mouth crashed against yours like a punch, all teeth and anger and heat. He kissed you like he hated you — like he wanted to tear the breath out of your lungs — and maybe he did, maybe you hated him just as much. Your hands fisted in his shirt before you could think better of it, dragging him down to your level as you kissed him back with all the force you could muster.

His other hand slid up your spine, gripping the back of your neck, tilting your head so he could deepen the kiss, his fingers threading into your hair roughly. You felt the scrape of his teeth against your lower lip, and it sent a violent shiver through you, snapping something inside your chest wide open.

You shoved him back a little, gasping for air — but he just chased after you, slamming you against the wall with a thud that rattled the frames hanging nearby.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he growled against your mouth.

You bit his lip in retaliation, hard enough to make him grunt, and he only grinned against you, the bastard.

“Then stop chasing me,” you spat, breathless.

“Make me,” he snarled.

And you did.

You dragged him down by the collar again, yanking him into another bruising kiss, your teeth clashing, the anger bleeding into something hotter, sharper, more dangerous.

Sukuna kissed like he fought — all reckless momentum, all wild heat, like he wanted to tear you apart just to put you back together again. And you gave it right back, nails scratching against the back of his neck, tugging at his stupid pink hair, refusing to let him win.

The world spun dizzy around you — the shop, the sketches, the tension that had been simmering between you for months. All of it collided and exploded in that furious, desperate kiss.

By the time you finally broke apart, you were both panting, flushed, glaring at each other like you were about to start throwing punches — or tear each other’s clothes off.

Sukuna’s eyes dropped to your mouth, still red from his kisses, and a dangerous, half-crazed smile curled at the corner of his lips.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and glared at him.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you hissed.

“Sure it doesn’t,” he said, smirking like he knew better.

The space between you crackled, charged, ready to ignite again at the slightest touch.

And you hated him.

You hated him.

”Fuck you. You’re such an asshole.”

”Then why didn’t you push me away?”

”Oh, shut up!”

And you ended up kissing him again.

—

taglist - @beabamboo @snapcracklen @fushigurooozzz

[f-imaginings]

A million word fanfic doesn't happen without this.

Knowing Me Knowing You's first chapter was posted on the 31st Jan 2017, and now on 30th July 2025, 8 years, 4 months and 30 days later we've reached the last chapter.

This is first fanfiction I've ever finished all the way through and I wouldn't have got this far without the kind words, encouragement and support of you, the readers.

So this post is a thank you to the readers and a testament to the power of commenting, engaging with, reviewing and celebrating the labour of love that is fanfiction, this freely given expression of shared joy that flourishes within fandoms.

I've collected a cross section of the kind words and reviews that kept me going (and tried to keep them as spoiler free as possible but that was hard, if you didn't see your beautiful essays here it was only bc it was juicy with spoilers haha) because each and every one of these kind words directly impacted me.

I just wanted you all to know how much I valued each and every one, how many times I reread these. how they cheered me up through hard times, built my self esteem up when I needed it most, and how each of you helped me write the fic through the virtue of your spectacular comments.

I thought I'd post them as a sort of fun 'tag yourself' lmao but also to show you that I've seen, cherished and reread every remark and comment, even the ones outside of ao3.

I have appreciated every bit of fanart too, (and the playlists and animations!) but I wanted to showcase how even the smallest comments can have the biggest impact. (I've enjoyed the big comments too! You get what I mean.)

Thank you for engaging with the story, for telling your friends, for gnawing at the bars of your enclosure because this idiot scientist and his evil triangle boyfriend make you froth at the mouth with every divorce, for telling me about said enclosure gnawing haha.

Thank you for crying, thank you for laughing, thank you for feeling as you've read this fic and thank you for sharing your experience.

I feel connected to everyone who's read this, which might be mildly parasocial but I've enjoyed it too much to care. I hope you've enjoyed it too.

If this post reaches any prospective new readers who have a thirst for billford and lots of time on their hands (haha) and this cross section of reviews make you want to read it, please do! Have fun with it, tell your friends, and come back for a reread whenever you want.

It'll always be there for you!

This is where the story ends, but it isn't goodbye! For those unwilling to let KMKY go, there is always the sequel!

[respectthepetty]

Pit Babe 2 Colors - Ep. 9

I'm watching the second season of Pit Babe on mute with no subtitles and double-speed just like I did the first season Y'all know why I'm here, so let me get to it because Alan is probably sacrificing himself for someone on the team since he is falling apart in the next episode, and I'm already panicking!

First, William unnecessarily hit Barbara with that vase of pink/reddish flowers, and I just feel like William is doing the most for other reasons beyond the obvious. Why didn't he just sneak in? Why did he tease Barbie before he took Charles? Why did he go back and hit Barbie once he had Charles? Why did he want to make sure Barbie knew it was him? Because he has a death wish? So he could get caught?!

And more importantly, how did William know where Charles was?! Because if he has always known where the lab was, why not just destroy what Christopher Waymond is working on? Alan, Jeffrey, Peter, and Christopher Waymond were the only ones in the lab with him, so is Alan in his red really a mole or does someone else who can't work out his color know more than he should?!

Because I honestly feel bad for William. He is not an angel, but it doesn't seem like he wanted whatever is happening to him.

At the beginning of the season, his car was orange but as the season has unfolded, his car has become redder, but he has never shown up as fully red.

He shows up at green sometimes.

Green could be symbolic of rottenness, envy, and greed, which is a color that tends to show up in Tony's lair because, just like the horned statues in the background, he is evil and trying to create beasts out of humans.

But the green also slightly shows up around the hourglass, which could mean hope, luck, and success, like time is on their side. If Charles can take Jeffrey's powers and see the future, why not take William's power and change the present?

William is not great, but his powers could be, especially if a Blue Boy takes them.

If Charles hasn't had amnesia yet, perhaps an overload of people's power might be the cause of it, and William's could be the final push?

But the green color wasn't just on William this episode.

Kimberly was slightly green as he smoked outside while being surrounded by (Kenta's) black as he thought about Kenta. Kimberly is normally the light to Kenta's dark, so for his apartment to be this dark, Kimberly must really be missing him.

And Dean got hit with the tiniest of green lighting when he was discussing whatever he was discussing with Vegas' Hedgehog.

But Dean sacrificed himself for the greater cause; however, I already thought Dean had died once when he got shot and thrown off the bridge, so I don't think he is dead now because we are still missing this shot from the trailer, and if Whiny Winifred has been brought back to life after that fire, then so has Dean, and that is probably Alan looking at him — I HATE IT HERE! Nobody can stay dead (which also leaves the possibility that Dean could still be the ultimate mole and this was all for show).

But I also have no idea why Alan would talk to Anthony or Whiny Winifred in the first place, so is the green the connection?

Alan has been in danger all season because the red keeps showing up around him as if Anthony already has a hold on him, but the teeny tiny green is there too under Barbie.

So does the green mean sacrifice? I know from being tagged that Jeffrey didn't see Alan in his future, so . . .

Is Alan going to be another Waymond next to Jeffrey?

Is Barbie going to lose another family member?

And is Vegas' Hedgehog going to be the reason?

Southwest Airlines is clearly in love in his pink, but Vegas' Hedgehog keeps turning darker each episode, and I just can't trust him.

I shouldn't trust this motherf*cker because he has the most suspicious looks.

But he also seems annoyed by all the other things happening that distract him from just being in his lab.

And unlike Vegas' Hedgehog, Christopher Waymond is usually surrounded by blue, and stands on the side with Peter and Kimberly and neither of those men aren't bad.

Unlike Vegas' Hedgehog who seems to be the odd one out this season as he is usually isolated from the group. If he turns out to be the Best Boy, I fully apologize for the smear campaign I have written against this season, but he is being sooooo strange.

However, I was mad at my Black Brooder babygirl Kentana most of last season until he killed his shitty father.

Yet he is rescuing himself from being a hostage in the hottest way possible, so he continues to prove to me that I was wrong about him.

EXCEPT HE GOT CAUGHT AGAIN BECAUSE HE DIDN'T JUST ESCAPE ONCE HE BROKE FREE!

So from the trailer, if this isn't him getting experimented on in the next episode, I'm sure it will be eventually.

But, more importantly, for two guys that are in love and about to kiss, Southwest Airlines seems really hurt about it.

Vegas's Hedgehog, we only have four episodes left, so it's time clear your name and prove me wrong.

please

[cute-ellyna]

Ship Sleep Dynamics

Thanks for the tag @mythals-whore, this sounds so cute <3 Gentle tag to @bronzieinthedas @casa-dei-corvei @davrinsleftpectoral and whoever wants to do this ^^

How often do they sleep together?

Always, unless they're not travelling together for some reason. They started pretty early to sleep together, although at first it was mostly Ayanne accidentally falling asleep in his room, and Dav not wanting to wake her up. With time, when their relationship gets less horny and more serious, Ayanne starts leaving her things for the night in Davrin’s room, and that becomes her official place to spend the night in.

Where do they sleep?

During the event of Veilguard, in Davrin’s bed of course. It’s soooo soft and comfortable <3

How do they prepare to sleep?

Well, they need to get Assan asleep first, and that might take a lot of effort (that’s necessary if they want some time for themselves doing whatever) (yes, I do have small children and really feel this OKAY?). Then, if no sexy time is on the agenda, they just chill on the armchair or on the bed, Davrin sketching things for his monster manual, Ayanne snuggling close to him while watching him draw and then falling asleep first every time (yeah yeah I still have to find her a hobby, I’m working on it).

What do they wear to sleep?

As in the drawing above. Dav definitely shirtless with some pants on, Ayanne wears some sort of pajamas. I’m sorry but at 40 you don’t really sleep naked or with sexy things on anymore, comfort is more important and the best you can get by staying too naked out in the open for that long is a stomach ache (if you’re lucky) XD

Do they cuddle?

Ooooooh yes they absolutely do. That’s definitely part of the prepare to get to sleep routine, now that I think about it.

How easy do they fall asleep?

I believe they’re extremely tired from the day most of the time, so they fall asleep pretty easily. Ayanne sometimes just literally can’t keep her eyes open even if she wants to, she collapses on any chair, the dining room couches, once even on the stairs outside while everyone was in the courtyard chatting together.

So of course it also happens while comfy on Dav’s bed or armchair: Davrin would be talking to her, and at some point notices she’s not answering anymore, then look at her and find her asleep lol :)

Do they toss and turn a lot?

Dav has agitated nightmares of course :( But I think he doesn’t move much otherwise, maybe by being used to sleep anywhere while travelling for the wardens or for some monster hunt.

Ayanne… she doesn’t move often, but she “expands” lol. She starts sleeping all curled up at Davrin’s side, but then during the night she sprawls, throwing her legs above him and things like that.

Let’s say that if Assan also joins them on the bed, there’s not much space left for poor poor Davrin XD

Do they snore?

Ahahah I like @mythals-whore headcanon and will say that Dav soft snores :) Ayanne doesn’t, but if she’s awake and hear him, she just cuddle him a little, gently make him change position just a little bit, and he’ll be quiet again.

She never told him she knows he snores, but she keeps the information ready to be used for whenever she’ll need a little revenge ;)

Who hogs the blanket?

Ayanne XD Because she moves, but also because she’s not that used to sleep in a blanket being a dalish who preferred to sleep out in the open under the stars.

What do they dream about?

Warden nightmares for Davrin T_T And we know he canonically dreams about being a griffon lol.

Ayanne doesn’t dream much, but her favorite dreams are the most absurd ones, she always try to remember them so she can tell everyone about it!

How easily do they wake up?

Dav is an early rise, and Assan would make him get up early even if he doesn’t want to. Ayanne is slower to wake up, she would always try to keep Davrin in the bed a little bit more, but almost never succeed. She wouldn’t say it aloud, but this is one of those times she kinda gets jealous of Assan.

How awake they are afterwards?

Once out of the bed, they’re both quickly fully awake. Dav would go with Assan in the courtyard, while Ayanne moves to the kitchen to prepare some breakfast and infamously singing while at it.