#I should probably stop talking in the tags

[4bsurdcreature]

Something is wrong.

Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong.

You don’t drop your drink on the bar floor, you place it gently on the bar it was served on, as you feel your heart pulse in cut time, while your face flushes and your hands shake. Next to you, a warm smile, a gentle hand, a deep voice asks,

“Are you alright?”

And your heart sings, your pulse leaps, all you can think is I love you, I love you, I love you! and you feel sick with the infatuation of it all. “I’m fine.” is what you eventually say, but it comes out unstable, higher pitched, than you want it too, and in turning away you watch your friends trade glances with one another.

“She’s in love!” One of them, Rachel, says to the other.

“I never thought I’d see the day!” The other, Beth, replies.

Something is wrong! You try to tell them, but you can’t get the words out, as they trade giggles and hushed tones while you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.

----

Inside, you face yourself in the mirror. Water has done nothing to calm the fire in your gut, and the butterflies in your stomach swirl to a stampeding rhythm.

You’ve never been in love before, and you never thought you would be. You love, you have always loved, or sometimes loved, or kinda sorta loved, before. But you’ve never been *in* love; beyond passing curiosity, you’ve never wanted to be. It took a while to be okay with that, and an even longer time to acknowledge it, but this is how you are and regardless of how you, or other people, feel on putting a term to it, it’s how you imagined your future remaining.

Asexual. Aromantic. The bane to love-song propaganda. The constant butt of every joke that cries “This is what it means to be human! To Love! To Love! To Love!”.

Right now, you don’t feel human. This feels wrong, like a violation, like someone reaching into your nerves and burning them with the uncomfortable jolt of electricity, forcing you to jitter and move against any conscious choice. Forcing your blood to rush, and your mind to fill with him, him, Him!

Ants bearing love notes and centipedes scrawling heart-felt confessions skitter and scrape across the undersides of your skin. You would cry, you think, if your mind wasn’t cotton stuffed full of Love.

“There you are!” Rachel says, entering the bathroom to find you, shaking, wiping down your face one last time with water and crumbling brown paper towels.

“Something is Wrong.” You tell her, finally able to think without that man drowning your thoughts, content to be a constant undercurrent for now.

“I’ll say!” She laughs, “Look at you, you couldn’t take your eyes off of Joshua back there!” No, no no, she has it wrong. You’re not here to think about Joshua’s soft blue eyes- Stop it! Blue: ice scrapping, chilling you to the bone.

“You don’t get it. This isn’t normal. I can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve never felt like this before.” You try to impress. You want to scream. You want to throw up, a little, too, but you can’t tell if that’s you or the Love.

“Twenty-seven is pretty late to get a first crush, sure, but Joshua’s a nice guy, I get it! Not to mention big, strong, and handsome~” She does that thing with her voice. That double entendre waver that you always thought was a little gross, when talking about someone in love.

Why doesn’t she understand- “No, I mean- Don’t you think it’s weird? Isn’t this out of character? I don’t-” You can’t, “But now-” You can’t even say it, “It won’t let go. It won’t stop. I want to be with him, I want him to be with me! I feel weird! This isn’t right!”

“You’re being dramatic... but I guess that makes sense- it’s your first time, after all! Oooh, I can’t believe I got to be there when you fell in love for the first time! This is so romantic, it’s like a fairy tale! No one was right, no one fit, you had resigned yourself to living a Loveless life, until suddenly, He appeared!” She sighs, dreamily. You think you’re going to be sick again.

But still, you stop and think. Stop to partition the little idiot in your brain that keeps designing cursive versions of your name next to Joshua, blossoming with bloodstained hearts in-between. Resigned, that’s how Rachel phrased it. Is that how she saw it, saw you? The bathroom door opens- it’s Beth. She’ll understand.

“You two were having a gossip party without me?” Beth says, but there’s no hurt in her eyes as she gives a sly smile.

“She’s In Love~” Rachel taunts you, incriminating flush branded deep in your flesh burning all the brighter.

“I saw!” Beth squeals, and your stomach drops, hope failing, while your Love soars.

“Beth, you’ll listen to me, won’t you?” You ask, desperate, a last ditch effort “This isn’t normal, this isn’t right- I think maybe someone poisoned my drink-”

“Oh, she just won’t stop.” Rachel cuts you off, rolling her eyes, “She’s convinced, that just because she’s never been in love before, that must mean there’s something wrong.”

“Being in love isn’t wrong!” Beth responds to Rachel, sympathetic gaze turned towards you, reaching out to hold your hands like you’re a child needing comfort, “Sure, you’ve never been in love before, and change can be scary when you’re not ready for it, but shouldn’t you be celebrating? Now you know you were wrong! It is possible for you to love! Isn’t that wonderful?”

You’ve known Beth the longest, you’ve confided in her the most. Every moment of your life had been charted out and experienced with her by your side, your best friend and confidant. She knew you before you had a name for what you were, and she had always acted supportive of your decisions. She was the first person you told, when you discovered your relationship with love.

Beth looked so happy, as she said those words ‘Now you know you were wrong!’

You can’t. You can’t look at them. But you also can’t stay here.

“I’m going home.”

“Already?” Rachel scoffs, arms crossed, looking at you like you’ve said something ridiculous.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” Beth calls out to you, as you shoulder your way past her to leave.

----

No one believes you. You think that’s the worst thing you’ve discovered, about being in Love.

They see how your rash of a blush spreads when you talk about him, how you choke and stammer out praises mixed in with your loathing. They think you’re an idiot, new to your feelings, bumbling about them like a hormonal teenager, Love too big to think clearly. That last one is true, (Love all but suffocates you) but not in a way that you can make people listen.

It’s amazing, how few people truly care, when they think it’s about Love.

You ask for help, but it’s not the kind anyone wants to give.

‘Self Sabotaging’, ‘Repressed’, ‘Denial’, you’ve learned there are a million different ways to tell you that you’re wrong for thinking it’s wrong you’re in Love.

----

It is with vindictive satisfaction that you eventually prove your claims correct. When enough time had passed without you throwing yourself at Joshua like he undoubtedly assumed you would (and you were terribly grateful you were able to prevent), you caught him in the act of poisoning another drink. You had proof, and you took it to the right channels; you were cured and he would never do it again.

You were overjoyed, for a bit, but the victory itself was tainted. You stopped the villain, but the damage had already been done.

How quickly did those close to you turn, and how alienating it was, for no one to believe you. Puppeted by Love, reciting poetry of rotting verses, they mistook sweetness for healing rather than underlying disease. They must have seen the festering spread of Love as something to fill in the cracks of your character, instead of covering what little of you there was left beneath it all.

A gift in disguise, you think bitterly to yourself, as you wash the whole event clean. If your friends and family wanted you to be in Love, they can hold onto that fantasy- you don’t plan on speaking with them again, after all. They can read about what happened to Joshua in the news, and you can find a better group of people to spend your time with.

It is with peace you find yourself, in a life without Love.

"Aro/Ace person gets given a love potion" story but instead of them being immune or whatever, it DOES work, and they realize IMMEDIATELY that they've been fed a love potion because this feeling is so wrong and foreign but everyone keeps laughing off the idea of it being a love potion because "they were probably just a late bloomer" or "no, you just finally found the right person!" and it's just a horror story about how no one believes them even though they know, they KNOW this isn't right and they can't stand it.

[emmiesoverthemoon]

what's a little ink?

pairing: han jisung x reader

word count: 7.3k

summary: you wanted the upper hand. you came for a tattoo. you also came for him. and somehow you ended up in his hoodie, eating his eggs, and wondering how a bet turned into this stupid, soft thing you just can’t resist wanting

tags: tattoo artist au, friends to lovers, fluff and smut. porn with plot. sweet, sappy, and gross romance. enjoy

requested by @burlesquerade hope u like it honey

It all started with a simple, completely ridiculous bet. You and Han had been hanging out for hours, as you often did, swapping old stories and making fun of each other’s quirky habits. Laughter echoed around the cozy living room, the kind of laughter that was easy and natural, the way it always was when the two of you were together.

"Okay," Han said, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, eyes glinting with that playful spark you knew all too well. "If you can beat me at this stupid game one more time, I will get you whatever you want as a prize."

You raised an eyebrow, already suspecting he might be setting you up for something ridiculous. "Whatever I want? Really?"

"Yep. No holds barred. You name it, and it’s yours," Han assured you, his tone full of confident mischief. "But if I win…" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. “You have to let me tattoo you.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Tattoo me? Really? That’s your big gamble?”

Han’s smile grew wider. “I’m a tattoo artist, remember? It's a fair trade. I think you’re too scared to let me do it.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, your fingers tapping idly on your cup. “Scared? Please. I’m not scared of a tattoo.”

His eyes narrowed, a challenge sparking in their depths. “Oh, so now you’re saying you can handle it? Alright then. You’re on. But we both know I’m going to win.”

You gave him a playful smirk. “Big talk for someone who has no idea what they’re up against.”

The game you were playing—a mix of cards, trivia, and guessing games—was silly, and it didn’t take long for the competition to become heated. But, much to your surprise, you did win. By a narrow margin, of course, but a win was a win.

Han’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from gloating too much. You had been expecting him to be smug, but now, as the reality of the situation sank in, you saw a flicker of something else cross his features.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, trying to hide his grin. “You won. So what do you want?”

You leaned back in the chair, considering your options. There were so many things you could ask for—something extravagant, maybe—but you had been thinking about this for a while. Han had been inking people for years now, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to have him work on you.

So, you decided to go for it.

“I want a tattoo,” you said with a straight face, barely able to hide the excitement in your voice.

He blinked at you. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Totally,” you answered, your grin impossible to hide. “You’re going to ink me, Han. And you can’t back out.”

He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to make sure you weren’t joking, but then the challenge returned in his eyes.

“Well, if I have to do this, I get to choose where,” he said, his tone slightly mischievous. “No complaints, okay?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Fine. As long as I get to decide what the design is, I’ll leave the location to you.”

Han smirked and held out his hand. “Deal.”

The text from Han came just before noon.

“Hope you’re not chickening out. Studio at 3. Wear something loose. ;)”

You stared at your phone longer than you meant to, heat crawling up your neck. Chickening out? Hardly. But that stupid winking face was another story. He always knew how to push just the right buttons—just enough to make your pulse quicken, just enough to stir things that should probably stay buried.

Still, you showed up. Of course you did.

His studio was tucked into a quiet side street downtown, its glass windows fogged slightly from the early spring chill. You had been here before—countless times, really—but never like this. Never with your skin on the line. Never with your heart threatening to beat out of your chest for reasons that had very little to do with ink or needles.

The soft chime above the door rang as you stepped in. Han was already inside, hunched over a sketchpad, his brows knitted in concentration. A pencil twirled between his fingers as he tapped it against his lower lip, eyes flicking to you the moment you walked in.

And just like that, the air shifted.

He smiled, slow and crooked. “You came. I’m impressed.”

“You told me to. I don’t exactly think that counts as bravery,” you replied, trying to play it cool, even though you were already peeling off your jacket, already catching the way his eyes flicked to your collarbone with something unreadable.

Han rose from his chair, brushing his fingers through his soft brown hair. “I sketched some ideas. Wanna see?”

You nodded, joining him by the desk where several sheets were spread out. The designs were delicate—subtle, intricate things, clearly drawn with you in mind. One of them caught your eye: a minimalist crescent moon nestled inside a trail of tiny stars, the lines fine and whisper-soft.

“I like this one,” you murmured, fingers brushing the paper.

“I thought you might.” His voice had dropped a bit. He was watching you closely, as if your reaction meant something more than approval. “It’s gentle. Quiet. But it lingers.”

You swallowed.

“I’ve decided where to put it,” he added after a beat, stepping closer.

“Oh?” you asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Do I get a hint?”

Han smiled, tilting his head just slightly as his eyes traveled—unapologetically—over your exposed shoulder, down the dip of your neck. “Upper shoulder. Right where it curves into your neck. Here.” He reached out, fingers grazing the exact spot, the barest ghost of a touch. “It’s a place you never see, but everyone else does. Intimate. Subtle. Kind of like the moon.”

You froze. It was a good idea—too good, actually. Because now, your body was responding to more than just nerves. The closeness. The delicacy in his voice. The way his fingertips lingered, resting there a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I trust you,” you whispered, hoping it would ground you.

Han met your gaze. For once, he looked serious. “Then lie down for me.”

The chair was cold at first, the studio quiet but for the low murmur of music and the faint clatter of his tools. You lay on your side, hair pulled up and shirt slightly off one shoulder, baring the space where he would work. The air kissed your skin, but it was Han’s presence—his warmth—that you felt most acutely.

He cleaned the area with methodical care, the scent of alcohol and antiseptic somehow comforting. But it was the way his hand curved around your shoulder, the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck, that made you hyper aware of every inch of yourself.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Mhmm.”

“Tell me if it hurts too much.”

You chose not to tell him that it already did—but not because of the needle.

As the machine buzzed to life, the first kiss of ink stung. You flinched, just slightly, and felt his other hand firm on your back in response. Steadying. Anchoring.

He worked in slow, precise strokes, the pressure rhythmic, hypnotic. But each time his fingers brushed your skin, each time his breath tickled your shoulder from how close he leaned—it lit something warm and aching inside you.

His voice broke through the quiet after a while, low and slightly hoarse. “You’re really still. Most people twitch like hell when it’s here.”

You exhaled, barely moving. “I think I just… don’t want to mess you up.”

“You couldn’t,” he murmured. And for a second, the machine paused. His hand stayed, resting lightly over the fresh lines. “You’re kind of perfect like this.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare ask what he meant. But in the pause between one stroke and the next, the silence pulsed—thick with something fragile, something not quite spoken yet.

He resumed working, but something had changed. His touches had always been skilled, steady, but now there was a new kind of deliberateness in the way his fingers slid across your skin—slower, more lingering, more aware. The buzz of the machine became background noise to the static dancing along your spine.

Your breath came shallow and controlled, each exhale purposeful, but no amount of focus could erase the way heat pooled low in your belly each time he adjusted your position, each time he leaned in just close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear.

"You’re warm," he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the low thrum of music.

You tilted your head, cheek brushing the leather of the chair. “Is that your way of saying I’m sweating too much?”

A quiet laugh. "No." He wiped the spot gently, fingers spread wide against your upper back. “Just saying... your skin feels alive.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to shiver.

He paused to dip the needle again, but his other hand stayed pressed against you—thumb dragging absently along the edge of your spine. And then, as though the words slipped free without permission, he added, “It’s kind of driving me crazy.”

The machine stilled. Your eyes snapped open.

“What?”

Han blinked, as if he had not meant to say it aloud. But the corner of his mouth lifted anyway, a half-smile that was equal parts sheepish and satisfied. “Nothing. Just... hard to stay focused when you’re under my hands like this.”

Your pulse spiked. “You’re the one who insisted on choosing the placement.”

“Maybe I wanted an excuse to touch you like this. To drive you crazy”

The air between you crackled. He was close now—too close. His hand still rested against your skin, fingers slightly curled as if resisting the urge to grip tighter. You felt it in your bones: the shift from friendly banter to something heavier. Something hungry.

The tattoo needle remained idle, forgotten for the moment.

Your voice came soft, but steady. “Are you always this... handsy when you’re working?”

He leaned in slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered just behind your ear. “Only when the canvas makes it impossible not to be.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat of him, the deliberate pause before he moved again—not toward his tools, but toward you. His hand slid from your shoulder, knuckles brushing the side of your throat in a line so featherlight it made your skin pebble.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You said you wanted to drive me crazy, too.”

“Is it working?” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, exhaling. “I think you already know the answer.”

Han chuckled under his breath, but there was a tightness in it—like restraint stretched thin. Still, he didn’t kiss you. Didn’t push further. Instead, he pressed a hand to your waist and guided you gently back into place, the spell not broken, only deferred.

“I should finish,” he said, almost hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Finish.”

But every second after that was charged. Every brush of his hand, every hum of the machine, every stolen glance when you dared to peek up at him—all of it thrummed with the knowledge that something had shifted. And neither of you could pretend it hadn’t.

You lost track of time. Moments bled into minutes, drawn out by the quiet rhythm of his work and the unspoken weight between you.

By the time he shut off the machine, your body felt like it had become a tuning fork—tight with tension, humming with everything unsaid.

“That’s it, you're done,” Han said quietly, voice thick.

He reached for a clean cloth, gently dabbing the inked area. The sting had dulled into a soft ache, but the way his hand moved over your skin—slow, deliberate, reverent—was what left you breathless.

He lingered there, thumb brushing just above the fresh lines. “You did good. Barely moved.”

You shifted onto your elbows slightly, twisting to catch his face. “Is that praise, or are you just surprised I didn’t faint?”

His gaze met yours. For a second, he said nothing. Then, a smile tugged at his lips—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a lot tougher than you let on.”

You sat up, pulling the collar of your shirt gently over one shoulder. “Maybe you just bring it out of me.”

Han stood there, still holding the cloth, still watching you with that unreadable expression. The tension between you was no longer subtle. It stretched between your bodies like a wire, thin and tight, vibrating with things neither of you had said out loud.

You looked away first.

“Let me pay you,” you said, reaching for your bag.

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “This wasn’t about that.”

Your fingers froze on the strap. You turned slowly. “Then what was it about?”

He hesitated, jaw tight. The weight in his gaze softened for a beat—something bare flickering through, like he wanted to say everything but chose instead to say:

“I wanted something of mine on you.”

The words landed in your chest like a drop of ink in water—sinking, blooming.

You didn’t respond right away. The silence folded around you again, but it was thick, pulsing, the air saturated with all the ways you almost touched.

Finally, you smiled, small but real. “Well... now you’ve got it.”

He laughed under his breath, but it was quieter this time. A little more careful. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

You moved toward the mirror, pulling your shirt slightly aside to see the finished piece that now lay protected by second skin. The crescent moon curved delicately against your skin, soft as a secret, sharp as a wish you hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

It was beautiful. It was everything you could have asked for.

You caught Han watching your reflection—eyes fixed not just on the ink, but the shape of you, the moment of you. Like he had never really allowed himself to look until now.

And still... he did nothing. And neither did you.

Just two bodies, standing too close, tied together by a single piece of ink and a silence that spoke louder than anything else.

You turned from the mirror, fingers brushing down the edge of your collar one last time. The skin was still tender beneath your touch, but not as tender as the weight in your chest.

“I should go,” you said, voice a little too light. A little too careful.

Han nodded once, but he did not move from where he stood. “Right. It’s late.”

You moved toward the door, bag slung over your shoulder, shoes forgotten under the bench. The silence followed you like smoke—slow and curling and hard to breathe through. You could feel his eyes on your back.

But just as your hand touched the knob, you paused.

“…I’m not usually like this.”

The words escaped before you could catch them.

Han’s voice came from behind you, lower now. “Like what?”

You didn’t turn to face him. “This affected.”

A beat.

Then: “Me neither.”

You turned then. Slowly. He was closer than he’d been a moment ago. Still not touching. Still not reaching.

But close.

The streetlights from outside filtered through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows over his face—his expression was unreadable again, but his eyes were not. They were dark and warm and searching. Like he wanted to speak with his hands instead of his mouth.

“I should walk you out,” he offered.

“I don’t need—”

“I know.” A pause. Then, his voice was gentler, “Let me anyway.”

You nodded.

He opened the door, and the cool air of the hallway hit your skin like a shock—like stepping out of a dream. The clack of your shoes echoed softly as you both walked, side by side, neither of you speaking.

You reached the door to the street. The city breathed on the other side. Stillness clung to the space between you like fog.

“Hey,” Han called, just as you stepped onto the threshold. His voice pulled you back. “Wait.”

You turned, heart stuttering.

He was standing close again. Too close. The kind of close that felt deliberate. His hand hovered near your waist, fingers flexing once, like he was debating whether to touch you again.

He didn’t.

Instead, his voice dropped. “If I kiss you right now… would that mess things up?”

Your breath hitched.

The world held its breath with you.

You let the silence stretch. Let the ache of it crawl up your spine. And then you said—quietly, honestly:

“I think not kissing me might mess things up more.”

And still—still—he did not kiss you. He only looked at you like he wanted to memorize the moment, the space between your mouths, the way you had just told him everything without saying it outright.

He smiled, slow and heavy with intent. “Then maybe I’ll wait until it really ruins me.”

Your throat went dry.

“Night,” he murmured, stepping back.

And just like that, the door closed between you.

But your heart stayed in his hands.

It was past midnight when your phone lit up.

"You still awake?"

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart already answering before you could.

"i never really went to sleep"

Three dots appeared, then vanished. Then again.

"Me neither"

A beat of no incoming messages passed, then:

"I'm keeping myself up thinking about earlier''

Your breath caught.

"the tattoo?"

"Not exactly.."

You didn't respond right away. You didn’t have to. The air in your room had changed—thicker, tighter, like his voice might pour from the cracks in the wall's paint if you leaned in close enough.

And then the screen lit up again—this time, a call, to which you answered—not after panicking for a few seconds, of course.

“…Hey.” You whispered into the microphone.

His voice was low, rough from too many unsent words. “You looked good tonight.”

You swallowed the simmering embarrassment down. “You saw a lot of skin.”

“Not the part I meant.”

A silence stretched. Not awkward—intimate. It curled through the receiver like warm breath against your neck.

“Come by tomorrow,” he said finally. “I need to check your tattoo.”

“You just want to touch me again.”

“I'm not gonna sit here and lie to you by saying I didn't love every second of touching you. Come by tomorrow, please?”

Your skin flared at the bluntness. There was no smirk in his tone. No teasing this time. Just heat. Quiet and real.

You whispered, “Okay.”

The next day, you were back at his studio.

You told yourself it was just for aftercare, but the second you walked in, saw the way he looked up at you—eyes dark and steady—you knew you were both done pretending.

“Shirt,” he said softly, gesturing to the seat.

You sat. You peeled the fabric from your shoulder, the same stretch of skin that had sparked the night before and haunted his thoughts since. His hands were gloved, but his touch still felt like bare electricity.

He leaned in, inspecting the ink, but the space between you crackled. “Looks good,” he murmured. “You’ll heal fast.”

“So I can go?” you teased, voice thinner than usual.

He gave you no answer. Just peeled off the gloves, tossed them aside, and placed his bare hand against your back—palm flat, warm. Possessive.

“You came back,” he said. “That’s what I wanted.”

You turned your head, letting your cheek rest against your shoulder, watching him. “I did as I was told, Han. So what now?”

Han stepped around to face you. He reached up and touched your chin, tilting your face to his. The air between you shrank to nothing.

“Now I kiss you.”

And this time, he did.

His mouth was warm, unhurried, like he was tasting something he had waited weeks to touch. His fingers cradled your jaw, and you melted into it, into him, into the truth that had been aching beneath your skin for days.

He pulled back, just an inch.

“Still messing things up?” he asked, breath brushing your lips.

You smiled. “Only in the best way.”

The kiss tasted like every moment that came before it—charged, aching, sweet with restraint. His mouth moved against yours like a secret unraveling, like he had memorized the shape of your lips before ever daring to touch them.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like instinct. Like gravity. Han followed the movement without hesitation, one hand sliding around your waist, the other brushing the side of your neck—soft, reverent, as if you might vanish if he held you too tightly.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched. Your eyes stayed closed.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he whispered.

You opened your eyes. “Then show me.”

The words cracked something open between you. Quickly, he sat beside you on the tattoo bed and pulled you onto his lap.

He kissed you again—deeper now, his hands no longer tentative. One slid under your shirt, fingers warm against the small of your back, the other braced at your hip like he needed the anchor. You shifted in his lap, and before you realized you had even moved, he groaned low in his throat at the feel of you straddling him, bodies pressed with no space between.

Still, he slowed. Just for a breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “More than.”

His lips returned to the bare side of your throat—soft at first, then with the scrape of teeth. Your hands threaded into his hair as you tilted your head for him, shivering when he dragged his mouth down the slope of your shoulder.

“Han,” you breathed.

He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said. “But not just this.”

You stilled, heart thudding.

“I want every version of you,” he continued. “The fire, the softness, the silence. I want the way you look at me when I'm not looking. I want the way you talk like you are not afraid but touch like you’re terrified.”

You exhaled, chest caving. “You noticed everything?"

“I tried not to.”

He leaned back to meet your gaze. His hands moved with more intent now, but still gentle—still you-first. His thumbs traced the curve of your hips beneath your shirt, and you shivered under the slow build of it.

And then, still holding your waist, he laid you back against the padded bench—carefully, gracefully—like you were something rare. Like he had dreamed of this exact moment in the quiet between days.

Your shirt came off slowly, inch by inch. His hands explored like a map he was finally allowed to touch. Every kiss was a promise: I will not rush this. I will learn you inch by inch. I will memorize every sigh.

When his mouth found yours again, the kiss burned hotter—teeth clashing gently, breath shared. You tugged at his shirt, and he pulled it over his head in one clean motion, your hands already seeking skin, already desperate to feel.

Still, even in the heat, he slowed now and then—traced your ribs with a single finger, kissed the inside of your wrist. Whispers scattered between kisses.

“I want you,” he said. “But I also want you.”

You arched into him, fingertips splayed across his back, heart wide open. “You have me.”

The second his shirt hit the floor, your hands were on him—tracing the taut muscle beneath warm skin, nails catching just enough to make him hiss. His mouth was back on yours before you could take your next breath, more forceful now, more needy. Tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your spine arch and your legs tighten around his hips.

Han groaned when he felt it—your thighs drawing him in like a vice, like you already knew exactly how this would end.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth. “You feel too good.”

“You haven’t even felt me yet,” you whispered back.

His eyes darkened.

He pulled you up in one fluid motion, strong hands gripping your thighs as he laid you down atop the workbench, your back pressed against cool wood, your skin burning beneath his palms.

He kissed down your throat, not slow anymore. Messy, greedy, open-mouthed kisses that left your pulse stuttering. He bit lightly at the curve where your shoulder met your neck, and you gasped—head tipping back, legs spreading instinctively, begging for more contact, more friction, more.

His hands slipped beneath the band of your pants, thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin at your hips.

“These need to come off,” he growled, voice thick with want. “Right fucking now.”

You lifted your hips to help, letting him tug them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. The heat in his gaze when he looked at you—all of you—bare on his table, flushed and panting, legs spread for him like it was the most natural thing in the world—

It made your stomach flip, made your core throb.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, like he was angry about it. “So fucking pretty and wet already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

And he did.

One hand pressed your thigh open, the other sliding between your legs, fingers stroking through your slick folds in a rhythm that was maddeningly light. He teased your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching the way your hips jerked, your mouth parted around soft gasps.

“You gonna let me make you come with just my fingers first?” he murmured, leaning close, breath hot against your ear. “Wanna feel you grip them before I fuck you. Want you so messy I can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, back arching. “Yes—please, Han—”

He slid one finger in, slow, letting you feel the stretch. Then two. Then a curl of his knuckles that had you crying out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the table.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Grind on my fingers. Let me see how desperate you are.”

You did—hips rocking, thighs trembling, your core clenching around him as he worked you open with deliberate pressure, circling your clit with his thumb until the pressure built fast and dizzying.

“I can feel you getting close,” he said against your throat. “You gonna come for me, baby? Right here on the table where I ink people’s skin?”

“Fuck—Han—yes—”

You shattered with a cry, legs shaking, body arching against his mouth as he kissed you through it—murmuring things you could barely process, words lost in the white-hot rush.

And when you finally came down, breath heaving, he leaned back and licked his fingers clean with a satisfied smirk.

“Think you’re ready for my cock now?”

You nodded, dazed. “Please.”

He undid his belt with one hand, gaze locked to yours as he stroked himself—slow, thick, already slick from the sight of you. Then he lined up, ran the head through your folds once, twice, teasing your oversensitive clit just to watch you twitch—

And then he pushed in.

You both groaned—deep, guttural—like relief and hunger all at once. He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You were soaked. Sore. Already wrecked.

But he did not stop.

He fucked you—hard, deep, each thrust lifting your hips from the table, your hands clawing at his back, your moans turning to whimpers, then cries. His name over and over.

Your moans spilled out in sobs as your second climax hit you like a dam bursting. It was hot—blinding—your release painting his cock in pulsing waves, your entire body locking up beneath him. All the hunger, the want, the times of aching tension you had swallowed back whenever he so much as looked at you with those dark, unreadable eyes—it all came out in that moment. You clenched tight around him, and he groaned loud and low, his head dropping to your shoulder.

“God—look at you,” he rasped, voice wrecked, pride and awe tangled in every word. “So good for me. So perfect when you come.”

But then, his hips stopped to a jarring halt. He was still buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. You could feel the tension in his body—every muscle taut, his hips stuttering in that way that told you he was right on the edge, right there—

But holding back. Just for you.

You cupped his jaw, breathless but steadying. “You didn’t come.”

He shook his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanted to feel you first. Wanted to see—fuck—how tight you get when you come around me.”

Your body gave a little twitch at the memory, still oversensitive, still full. But a flicker of something else lit behind your eyes.

You kissed him—slow and deep—and then, with a sly smile, clenched around him deliberately.

He choked on a moan, arms trembling where they braced beside your head.

“Baby—don’t—”

“You always so in control?” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw, down his throat. “Or are you just that good at hiding when you want to break?”

He groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “Please—fuck—”

You rolled your hips beneath him, just a little. Just enough.

“You’re still so hard,” you murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Still deep inside me like you need to be. You want to come? Want to fill me up?”

“God—yes.”

“Then allow me.”

You pushed him gently, and he let you—collapsing back into the chair beside the bench, cock glistening and flushed as it slipped free, twitching with the aftershocks of restraint. He barely had time to breathe before you dropped to your knees between his legs and wrapped your hand around him—tight, slow strokes from base to tip that had him gasping and clenching the arms of the chair.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, kissing the head of his cock, licking the slit just to taste the salt of him.

His hips bucked and he cursed—head thrown back, abs tensing.

“Sensitive already, aren’t you?” you purred.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You took him into your mouth before he could finish the sentence—deep and warm, tongue swirling as you bobbed your head, one hand cupping his balls, the other pressing down gently on his hip to keep him from thrusting.

He was loud now, whimpering, begging, gasping your name like prayer.

And when he came—god—

It was with a broken moan, back arching, thighs shaking under your palms. You swallowed everything, licked your lips, and looked up at him through your lashes as he tried to remember how to breathe.

His eyes were glassy, hair clinging to his forehead, chest rising in jagged waves.

You smiled. “Still in control?”

He laughed—wrecked, breathless. “Fuck no.”

You climbed into his lap again, your bare skin still warm, flushed and tingling, and curled against him with a quiet little hum.

He wrapped his arms around you like instinct. And then, softly:

“…Round two’s gonna ruin us both.”

You grinned against his neck. “Good.”

The studio held comfortable silence for a moment.

Only your breathing filled the space—shallow and warm, mingling with his where you straddled him on the tattoo bed again, skin flushed and shining in the low amber glow of the work light. The air smelled like sweat and sex, care, and ink—hot, heavy, and honest.

Han was still beneath you, arms slack, mouth parted. His chest heaved, his cock softening between your thighs.

You dragged your fingers along the lines of his jaw, smug and satisfied. “Speechless?”

He blinked once. Then again. Something shifted in his eyes.

“No,” he rasped. “Just… trying not to fuck you so hard this bed breaks.”

You laughed softly—until his hands shot to your hips and slammed you down onto his thigh.

You gasped, the sudden friction making your oversensitive body jolt.

“I let you ruin me once,” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “Your turn now.”

You barely had time to react before he stood, arms beneath your thighs, lifting you like nothing. Your back hit the nearest wall—your bare skin flush to cool concrete, legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already hardening between you again.

“What—Han—”

“You think you can just look at me like that,” he snarled against your neck, grinding up between your soaked folds. “Touch me like you own me. And then walk out of here? Nah.”

You shivered. His cock pressed right against your entrance.

“Han—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

He didn't give you a warning. Just a brutal promise, growled against your skin; “I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name—but still remember mine when your hands are between your legs for weeks after.”

Then he was inside you again—deep—in one smooth, merciless thrust, hips snapping forward so hard your back hit the wall with a dull thud.

You gasped—high and breathless—arms clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into skin.

“Han—fuck—”

He caught your cry in a kiss that was anything but sweet. All tongue, teeth, and desperation, lips crushed to yours like he needed your breath to survive.

Your walls fluttered around him already—sensitive from the first round, still dripping wet and raw, but ready despite the ache. He filled you so completely, so perfectly, it stole the air from your lungs.

“I felt this pussy clench around my fingers,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to slam into you again. “But it’s nothing—nothing—compared to how you grip my cock. So fucking tight. So wet.”

You moaned—helpless—every part of your body trembling as he started to move.

Hard. Fast. Focused.

Your back scraped against the wall with every thrust, the studio echoing with the filthy slap of skin on skin, the sound of your choked gasps and his rough groans.

“You want control?” he hissed, fingers digging into the underside of your thighs, forcing them open wider. “Then take it.”

He pulled out.

You nearly cried from the loss.

Then he moved you back to the table, your knees hitting the workbench edge as he turned you, bent you forward, pressed your chest flat to the table.

You barely had time to breathe before he plunged back inside from behind, the new angle making you cry out, high and broken.

“Louder!” he commanded. “Let the whole damn building know how good I fuck you.”

And louder you were when he found that spot inside you—over and over again, the pace brutal and relentless.

He gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the obscene sound of your slick arousal growing louder with every stroke. Your legs started to buckle—nerves frayed, every inch of your skin alight.

“F-fuck—Han—I can’t—too much—”

“You can. You’re taking it like a fucking dream,” he rasped, reaching down, rubbing your clit in tight, wet circles that made your vision blur.

Your whole body tightened—shaking, clenching, desperate to come again, and again—

He leaned over you, lips to your ear, voice hoarse:

“Come on my cock again, baby. Milk it. Let me feel that pretty pussy worship me.”

And you did.

You shattered—body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard, squeezing him so tight he cursed and slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust.

He came with a shout—loud, raw, high—hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his hands fisting in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a moment.

Ruined. One tangled, sweaty, aching mess.

Then his hands softened—smoothed up your back, traced the curves of your hips like reverence.

He pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“…Still remember your name?”

You laughed, wrecked and breathless.

“Remind me?" you whispered.

You did not remember collapsing—just that one moment he was still inside you, and the next, you were draped across the tattoo bed like laundry left out to dry. Your skin tingled, nerves alight, thighs sticky and trembling, your mind still floating somewhere just above your body.

And Han?

Han was slumped in the chair again, legs spread, one arm thrown dramatically over his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “I think I blacked out. You short-circuited me.”

You snorted, face still pressed to the cool surface of the bench. “You short-circuited me. I’m literally leaking.”

He scooted the chair to get a full view of what you were talking about, eyes glassy but mischievous. “Good. I want it dripping down your thighs next time you show up in those little skirts you wear.”

You blinked. “Next time?”

Han grinned, wicked and lazy. “Oh, baby. This is so not a one-time thing. I’m gonna put a stamp on you like a repeat customer loyalty card.”

You rolled onto your side, raising a brow. “You’re gonna fuck me five times and give me a discount on a flash piece?”

He laughed—loudly. Like you caught him off guard. “God, you’re a menace.”

“You’re the menace. Who says that shit mid-stroke?” you shot back, mimicking his earlier line with mock dramatics: “‘Forget your own name but still remember mine?’ Who writes you?”

He leaned forward, dragging his fingers up your bare spine. “No one writes me. I just improvise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So… you freestyled your way into making me cum thrice and see stars?”

He winked. “What can I say? I’ve got bars and stamina.”

You smacked him with a rolled-up paper towel, but he caught your wrist and pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.

Then—softer, like he almost did not mean to say it aloud:

“…I really like you.”

You stilled, looked over to him and kissed him gently, pouring every single ounce of reciprocation your being had to offer him. Because maybe he was a cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man—but he was your cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man.

Even when he was a little bit of a menace.

The silence after pulling away was heavy—not the uncomfortable kind, more like an exhale. A shared, serene stillness, your heartbeat slowing while his lips ghosted along your jaw, your collarbone, the tender edge of your throat.

He had not moved far.

Still close. Still inside your gravity.

Then Han shifted, propping his head on one elbow which rested on the arm of the chair, eyes sweeping your face like he was memorizing something. His fingers moved before his mouth did—brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb dragging down your cheek.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, still dazed. “Hey.”

He hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but because this, somehow, felt bigger than everything you both had already done.

“You don’t have to go home tonight.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His voice stayed soft, careful, “I mean… you could stay. With me.”

You stared.

He rushed to fill the silence, eyes darting between yours.

“Not just for more of this—though God, don’t get me wrong, I want more of this—but like. We could crash at my place. Order food. You could steal my hoodie. Wake up and make terrible coffee together. You could see what I’m like in the morning. Spoiler: not sexy. Kind of grumpy. But you’re good with chaos, right?”

You laughed—but something in your chest ached, cracked just a little.

Because he meant it—this wasn’t just about lust anymore. Not even about proximity or chemistry.

It was a choice.

He was asking you to stay, to see him past the high, into the quiet.

You leaned up, kissed him once—slow and certain.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered.

And the way he looked at you then—hopeful and smug and so unmistakably fond—made you feel warmer than anything else that night.

Sunlight crept in like it was in on a secret, painting lazy gold across your bare shoulder.

You stirred, slowly, blinking awake to the smell of coffee and something warm—eggs?—cooking in the kitchen nook. Your body ached, in all the right places. Inner thighs sore. Lips swollen. A fingerprint or five pressed like stamps into your hips. You stretched, wincing slightly, and smiled.

And Han—God, Han—was nowhere in the bed, but his hoodie had been draped over your legs like a blanket, his scent wrapped around you like a sigh.

You slipped it on, oversized and soft, sleeves swallowing your hands, and padded barefoot across the polished concrete toward the sound of gentle humming and the clatter of a pan.

Han stood with his back to you—shirtless, hair wild and sticking up in twenty-seven different directions, tattoos flexing as he flipped something in a pan. There were two mugs of coffee already out. One black. The other just the way you liked it.

You leaned on the doorway, biting your smile.

He sensed you, because of course he did.

“You’re up,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. And then, softer, like he couldn’t help himself: “Fuck, you look good in my hoodie.”

You padded up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face on his nape.

“You’re feeding me. You really trying to make me fall in love with you?”

He chuckled, flipping the egg once again with a practiced hand. “That was the plan, yeah. Ruin your body, then win your heart with food.”

You laughed against his skin. “Tactical.”

He turned the stove off and turned in your arms, resting his hands low on your hips, looking down at you with sleepy warmth in his eyes. You felt it then—not just the physical closeness, but the easiness of it. The comfort. The pull.

“You staying the whole day?” he asked, voice quiet now, vulnerable in that way he rarely let show.

You nodded, brushing your lips over his collarbone.

“Only if you kiss me like that again,” you teased.

He grinned.

And did just that—slow, sweet, a kiss with no agenda other than to keep you there.

Later, with your stomach full, your limbs loose and drowsy from the best kind of indulgence, you found yourself curled up on the couch—Han’s head in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the messy strands of his hair.

Some terrible movie was playing on his television. Neither of you was really watching it. The remote lay forgotten on the floor. His fingers traced idle patterns on the bare skin beneath your borrowed hoodie, the both of you half-clothed, half-tangled, fully comfortable.

“This is dangerous,” you murmured.

Han cracked one eye open. “What is?”

“This. Us. You looking at me like I hung the stars and made your coffee.”

He smirked without moving. “You did, though. Kind of. That coffee was perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

His expression softened, gaze dropping to where his hand rested just beneath your ribs. “You should let me tattoo you again,” he said after a long beat.

You looked down at him. “Now?”

“No,” he smiled, “not now. But someday. Something small. Just for me. Somewhere only I get to see.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea. You tried to play it off. “That’s a lot of trust, letting you draw on me permanently.”

His fingers slid a little lower, dangerously close to a place that still pulsed with the memory of last night.

“You already let me ruin you once,” he said with a grin. “What’s a little ink?”

You snorted, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still here,” he countered easily, nuzzling into your thigh like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You sighed contently as you carded your fingers through his hair again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.

“And I'm here to stay.”

drops this in your hands and runs off into the sunset

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[bu3ck3r]

tied together — part 3

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: hi im sorry it took so long but part 3 is finally here! let me know what you think♡

tied together – masterlist

paige’s pov:

the second the text sent, paige threw her phone onto the bed and walked away like it might explode.

she made it to the other side of her dorm before turning back.

five minutes. no response.

she chewed on her sleeve.

was it too much? too soon? too obvious?

then the screen lit up with a text from azzi.

hey. what’s going on?

short. careful. but not cold.

paige picks up the phone, sits back down. her hands are sweaty.

i just… can we talk? like really talk?

yeah, i’m here paige.

the typing bubble flickers.

i keep trying to act like that night didn’t mean anything. like it was just a one-time thing.

was it?

that makes her stop. her thumb hovers.

no. it wasn’t.

azzi doesn’t answer right away.

paige can see her reading it. thinking. probably doing that thing where she pinches the bridge of her nose and overanalyzes every syllable.

okay. good. because it wasn’t for me either.

paige exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.

her hands shake a little.

so where does that leave us?

i don’t know. confused? wanting more?

paige’s heart pounds.

do you?

yeah. i do.

another long pause.

paige types something. deletes it. types again.

i’ve missed you. not just… physically. i miss talking to you. laughing with you. you always saw me, even when i didn’t want anyone to.

there’s a beat. then:

i still do.

and that’s it. that’s the shift.

paige sinks deeper into her bed, phone glowing in her hand, and for the first time in months, she lets herself feel it.

this thing between them?

it’s not going away.

do you want to ft?

the question makes paige’s breath catch.

yeah. yeah, i do.

she hits the call button before she can talk herself out of it.

it only rings once.

azzi appears on the screen, face softly lit by the glow of her phone, hair down, eyes tired but steady.

they don’t say anything at first.

just… look.

it feels like breathing again after holding it for too long.

paige breaks the silence first, voice quiet.

“i didn’t think you’d pick up.”

azzi shrugs. “i was waiting for you to call.”

that hits her harder than it should.

paige smiles — tentative, but real. “i’m glad you did.”

azzi tucks her hair behind her ear, gaze flickering down for a second.

“i don’t know what this is yet,” she says. “but i know i’m not ready to let it go.”

paige nods, barely blinking. “me neither.”

silence again. but it’s a better kind now. charged. warm.

and just like that, something’s begun.

something real.

something they’ll both spend the next chapters figuring out.

together.

paige’s pov:

it was late — like, dangerously late — and she was curled up on her dorm bed, hoodie pulled up, legs tangled in her sheets, half-heartedly scrolling through instagram when she saw it.

azzi tagged in a photo.

the photo wasn’t even that scandalous, not really. azzi and a couple teammates out at dinner, smiling, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. regular stuff. normal. friendly.

but there was this girl — blonde, bright smile, pressed up too close to azzi, laughing into her shoulder. like they knew each other too well.

paige’s stomach twisted violently.

she zoomed in — god, pathetic — and stared for way too long.

it was stupid. she knew it was stupid. azzi was allowed to have friends. people who made her laugh. paige had no right — no claim. but still.

she tossed her phone onto the bed, flopped onto her back, and stared up at the ceiling like it had answers.

it didn’t.

her brain wouldn’t shut up — painting ugly little what-ifs in her head.

was she moving on?

did she already move on?

a sharp knock on the door made paige jump. she scrambled upright, heart hammering, hoping for she didn’t even know what.

it was just nika, poking her head in.

“you coming to team breakfast tomorrow?”

“yeah,” paige mumbled, voice rough.

nika gave her a long look, concerned but too tired to fight it, and closed the door again.

paige sat there, chewing on her sleeve, phone buzzing uselessly beside her.

one new text.

it was from azzi.

just a stupid meme about basketball.

paige stared at it for a long time.

she wanted to answer.

she wanted to ignore it.

instead, she just… liked the message. no words.

and hated herself for it.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

azzi should’ve been asleep hours ago.

the game tomorrow was important — huge. coach had drilled it into them all week: stay focused. stay ready.

but here she was, scrolling through paige’s socials like an idiot.

paige hadn’t posted anything new. she never did anymore. but azzi still checked. still hoped.

she flopped back onto her bed and exhaled loudly.

the post from dinner had gone up without her even realizing it. bree had tagged her and everyone else. just her group of friends, maybe a few of them a little drunk. but it wasn’t a big deal.

still, something itched under her skin. like maybe paige had seen it. like maybe, maybe it would get under her skin the same way azzi’s heart still ached at the sight of paige in a uconn jersey.

her phone buzzed again.

a new text — this time, from bree.

u good?

azzi thumbed a reply.

yeah. just focusing on the big game.

it wasn’t a total lie.

but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

paige’s pov:

morning came brutal and too soon.

paige rolled over, bleary-eyed, and grabbed her phone. her thumb hovered over azzi’s text again. the one she still hadn’t really answered.

but when she saw on instagram that the team bus rolled up to the arena, she couldn’t stop herself from checking her phone one more time.

azzi had posted again.

just a story, of the team in their uniforms slung over their shoulders, laughing, shoving each other.

paige caught a glimpse of her — azzi, head thrown back, laughing like nothing was wrong.

it gutted her.

paige’s chest was tight and her palms were sweaty. she wasn’t nervous about the game.

she was nervous about seeing azzi again.

even from 800 miles away.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

azzi should’ve been locked in.

but her phone vibrated in her bag and she couldn’t stop herself from checking it.

a new notification.

paige bueckers liked your story.

azzi froze for a second too long, teammate’s voices buzzing around her like static.

something hot curled low in her stomach.

something she tried to smother.

focus. game first.

but when she laced up her shoes, her hands were shaking.

paige’s pov:

paige watched azzi’s game from her ipad, curled up in her dorm bed, headphones in, hoodie pulled low over her eyes.

it was reckless. stupid.

but she couldn’t help herself.

the second tipoff happened, she was locked in — eyes glued to every movement.

azzi was beautiful out there. sharp. effortless.

but she didn’t look like she was having fun.

something was off. paige could see it — the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she forced her shots, the way she glanced at the crowd like she was looking for something.

paige clenched her fists under the blanket.

was it her fault?

her heart ached and soared and cracked all at once.

at halftime, she stared at the paused screen and thumbed out a text before she could second-guess it.

you’re killing it. don’t overthink. just play.

she hovered. then hit send.

and immediately regretted it.

what if azzi didn’t want to hear from her?

what if she was ruining her focus?

but five minutes later, her phone buzzed.

you’re watching?

paige smiled, heart doing something stupid and painful in her chest.

always.

azzi stared at the text way longer than she should have.

“always.”

god.

it made her legs feel weak.

she tucked her phone away before coach could yell at her, but the fire in her chest was new — steady. hot.

not fear. not nerves.

hope.

she took the court after halftime like she had something to prove.

like someone was watching just for her.

she hit a three-pointer and didn’t even think — she turned toward the camera, a little smirk playing at her lips.

the crowd went wild.

but all she could think about was paige seeing it.

see me, she thought, like i still see you.

by the end of the game, paige was basically curled into a ball under her blanket, ipad balanced on her knees, heart pounding like she’d played instead of just watched

azzi was on fire after halftime — all energy and smiles and little moments where paige could see it — the shift. the lightness.

it was beautiful.

south carolina won.

paige should’ve been annoyed. should’ve been bitter.

instead, she found herself smiling, stupid and soft, when azzi threw her arms around her teammates and laughed, messy and real.

she deserved that. deserved to be happy.

paige’s fingers hovered over her phone. she shouldn’t text.

she really shouldn’t.

but she did.

proud of you. you looked like you were actually having fun out there.

the three dots appeared almost immediately.

you’re a terrible liar p. you always know when something’s off.

paige’s heart twisted.

it wasn’t off. you were still you.

another long pause.

and then azzi texted:

facetime?

paige almost dropped her phone.

her thumb fumbled over the screen.

she called without thinking.

azzi’s heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear the dial tone.

when paige’s face popped up — hoodie still on, cheeks flushed, hair messy — azzi had to look away for a second just to catch her breath.

“you look like you haven’t slept in three days,” azzi teased, voice low, tired.

“you look like you just dropped twenty points on national television,” paige shot back, grinning.

azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the way her cheeks warmed.

there was a long pause. comfortable. aching.

“i saw the post,” paige said suddenly.

azzi blinked. “what post?”

“the one with… you know. that girl.”

azzi squinted at her. “you mean my friend olivia? paige, she’s literally dating some guy from the men’s team.”

paige’s face froze.

“oh.”

azzi laughed — actually laughed — and the sound cracked something inside her.

“you’re jealous,” azzi said, delighted.

“am not,” paige muttered, but her ears turned red.

“you’re the worst liar i’ve ever met,” azzi teased.

they both grinned — and it felt like slipping back into something dangerous. something that still fit.

“you were supposed to be focusing on your game,” paige said, after a beat.

“you were supposed to be focusing on yours,” azzi countered.

they stared at each other. neither looking away.

god, paige missed this. missed her. missed the way azzi could tear her down with two words and a smile.

“so what now?” paige asked, voice cracking on the last word.

azzi went quiet. her eyes softened. her hand lifted, like she could reach through the screen.

“i don’t know,” azzi whispered. “i just know i don’t want to keep pretending like you’re not on my mind all the time.”

the air left paige’s lungs.

“yeah,” she said. “same.”

they stayed like that, neither brave enough to say the thing they both knew was waiting.

the call stretched late into the night.

they didn’t even talk about basketball. didn’t talk about the future.

they just talked.

memories. dumb inside jokes. the time paige accidentally started a fire trying to make ramen in her dorm room. the way azzi couldn’t parallel park if her life depended on it.

it was easy. effortless.

it was terrifying.

at some point, paige curled up tighter in her bed, ipad propped against her knees, and muttered, “i miss you.”

azzi was quiet for a long time.

then she said, “come visit me.”

paige’s heart stopped.

“azzi—”

“i’m serious.”

“it’s not that simple.”

“it is. you come. we figure it out.”

paige stared at her. pale, serious face. big, dark eyes. voice steady.

“one trip doesn’t fix everything,” paige whispered.

azzi smiled, small and sad. “no. but it’s a start.”

paige wanted to say yes. god, she wanted to.

but fear still sat heavy in her chest.

“i’ll think about it,” she said finally.

azzi’s face didn’t fall — not exactly — but the hurt was there, hiding in the corners.

“okay,” she said softly. “think fast.”

the call ended sometime after 3 a.m.

azzi sat there, staring at the black screen, feeling hollowed out.

she didn’t know what she’d expected. paige to jump at the chance? to confess everything in a neat, perfect bow?

it was never going to be that easy.

she rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.

but still, she didn’t regret asking.

if there was even a sliver of a chance to fix them —

she was going to take it.

no matter what.

paige’s pov:

practice was hell. paige couldn’t focus.

every play call blurred. every drill felt off.

geno yelled at her three times before he finally pulled her aside.

“what’s wrong? you good?” he barked, hands on his hips.

paige nodded automatically. lied. automatically.

“yeah. just a little tired.”

he stared her down — the way only geno could — like he saw right through her.

“you can’t play scared, paige,” he said gruffly. “not at this level.”

paige swallowed hard.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

paige sat on the floor, back against her bed, phone heavy in her hand.

the draft text stared up at her.

i want to come. i just don’t know how to not be scared of losing you again.

she didn’t send it.

instead, she clicked open a flight booking site. fingers trembling.

her heart raced.

she found a flight.tomorrow morning.

her thumb hovered over “confirm.”

click.

it was done.

no going back now.

azzi woke up to her phone buzzing violently under her pillow.

one new text. from paige.

hope you’re free tomorrow. coming to see you.

azzi shot upright, heart pounding.

was she dreaming?

was this real?

her hands shook so hard she could barely type.

you better not be messing with me paige.

wouldn’t dream of it.

azzi grinned into her pillow, cheeks hot, heart soaring.

but just as she was about to call her, her phone buzzed again.

another text. from bree.

heads up — dawn is pissed. mandatory team meeting tonight. no visitors allowed this weekend. period.

azzi’s stomach plummeted.

no visitors. no paige.

not now.

not yet.

paige zipped her suitcase shut with shaky hands.

flight confirmation email glowing on her phone.

hope blooming stupid and fast in her chest.

for the first time in months, she let herself believe it

maybe they could still fix it. maybe it wasn’t too late.

she grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door.

as she was about to leave, her phone buzzed.

new text.

from azzi.

paige. we have a problem.

paige froze.

heart in her throat.

she stared at the message, the weight of it sinking in.

what kind of problem??

dawn is pissed and we can’t really have visitors this weekend, she wants us to be more locked in on our next game, so i basically have to sneak you in.

her fingers hovered over the screen.

azzi you’re gonna be the death of me i swear.

yeah whatever. you can’t hide the fact that you want to see me anyway.

oh yeah? and who was asking me to come in the first place?

you’re so annoying.

and you love it.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

it should’ve been illegal how fast azzi ran down the stairwell.

she kept her hoodie pulled tight over her head, her sneakers squeaking against the tile, adrenaline buzzing under her skin. every door she passed felt like it might swing open and catch her — every second felt too loud.

she didn’t care.

because paige was here. paige came for her.

the text had been simple.

i’m outside.

no hesitation. no second-guessing.

azzi shoved open the heavy door at the bottom of the stairwell, stepping out into the freezing night air — and there she was.

standing half-hidden under the shadows of the overhang, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair pulled into a messy bun, hoodie two sizes too big.

paige. here.

their eyes locked. neither of them moved at first.

then azzi was crossing the parking lot at a near-sprint, breath clouding the air, heart hammering so loud she could barely hear her own footsteps.

paige grinned when she saw her — wide and wild and so stupidly pretty — and opened her arms like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

azzi crashed into her without thinking.

arms around her neck. face buried in her hoodie.

breathless. shaking. laughing.

“you’re insane,” azzi whispered against her shoulder.

“so are you,” paige said, squeezing tighter.

azzi pulled back just enough to look at her.

“you’re gonna get us both expelled.”

paige tilted her head, smirking. “worth it.”

azzi bit back a laugh and grabbed her hand. “c’mon. before someone sees.”

they sprinted back across the lot, hand in hand, into the stairwell, up three flights of stairs, hearts pounding in time.

by the time they reached azzi’s door, they were both breathless — not from running.

from everything else.

azzi fumbled her keys, swearing under her breath. paige laughed quietly against her back.

“you’re so bad at sneaking.”

“you’re distracting,” azzi hissed, finally getting the door open.

she yanked paige inside and shut it fast, the click of the lock sounding way too loud.

for a second, neither of them moved.

then paige dropped her bag with a soft thud and looked around, grinning. “cute room.”

azzi rolled her eyes. “shut up.”

but her heart was racing too fast, her hands trembling too much.

paige walked slowly toward her, hands buried in her hoodie pockets, eyes locked onto her like there was no one else in the world.

“so,” paige said, voice low. “you gonna give me the real welcome, or…?”

azzi raised an eyebrow. “real welcome?”

“you know.” paige took another step closer, closing the distance between them. “the one where you pretend you’re mad at me, but really you’re just dying to kiss me.”

azzi opened her mouth — probably to tell her to shut up again — but paige didn’t give her the chance.

she reached out, grabbed the strings of azzi’s hoodie, and yanked her forward.

their mouths crashed together — messy, desperate, nothing like the slow careful kiss they’d shared at the hotel.

this wasn’t slow.

this was weeks of missing and aching and regret all poured into one furious second.

azzi made a soft sound against her mouth — surprised, needy — and paige swallowed it like she couldn’t get close enough.

paige’s hands slid up into her hair, tugging gently, angling her head just right.

azzi clutched at her waist, fingers twisting in the heavy fabric of her hoodie, trying to pull her closer, closer, closer.

paige backed her up until the backs of azzi’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and then she pushed — gently but firmly — until azzi was sitting.

paige hovered over her, breathing hard, eyes dark.

“you okay?” she whispered, forehead resting against azzi’s.

azzi blinked up at her, dazed.

“i’m perfect,” she breathed.

paige’s lips twitched into a crooked smile.

“good.”

and then she kissed her again — harder this time, deeper, swallowing azzi’s gasp like it was oxygen.

azzi clutched at her hoodie, pulling her down with her, until they both toppled onto the bed, tangled together, mouths never breaking apart.

the world spun around them.

like only this mattered.

paige hands were buried in azzi’s hoodie, fists curled tight, mouth moving over hers like she was trying to memorize every single second.

azzi tasted like mint gum and something sweeter — something that made paige dizzy.

god, she missed this.

missed her.

she pulled back slightly — just enough to look at her.

azzi’s cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, her hair a little messy where paige’s fingers had tugged too hard.

“you’re so beautiful it’s unfair,” paige whispered, voice wrecked.

azzi laughed, a little breathless, a little wrecked herself.

“you’re such a sap.”

“only for you.”

azzi’s eyes darkened — and then, suddenly, she wasn’t the one being kissed anymore.

she was kissing back — hard enough to steal the air from paige’s lungs.

azzi grabbed the hem of paige’s hoodie, fisting it tight, and pulled her down again, flipping their bodies so paige landed half-straddling her thighs.

paige gasped in surprise and azzi grinned against her mouth.

“my turn,” azzi whispered.

paige opened her mouth to respond — maybe tease, maybe say something cocky — but azzi kissed her again before she could.

and this kiss, this one was hotter. more dangerous.

azzi slid her hands under paige’s hoodie, palms skimming over bare skin, and paige shivered.

she couldn’t help it — she moaned quietly into azzi’s mouth.

azzi bit her bottom lip gently in response, pulling back just enough to smirk.

“you missed me that bad, p?”

paige’s face burned — but she didn’t back down.

she grabbed azzi’s jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

“you have no idea,” paige said, voice low and rough.

azzi’s smile faded, replaced with something hungrier.

she tugged paige down again, harder this time.

neither of them was pretending anymore.

they needed this.

they needed each other.

azzi didn’t know where paige started and she ended anymore.

all she knew was paige’s hoodie bunched under her palms, paige’s mouth hot and heavy against hers, paige’s body fitting into hers like they were made for this.

paige kissed like she was drowning — frantic, hungry, desperate to feel everything all at once.

and azzi let her.

she let her until her own chest ached, until her head spun, until she couldn’t breathe without needing more.

and then she kissed back harder — biting at paige’s lip just enough to make her gasp, dragging her fingernails lightly down her ribs under the hoodie.

paige groaned into her mouth.

“baby, please.” she whispered without thinking.

azzi’s fingers stilled.

paige had called her that before, but not like this. not raw and needy and worshipful.

paige froze.

she hadn’t meant to say it — not yet — not now.

but azzi just smiled, slow and soft, and whispered back:

“say it again.”

paige lifted her head, grinning.

“baby,” she repeated, voice low and teasing, pressing kisses just under azzi’s ear.

azzi shivered.

it shattered something inside her.

azzi sat up abruptly, their chests colliding, their breathing ragged.

paige’s hoodie slid half up her body, baring inches of pale skin azzi couldn’t stop staring at.

paige smirked — that cocky, dangerous smirk that always got her in trouble.

“like what you see princess?”

azzi narrowed her eyes, heart hammering.

without a word, she hooked her fingers in the waistband of paige’s sweatpants and tugged her closer.

paige let out a surprised laugh — and then their mouths crashed together again, fiercer this time.

azzi shifted, climbing fully into paige’s lap, straddling her thighs, pressing down just enough to make paige gasp again.

“you’re gonna kill me,” paige muttered against her mouth.

azzi smiled against her lips. “you’ll die happy.”

paige’s hands slid up the back of her hoodie, palms splaying wide across her spine, holding her so tight it almost hurt.

they kissed like that — hard and messy and too much — until azzi’s head was spinning and paige’s hands were shaking.

it wasn’t about proving anything.

it was about everything they hadn’t said, everything they still couldn’t.

it was about not letting go again. not this time.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

paige couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe.

all she knew was azzi — azzi’s mouth, azzi’s hands, azzi’s body pressed against hers like she was trying to crawl inside her skin.

it was overwhelming. it was perfect.

she pulled back just enough to look at her — really look at her.

azzi’s hair was a mess, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen.

she looked wrecked.

she looked beautiful.

paige cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her jaw.

“i missed you,” she whispered, voice breaking.

azzi closed her eyes like it hurt to hear.

“i missed you too,” she breathed.

paige leaned in again, pressing soft kisses along her jawline, her throat, her collarbone — anywhere she could reach.

azzi tilted her head back, giving her access, breathing hard.

“you’re gonna ruin me,” azzi whispered, voice shaking.

paige smiled against her skin.

“already did.”

azzi laughed — a watery, broken sound — and pulled her closer again.

they kissed slower now — deep and languid and aching — like they had all the time in the world.

they didn’t.

but they pretended.

they lay tangled together on the narrow dorm bed, paige half on top of azzi, azzi’s fingers tracing lazy circles on her back under the hoodie.

it was quiet. it was safe. it was dangerous.

paige nuzzled into the crook of azzi’s neck, breathing her in.

they stayed like that — wrapped up in each other — until a sharp knock shattered the silence.

both of them froze.

azzi’s heart leapt into her throat.

another knock — louder this time.

“azzi? you in there?” a voice called. “c’mon, we’re doing movie night! you’re missing it!”

it wasn’t bree or aliyah.

it wasn’t anyone who knew.

azzi and paige locked eyes — wide, panicked.

paige mouthed:

hide?

azzi shook her head quickly and whispered:

stay quiet.

she scrambled off the bed, straightened her hoodie, and called toward the door:

“uh — yeah! be right there! just, uh, changing!”

“okay, hurry up! we’re starting in five!”

footsteps retreated down the hall.

azzi slumped back against the door, heart hammering.

paige was sitting cross-legged on the bed, trying — and failing — to look innocent.

“you,” azzi hissed, pointing at her, “are a menace.”

paige smirked and sprawled back against the pillows like she owned the place.

“you love it.”

azzi narrowed her eyes, trying to look stern, but she couldn’t help the way her lips twitched.

yeah.

she loved it.

she loved her.

even if she couldn’t say it yet.

after things calmed down they curled back into each other, whispers low and messy between kisses.

paige pressed her forehead against azzi’s.

“i don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

azzi tightened her arms around her.

“then don’t.”

paige laughed softly.

“you gonna hide me under your bed all season?”

azzi kissed her temple.

“if i have to.”

they stayed like that — wrapped up, breathing the same air — pretending like the outside world didn’t exist.

but eventually, reality crept back in.

paige’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.

azzi felt her stiffen.

slowly, paige reached for it. one new message. from cd.

where are you? call me. now.

azzi’s blood ran cold.

paige’s hand shook slightly as she lowered the phone.

they stared at each other — the weight of it settling between them.

“what if they know?” azzi whispered.

paige swallowed hard.

“i don’t care.”

azzi did. she cared so much it hurt.

but she also cared about paige more than anything.

and right now, she wasn’t ready to let her go.

not again.

paige reached out and took her hand, squeezing gently.

“whatever happens,” paige said softly, “we got it. okay?”

azzi nodded, throat too tight for words.

together.

for as long as they could be.

for as long as the world would let them.

azzi’s pov:

azzi closed the door gently behind her, hand still gripping the knob like she didn’t quite trust her legs to work yet.

the hallway was quiet.

too quiet.

like the kind of quiet that follows a moment you already know you’ll replay in your head for the rest of your life.

she leaned her forehead against the door. closed her eyes. tried not to feel everything all at once.

the bed still smelled like paige — vanilla shampoo and whatever it was that always clung to her when she wore hoodies two sizes too big. the sheets were rumpled. her pillow had an indent from where paige’s head had been.

azzi didn’t fix it. couldn’t.

she just stood there, heart pounding, a little stunned. a little wrecked.

because the thing is it hadn’t even felt like sneaking around.

it felt like coming home.

and now paige was gone again.

the moment paige stepped back onto uconn’s campus, the cold smacked her in the face — but it wasn’t the weather.

it was geno.

he didn’t yell.

he just stared at her like he was watching a bomb tick down to zero and couldn’t decide whether to duck or let it hit.

“you left campus,” he said. no greeting. no lead-up. just that.

“didn’t tell anyone. didn’t check in. just vanished.”

paige nodded, throat tight. “yeah.”

“and if something happened? if someone saw you?”

paige looked down at her shoes.

“i’m sorry.”

“sorry doesn’t cover it, bueckers,” geno snapped, then paused. exhaled.

“one more stunt like that? you’re benched.”

paige nodded again.

but something in her chest clenched.

she wasn’t sorry about azzi.

she was sorry it got close to costing her this.

azzi’s pov:

practice dragged. every drill felt wrong in her body. every coach’s whistle sounded like it was breaking glass inside her head.

azzi went through the motions, but her mind was somewhere else.

every time her phone buzzed in her locker, she flinched. every time she didn’t see paige’s name, her stomach twisted.

but then, just as she was unlacing her sneakers, it lit up. a text from paige.

alive. not benched. miss you already.

azzi smiled, small and tired, and leaned back against the cool metal of her locker door.

told you i was worth the risk.

you’re worth everything.

her heart dropped to her knees.

it took her five minutes to type back a reply — and she deleted it three times before she hit send.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the week that followed it got easier. and harder.

they texted constantly — like nothing had changed.

and maybe that was the problem.

paige would send dumb tiktok’s at 2 a.m. and azzi would reply half-asleep.

they facetimed when they could, always late, always under the covers with their voices low like they were sixteen again.

“azzi, say something cute or i’m hanging up.”

“you’re lucky you’re hot.”

“that’s not cute, that’s just true.”

“fine. i miss you. happy now?”

”…keep talking.”

and azzi would. until her voice got quieter. until the screen got blurry. until one of them fell asleep mid-sentence.

but under the sweetness, little cracks formed.

one day, paige read azzi’s message and didn’t answer.

azzi waited.

one hour. then two. then six.

nothing.

then, casually, a story went up on one of paige’s teammates instagram.

she was out with friends— laughing, carefree, someone’s hand brushing her shoulder.

azzi stared at it too long.

her throat felt tight. her fingers curled around her phone.

she told herself not to spiral.

but the truth was — she had spiraled before.

that’s how they ended up like this in the first place.

the third day paige didn’t call, azzi stopped checking her phone every two seconds.

she stopped scrolling back to old photos, to saved messages, to that blurry selfie of paige curled under her dorm blanket with the words “wish you were here” typed across the top.

when paige finally texted her again — casual, light, like nothing was wrong — azzi stared at it for a long, long time.

and then, slowly, typed:

i don’t like feeling like an option.

paige stared at her phone, the words burning like acid in her chest.

she read them again.

and again.

she felt it in her stomach first — that cold, dropping sensation like the floor was gone. then her throat tightened, her eyes stung, and suddenly she was on her bed, phone clutched in one hand, forehead pressed to her knees.

she hadn’t meant to pull away. hadn’t meant to be distant.

she was just… tired. overwhelmed. trying to balance everything.

but azzi didn’t know that.

all azzi saw was silence. distance. the kind of neglect that looked a lot like not caring.

paige hit call without thinking.

it rang once. twice.

no answer.

she swore under her breath and tried again.

this time, azzi picked up.

she didn’t say anything at first.

neither did paige.

just breathing.

tight, shallow, broken breathing — like they were both underwater and neither could remember how to come up for air.

“az,” paige said finally, voice low and cracked.

azzi closed her eyes.

“i didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” paige whispered. “like an option.”

“then why did you?” azzi asked quietly.

“because i’m scared,” paige said.

azzi blinked.

“scared of what?”

“of doing this wrong,” paige admitted. “of ruining it. of not being enough.”

her voice broke on the last word.

azzi’s heart twisted.

“you’re already enough,” she whispered.

another long pause.

“i didn’t know if you still wanted me,” paige said. “not just the texts and the flirting. me. all of me. even the messy, screwed up, inconsistent parts.”

“i want all of it,” azzi said. “every part.”

silence again — but it was warmer now. softer.

and then paige said it.

not dramatic. not loud.

just a whisper, like she didn’t know if she was allowed to say it out loud yet.

“i love you.”

azzi froze.

the words settled into the space between them like they belonged there. like they’d always been there, just waiting to be spoken.

paige’s breath hitched. “too much?”

azzi swallowed hard, her voice suddenly shaking.

“no.”

a breath.

“i love you too, paige.”

the second azzi said it back, paige almost dropped the phone.

her throat went tight. her chest cracked wide open.

there was no teasing. no jokes. not this time.

just quiet.

and then—

“took you long enough,” azzi said softly.

paige let out a wet, broken laugh. “shut up.”

azzi sniffled. “make me.

paige smiled. “i would if you were here.”

another beat of silence.

then azzi whispered, “come see me again.”

paige stared at the ceiling.

“i want to,” she said. “i just…”

“are you scared again?”

paige didn’t answer.

but she didn’t need to.

azzi whispered, “we’ll figure it out.”

paige nodded even though azzi couldn’t see her. “yeah.”

paige’s pov:

the next day, at practice, coach pulled her aside again.

“bracket’s almost done,” he said. “you ready for a rematch?”

paige looked at him, heart thudding.

“what rematch?”

he tossed her a printed sheet. tournament seeding projections.

and there it was.

uconn vs. south carolina. potential final four.

her hands trembled as she stared at the page.

everything in her chest turned cold.

because she wasn’t ready.

not to play against her. not to break this again.

not after they said i love you.

[runawayrafetrain]

How deaf!reader met frat!rafe

deaf!reader x frat!rafe

Warnings: partying, crashing a party, season two rafe, poorly written, brief mentions of throwing up, mean kie

Content: fluff I guess

Every Saturday night the pouges took a vote on what they were doing, sometimes there's consideration for what you want to do but not tonight. Tonight they decided that crashing rafe Cameron's yacht party.

Drinking, loud noises, angry kooks, bright lights, and music so loud that you can feel it vibrating through you. Not exactly your cup of tea.

Last week, you convinced them that they should come to your Grandmas house. You all made cookies, Sarah and Pope pretended to have a good time but deep down you knew that they much rather wouldve gone to do something else. JJ and kie snuck off upstairs and John b just watched Sarah. Pope did get mad when you used the measuring cups for solids to measure the amount of water you needed for the recipe.

You ended up telling them that they could all go home early and they all immediately did. You finished baking the cookies with your grandma. She could tell you were upset because you took your hearing aids off and put them in the pocket of your jeans, shutting the world out.

You weren't even planning to go out with them tonight but kie dragged you out, saying "it'll be fun"

It was and is in fact not fun. you're currently sitting alone on the edge of the yacht, waiting for the pouges to get bored and come back so you can leave. Your hearing aids are off and in your hands. The music is still too loud and you can still feel the vibrations from it, it makes you nauseous.

You see someone coming out of the yacht, probably just to throw up into the ocean like everyone else who's come out of the party has. Whoever it is is now sitting beside you. You turn to them, expecting to see one of the pouges.

Rafe Cameron, Sarah's brother and someone you've never actually talked to. His mouth is moving, you stare at his mouth. You squint, trying to figure out what he's saying. He's speaking to quickly and his words look sloppy, he's probably drunk or at least tipsy. Your gaze moves up to his eyes, silently staring.

He stops talking, it looks like he sighs and looks at the ocean. You quickly slip your hearing aids on and look back at him, he's looking at you again.

"are you deaf or something?"

You just nod, it hurts when people say things like that because you know that they don't actually know about your deafness. his expression is now surprised and a small "oh" leaves his lips.

"so could I like... Get your number?" He's obviously drunk, maybe he doesn't realize you're a pouge and not a kook.

"I guess-"

"rafe, leave her alone!" Kie's voice is piercing and her footsteps are heavy, quickly making her way over. "Did you seriously just ask for her fucking phone number you asshole?"

"yes ma'am, I did. Here, write it on my hand" he passes you a pen that was in his jean pocket. Sarah tries to snatch it from you but you pull it away.

"I'll give him my number if I choose to"

"you're seriously giving him your number?"

"he's the only one who's made an effort to spend time with me tonight." Kie scoffs and quickly goes back in, trying clearly trying to find all the pouges so everyone can leave. You quickly write your number on his before you hear the quick footsteps of the pouges coming back to get you.

Rafe slides the pen back into his pocket and gives you a lopsided grin. Kie grabs your arm too hard and starts dragging you back to the little speed boat that the pouges used to get to the yacht. You just take off your hearing aids and sit silently.

Tags: @angelpoguesofia, @yesshewrites1, @suzuki-18, @bubbleguppieshh

[fractoluminescence]

Okay so I agree with this to a certain extent BUT

There is something fundamental that OP and I disagree on based on her manifesto and I'd like to talk about it

(Note, however, that I'm not really addressing OP here - I'm actually not really into discussing this stuff, as it tends to send me down spirals of rumination. This is just because I think what OP pointed out is interesting and that I think both that AND my caveat tend to not be considered in conversations, and I think bringing them together is a good thing. Hence I'm gonna try doing that here)

Yes, art should be free. But we are people. How people feel about things SHOULDN'T be the be-all end-all, but it SHOULD be taken into account most of the time, for the same reason that freedom is important, but shouldn't be the be-all end-all. For the same reason that I probably shouldn't be sent to jail for slapping a stranger out of nowhere in the street, but it's still not great to do it, and I probably shouldn't.

I don't think AI artists are evil. I know some people who do. And I know some people who don't care. And both sides seem convinced that there is no possible in between at times.

But AI is arriving at a plateau. Beyond a certain point, it stops improving. If there is no need for AI to eat up an infinity of data, then there is no need to scrape the works of artists that don't want their works scraped.

And you don't have to understand. For the same reason that I don't have to understand why my parents would enjoy a specific movie to understand that, even if it's not gonna ruin their lives, and if necessary or if I really want to I should be allowed to walk across out living room screaming while they are trying to watch it, it's still not the greatest thing to do.

I've never been one for politeness. Hell, I get into arguments all the times over people saying I shouldn't be saying so and so. But even I recognize that life is more peaceful and less distressing when we have specific codes to signal to each other that we're not seeking to do them harm.

For the same reason that I don't think AI artists should be harrassed, I don't think the works of artists should be scraped if they don't want them scraped. Because it causes unnecessary distress. Hell, if people only got scraped by opting in or uploading their art into a website, I'd gladly accept, personally.

But because it walks all over the feelings of people who don't want to be involved, I -cannot- endorse AI as it exists today. And yeah, people's feelings -are- important. Because that's all our lives are made of, most of the time, isn't it? Feelings. Emotions. And I think that matters.

My point is - soulless art? Souls are a thing now? And do people not marvel at nature even though it has no intent? Do people not marvel at even rock structures when they are pretty, even though they contain no life?

Stop trying to make AI evil because of some made-up characteristic you assigned to what it creates. You can have that feeling, if you want - but then, when anyone suggests otherwise, I've seen so many people pounce on them like they have been contaminated by that abstract evil that people assigned to AI.

Let people goddamn think. There can be nuance to a thing.

And feelings matter, too. And I'm tired of people pretending that they don't.

(Edit: To clarify my personal feelings towards all this, in case it wasn't clear enough, I do not like AI art. I don't reblog it if I know or can tell that that's what it is, and don't use GenAI myself. I just think the argument that anything that incorporates AI into it is automatically soulless. But some people are annoying or downright offensive in the way they bring up AI at times. It just personally gets on my nerves, and I am against the scraping of the art of artists that wish they could contest to it)

(Also there's the overtaking of stuff like google by AI images that is just. I mean it kinda gives me anxiety)

(At least AO3 has a filter for it...? I just hope people tag appropriately, as is the tradition on there)

(But I'm getting a bit far from the topic of image generation here)

hey what’s up, i think you’re pretty cool but disagree with you on the whole ai can make art thing. to me, without the purpose from an actual person creating the piece, it’s not art but an image; as all human art has purpose. some driving factor in a work, compared to a program which purely creates the prompt without further intention. i was wondering what your insight on this is? either way, hope you have a great day

well, first of all, does art require 'purpose'? there's this view of art which has very much calcified in "anti-AI" rhetoric, that art is some linear process of communication from one individual to another: an Artist puts some Meaning into a unit of Art, which others can then view to Recieve that Meaning. you can hold this view, but i don't! i'm much more of a stuart hall-head on this, i think that there is no such transfusion of Intent and that rather the 'meaning' of a piece is something that exists only in the interplay between text and reader. reading is an active, interpretative process of decoding, not a passive absorptive one. so i dispute, firstly, that 'purpose' is to begin with a necessary or even imporant element of art.

moreover i think this argument rests on a very arbitrarily selective view of what counts as "an actual person creating the piece" -- 'the prompt' is, itself, an obvious artistic contribution, a place where an artist can impart huge amounts of direction, vision, and so on. in fact, i completely reject the claim of both the technology's biggest detractors that genAI "makes art" -- to quote kerry mitchell's fractal art manifesto: "Turn a computer on and leave it alone for an hour. When you come back, no art will have been generated." in the past, i've posed questions about generative art pieces to demonstrate this

secondly, of course, the process does not end after image generation from prompt for serious generative artists--the ones who are serious about the artform (rather than tech guys trying to do marketing for the Magical Art Box) frequently iterate and iterate, generating a range of iterations and then picking one to iterate on further, so on and so forth, until the final image they choose to share is one that contains within it the traces of a thousand discrete choices on behalf of the artist (two pretty good explanations of this from people who actually do this stuff can be found here and here)

third and finally, that very choice to share the image is itself an artistic decision! we (and by we, i mean, anyone who cares about what art is) have been talking about this since fountain -- display is a form of artistic intent, taking something and putting it forward and saying 'this is art' is in and of itself an artistic decision being made even if the thing itself is unaltered: see, for example, the entire discipline of 'found art'. once someone challenged me, yknow, "if you did a google search, would that be art?" and my answer to that is, if you screenshot that google search and share it as art, then yes, resoundingly yes! curation and presentation recontextualizes objects, turning them into rich texts through the simple process of reframing them. so even if you granted that genAI output is inherently random computer noise (i don't, of course) -- i still think that the act of presenting it as art makes it so.

since i assume you're not familiar with anything interesting in the medium, because the most popular stuff made with genAI is pure "lo-fi girl in ghibli style" type slop, let me share some genAI pieces (or genAI-influenced pieces) that i think are powerful and interesting:

the meat gala, rob sheridan (warning: body horror!)

secret horses (does anyone know the original source on this?)

infinite art machine, reachartwork

ethinically ambigaus, james tamagotchi

mcdonalds simpsons porn room, wayneradiotv

software greatman, everything everything (the music is completely made by the band, but genAI was partially responsible for the lyrics -- including the title and the several interesting pseudo-kennings)

i want a love like this music video, everything everything

cocaine is the motor of the modern world, bots of new york

poison the walker, roborosewatermasters (here's my analysis posts on it too)

not all of these were necessarily intended as art: but i think they are rich and fascinating texts when read that way -- they have certainly impacted me as much as any art has.

anyways, whether you agree or not, i hope this gives you some stuff to think about, thanks for sharing your thoughts :)

[fruchtfliege]

WIP Wednesday 🫡

Tagged by @hemlocksandfoxgloves @thiamsalpha @axxxx13 and @diaphanous-anchor ☺️☺️ thank youuuu

“You’re going down!” Liam screams, trying to push Mason with his shoulder while still keeping his eyes firmly on the screen.

“Aw, do you really think you’ve got a chance?” Mason pushes him back even harder. 

“You’re going down, your family is going down, your whole town is going down!” Liam laughs maniacally, feeling the euphoria of his soon-to-be victory. He’s been eating shit all night, Mason beating him no matter what character or battle arena he picked for the fight and he’s done losing! He even harassed Mason to stay past his week curfew and it’s for the sole purpose of at least beating his ass once! And it’s finally within his reach!

Just as he's about to give the final hit, finally ending the reign of tyranny that Mason has been holding over his head for months, just as his thumb is about to press the metaphorical trigger and murder Mason’s streak in cold blood, his ears pick up a familiar sound in the distance. Turning his head, Liam focuses on it for a moment and, yeah, it’s definitely Theo's car. Liam checks his phone but there’s nothing. No notification, no missed calls. Weird. Theo usually asks him before dropping by. 

“Ah-ha! You thought you could kill me!? Me!? I'm the grandmaster of video games, Liam! Not even your heightened senses can help you now!”  

From the corner of his eye, Liam spots his character – Link – being absolutely obliterated by Peach’s final smash. Nothing he could’ve done about it, he doesn't even have the controller in his hands anymore. 

Mason's chuckle stops as soon as Liam is on his feet, opening his window. He does a double take, surprised to see that his best friend has already moved on from the legendary beating. 

“What are you doing?” Liam whisper-screams out the window. 

“Who is doing what?” Mason gets on his feet too but Liam is completely blocking the view with the top half of his body outside and his ass sticking out in his bedroom. Mason groans and still tries to make himself a small place above him to check what’s going on. 

“Wait, why are you leaving?” Liam tries again. “I can obviously see you, asshole, come back here!”

Mason understands the second he sees Theo hesitating by the side of Liam’s house, not saying anything, that he should probably leave. It’s late and Theo is glancing their way like he wants to stay but there's something bugging him. Mason can take a hint!

“Hey, so I’m gonna go,” Mason says quickly, trying to put Theo out of his misery. “I’ll see you at-”

“What? No! I still didn’t beat you, you can’t leave,” Liam cuts him off almost rudely but it only makes Mason laugh.

“That’s never gonna happen,” Mason says under his breath before he gives an innocent look at Liam like he hasn’t said anything at all. He quickly changes the subject before Liam starts talking nonsense and says that he’ll win the next game or something. “No, I get it, you two need some time alone. I don't mind.” 

Still mostly outside of the window, Liam hits the back of his head as tries to get back in with lightning speed and his high-pitched “what!?” dies into a moan of pain.

NPT: @thiamsxbitch @ksbbb @honestlydarkprincess @aristarr @akirasstories @attempted--eloquence @awinnn23 @ashyjingles @genetic-hellhound @opheliathiams @johnsotherbastard @valkyrievoid-15 @slimeyslimeyballsack @morganasmissus @haven-of-dusk @lovelylittlegrim @okay-but-could-we-not @el-viruss ❤️☺️

[veryace-ficrecs]

The Pitt Fic Recs Part 1

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

This Is The Day In Chaos by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

As the Pitt descends into its usual chaos, Dr Robby brings coffee and encouragement to his beleaguered team. Samira Mohan and Dennis Whittaker bond, while Mel King finally makes a joke -- intentionally!

The Dead Don’t Answer by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch learned a long time ago that death isn’t quiet—it’s a symphony of chaos, a brutal soundtrack of screaming monitors, cracking ribs, and the rush of hands fighting the inevitable. At Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, there are always calls for help. Because the dead don’t answer. But the living don’t have a choice.

The Aftermath by AGirlHasNoName20 - Rated T

Two weeks after Pittfest, Robby is presented with a choice. Or: The one in which Robby starts therapy. Don't read unless you've watched the entire season 1.

Rules of Law by jumpfall - Rated G

The night Robby signed his attending contract, he was introduced to the Laws According to Adamson. He likes to hope that if he leaves his trainees with nothing else, it'll be the Addendums According to Robby. - Alternatively, is it really a fandom until there's a five things fic?

To Be A Doctor by mossterious -Rated G

Four student doctors. Four paths to get there. Four points of view. One hospital. — Aka I need to get used to writing different character povs SO HAVE SOME TINY CHARACTER STUDIES I GUESS?!

people come and go on the breeze by sweetmuses - Rated M

Redemption is a hard, long journey. She knows this probably better than most people. You have to keep yourself afloat amongst the madness, being acutely aware of tipping back into the ether. It’s easier to live within the boundless ocean of guilt than to take accountability - because to take accountability means that you’re willing to work for it, and there’s no way of knowing when you’ll slip up and fall.

Or: A reflection on the in-betweens of life, ghosts, and the human condition, through the eyes of Cassie McKay.

In Memoriam by fundotperiod - Rated G

How Robby has grieved and remembered his mentor.

Reflection by ZHH123 - Rated G

She thinks back on all the moments she almost couldn’t bear. The moments that prompted her to question if she belonged in the pitt. Then she thinks of her triumphs.

Last Call by jumpfall - Rated T

“Sorry if I woke you,” Robby says. Jack shrugs. “Middle of the day in my time zone.” He waits a beat, and then asks, “You want to talk?” “No.” “You want a drink?” “You'd allow that?” “No,” Jack says. “Just lets me gauge how concerned I should be.” – 1x15 episode tag.

The Pitt Crew! by megas217 - Rated G

Welcome to the Pitt Crew a story about the doctors and nurses who work in the Pitt.

Sursum Corda by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing) - Rated M

A few hours after Pittfest, Langdon returns to the ED.

The Way, Way Back by jumpfall - Rated T

Robby, post 1x13.

And I Said Nothing by elpopooley66 - Rated T

Trinity Santos is not okay. She’s never really been okay. But she’s held herself together this long — on caffeine, adrenaline, and silence sharp enough to cut. The Pitt sees it. Langdon sees it. And for once, maybe she lets herself be seen. They don’t fix her. They just don’t leave. Sometimes, that’s enough. Featuring: unresolved trauma, a lobster named Greb, a borrowed hoodie, and the terrifying prospect of letting someone care. Or: the one where she stops pretending she’s fine — and someone finally calls her bluff.

what a weight to live under by shirelings - Rated T

Mel’s convinced she’s made it to the door without anyone noticing her before a voice stops her dead in her tracks. “Dr. King.” It’s said in that sort of way that’s not really a question even if someone else would frame it like that, and Mel lets her shoulders rise up a little towards her ears as she slowly turns. Oh, boy. - Mel does, in fact, talk to Abbot at the end of the day.

Change of Watch by jumpfall - Rated T

When Robby's phone vibrated twenty minutes ago, he'd been dealing with a critical GSW to the adbomen and unable to answer. Now there's a voicemail from Jake.

Even Grouches Need to Go to the Hospital by lolathatch - Rated T

Trinity Santos finds a video of Doctor Robby from his younger days and makes it everyone's problem.

singing in unison by dotsayers - Rated M

Leah's sick the night before Pittfest. Robby gets his ticket back.

just a drop of water in an endless sea by evening_spirit - Rated G

Robby’s going to be fine, a rational part of Frank’s mind says. You’re the last person Robby needs right now, says another part, the one that hates himself. But Frank saw the look in Robby’s eyes and he knows that Robby is not fine. Not this time. And no one else will help. But should it be him? Maybe he should go get Dana? Abbot? Damn, if at least Collins was here. But Collins is not here, Dana doesn’t have anything more to give and Abbot is a pragmatic, a doer, not someone who would comfort another. Then again, neither is Frank. Or--a 1x13 coda where Frank and Robby talk, but it doesn't really solve anything.

Aftershocks by jumpfall - Rated T

Ways they are (and aren't) coping with the mass casualty incident.

living weighs heavier by Antumbra - Rated T

Maybe none of them were ever meant to be alright, not once they’d chosen to devote themselves to this career that could only tear them down and break them apart. Or: an alternate take where Jack finds Robby after his breakdown.

[astraeus-tree]

Disparities Between Our Souls

PROLOGUE - Someone I Have Loved, But Never Known

Retelling of this

Prologue -> Chapter 1

Lonely.

That’s what it was like in this manor.

It wasn’t forsaken, quite the contrary actually. It was full of life, many resided in this plot and many more visited, but those figures were strangers to you. Strangers whom you knew the name and face of, strangers whose secret lives were known to you, but strangers nonetheless.

Much to your misfortune, your father was one of these said strangers. Your only proper conversation with him was when you first moved to the mansion and were introduced to your father.

From the first moment you met him, you knew your relationship would be strained. After all, he didn’t even bother to pick you up with the butler when you were revealed to be his daughter. His public persona of a playboy certainly didn’t help this opinion of yours towards him.

Alas, your instincts were right. You barely saw him in the manor—in fact, you saw Alfred more than him.

What you didn’t realise at the time though was that your siblings would also leave you in the dark. That you would be a lonely person despite not being an only child. Excuses piled upon excuses whenever you tried to talk to them.

Dick was “busy with Bludhaven, he’s sorry he can’t come.” You envied him, he had good relations with almost everyone in the family and everyone connected to the Waynes or Batman.

Jason… Oh dear. He was your baby brother that went through too much, too young. He was your sole companion in the manor before he died, but now, your relationship was just as strained as it was with the other members of your family.

Tim’s time was taken up with solving cases or taking naps in the most random spots. You knew more than most that it was better to leave him alone to his own devices.

Damian had hated your very existence. Initially you tried but eventually you gave up, like what you did with the others, when you could see that harboured nothing other than hatred for you.

The only exception to this conundrum of yours was Cassandra. You two were finally forming a friendship after the barrier between you two finally crumbled. You weren’t close just yet, but it was getting there. Hell, you’re even proud to call her your sister.

Your upbringing was vastly different to your current life. You grew up with your aunt, your sweet lovable aunt. You dearly missed the simpler times when it was just you and your aunt, not with this ‘family’ of yours.

If you could, you would still be living with her, but the circumstances were not in your favour. Instead, you spent your days alone in a manor as big as the hole in your soul created by the loneliness you’ve been living with for the past few years. In fact, that’s what you were doing right now. Eating your dinner separate from your family in order to not felt left out, ironically enough.

You didn’t hate them, no. In fact, you held admiration for them for protecting Gotham and other cities, but when your auntie sent you to live with the Waynes in hopes to live a better and more social life, disappointment was inevitable.

Another day passes by in Gotham, nothing of note worthy happened during the day, and nothing that differed from the usual happened at night. Batman and Robin were on patrol, and the rest were doing their own patrol or dealing with other things, which you assumed were criminal-related as well.

You slept in the quiet of your room. The only thing seemingly out of place was the barely audible sound of small legs scattering on the floors. An anomaly in the usually clean and arachnid-free Wayne Manor. Not as if you would hear it though, after all, why would you be awake in the dead of night?

The pain that was induced to your arm was definitely a reason why. Your eyes snap open and although your mind was still half-asleep, you could tell that this pain was like no other. To make matters worse, lifting any part of your body felt impossible, like your flesh was suddenly replaced with lead.

Your vision becomes blurry, tears welling in your eyes as you suddenly felt the room get hotter and hotter. Or was that your body getting warmer? You couldn’t tell with everything happening almost all at once. Your breaths shorten and become shallow from not only the sudden fever, but also the overwhelming sensations.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see a colourful circle, oddly resembling a portal that people would see in movies, but you were pretty sure your mind was deceiving you. You definitely didn’t care right now, all you wanted was to get rid of all this pain and go back to sleep. You wanted to call out to Alfred, but he was most likely in the Batcave and something in your gut told you your voice wouldn’t reach him even if he wasn’t.

Your vision faded in and out, everything was swirling, even when you closed your eyes. You could feel the sensation of being pulled, but you had no chance nor energy to fight against it.

All too fast, yet simultaneously all too slow, your mind faded to black, the pain too much to deal with.

Taglist

@kik1010 @cxcilla @00hellohello00 @bluepanda08 @frankie-moon3 @guyfuitty @lumi320 @type-ink @kye-chen-r @sugasweettea @sillyheartmoonnyx

Finally done this oml. Sorry this is so short, I wanted to add more of the original idea, like introducing Miguel, but it didn't feel like it fit as a prologue so I cut it and moved it into the first chapter, which I will try to make longer

This isn't edited, so there will most likely be mistakes, feel free to point those out and I will fix them as soon as possible. I also don't speak Spanish, only English and Tagalog so if those two words were kinda cringe for all you Spanish speakers, just tell me and I'll remove them lmao

I was writing this through a writer's block and a splitting headache so I apologise if the writing is a bit sub-par

I'd also like to mention that this story will be a bit slower paced, so do with that what you will

Thank you all for the support in the OG post as well, that honestly made my week

Have a great day/night everybody <3

[dyspunktional-leviathan]

"And I vehelmently disagree that what they're doing is a creative endeavor" yikes, what can I say.

....did you. Just actually say. That directors are not artists and their work does not matter in their projects. (Btw this just in: there's no meaningful difference between any different Hamlet productions, and Ikuhara Kunihiko should not be credited for Revolutionary Girl Utena (I *do* very much disagree with the culture of treating directors like they're the *only* creators. But their work is most certainly crucial and central)

The point of the first link and why I linked it is not even about copyright, the reason I linked it does not have literally anything to do with copyright. And if you think what AI does is copying and therefore bad you should also be against reference usage, collaging, and really any human learning. And redraws. And stories heavily inspired by other stories.

The second link is talking about the effect of generating not training because that is also what so much of the anti AI rhetoric is focusing on. I have possibly never seen anti-AI arguments about the training before, and arguments about generation are constant. There are several more threads on environmental effects of AI in my AI discourse tag several of which have anti AI people in them arguing about the environmental costs of generation, with pro AI people responding to them. I do not have resources about training on hand, there probably are people more knowledgeable than me who do; my pro AI position stays firm for other reasons regardless (also there. Can be made a lot of new AI art without new training so that may even go into "this problem is not a problem about the AI art". Training could be stopped if needs be and usage could be continued). "You're focusing on this specific thing and excuse all these other often more damaging things" is not meaningless whataboutism.

Among the many reasons that gen ai is bad, don't forget that creativity is a power you have that requires upkeep and work. Every line you draw or write is something you created and that is an amazing thing.

[keferon]

Don’t mind me I just like to see him go bananas about cartoonish Autobot rules

Maaan…..if Prowl was in tfp he would spontaneously combust at least once a day

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Suddenly remembered something I wanted to say re:Akechi, because I think it's really core to his character (at least the way I interpreted him?) and I feel like it explains a lot of his contradictions. Essentially, he is incapable of seeing himself as just a person - he's either the greatest hero/detective ever, or he's some violent monster, and it's like there's no in-between. It's very in keeping with his obvious superiority-inferiority complex, but it goes deeper than that too; when he's in a role, it seems like his self-perception kind of changes too depending on how he is perceived by others. He really does get a confidence boost from being the Detective Prince. He really does shut down emotionally as the Black Mask.

They're masks that he's made, and it's not that aspects of them aren't based in truth to some extent, but I think it goes to show why he's not actually that fantastic a liar (imo, I found the outright lies pretty obvious), but he is a very good actor. He's either an angel or a demon, and never a person, but there are conditions to that. He is an angel when he is perfect - to society. He is a demon when he is vengeful - again, to society. He is never a person, because he never was seen as one - to society. He was disregarded. To be anything of value or notoriety, whether that's hero or villain, he has to be wildly more or less than who he actually is, and he's been building these masks up for so long that I really think he lost sight of the actual person behind it all. And I don't think he wanted to see that person anyways, because that person "wasn't good enough" and I do think he'd rather be anything other than himself. That trickery, that deflection from the person within, in itself brings him pride and satisfaction. He wants to be loved and needed instead of being cast aside, but I also think that if he can't have that then he'd much rather be hated than never have mattered at all. He weaponizes his own loneliness - if he can't ever be accepted then he'll build his own pedestal apart from everyone else.

It's so fascinating too, because I just wonder how much of this he was consciously aware of pre, during, and post engine room. There's this recurring thing with him where he goes "I can only be myself" etc but I just want to shake him because, well, who is that, Akechi??? Or, who do you think that is? Do you actually have an answer? Is it predicated on your actual feelings or solely on your success at fooling everyone around you? Is there any part of you that you actually like that isn't based on a painstakingly constructed mask? Isn't it all mostly lies to deflect from the truth? Isn't it all founded mostly on truth, nonetheless?

It drives me insane. And I think this is a big reason why he breaks so hard in the engine room, because so much of his mask requires his "audience" to perform in a particular way. And here he is, and the Thieves have beaten him, so there goes the first mask, because he's no longer "perfect". He swings wildly into the ugliest sides of him, but this mask is broken too, amidst him vehemently and desperately denying that he has any other emotions than hatred and rage, or any other needs or desires than vengeance. And after that, it's just him. And they should reject him, right? That's what happens. He's not useful, he's not needed or perfect, his hands are stained with blood. But the Thieves, again, don't play the role he expects them to. They, despite everything, relate to him - because he is in fact very similar in a lot of ways and they acknowledge him as a person - not a hero, or idol, or villain, or tool, or unwanted child - but as a damaged teen like the rest of them. And he does not know what to do with that. His identity is intrinsically dependent on getting the right reactions from other people as a form of ingratiating himself - if he does not get that reciprocal reaction he's looking for, his act falters, and, I really do believe that so does his self-perception. That's why you see different aspects of him seep out when he's spending time with Joker, because Joker does not react the way he expects, and Akechi both does and does not like this, because it leaves him feeling both intrigued and vulnerable.

I do think this particular aspect of his character is something a lot of the Thieves don't fully grasp - certainly, I think Joker "I need the mask" Persona 5 understands to a degree, but the sheer degree of reliance and the level of pride attached to it is something that confuses him a little, I think, especially in Mementos Mission. I think the thief that comes closest is actually Morgana, who has a similar superiority-inferiority complex and a desperate need to be seen as competent and useful lest he be discarded. (This is a big part of why the rather lackluster writing with Morgana's arc frustrates me so much because I really do feel it was meant to be contrasted with Akechi's, but I digress.) Morgana is the one to make that emotional appeal to Akechi, which makes a degree of sense - Morgana struggled all along with finding a place in the world. His form leads others to underestimate him; he visually doesn't fit in. He's acting out the role of a chivalrous and cool phantom thief but is more pragmatic with how he views relationships, at least at first. He wants a place to belong where he is appreciated more than anything but his pride won't let him spit it out. Accepting that he belongs and that he is loved even if he really did have nothing of value to provide is a big part of the resolution of his arc. He tries to offer that learned lesson to Akechi in turn ("Follow your true feelings. Even if you think people hate you, or don't want you around-"), but Akechi just wasn't in the right space to listen. There's also an important distinction between the two - Morgana envies humans and looks up to them. Akechi envies humans and looks down on them. Morgana is perfectly happy once he is assured a place amongst the group, but Akechi see-saws wildly between wanting to belong and wanting to be a step above the rest and separating himself further. So while Morgana actually really did cut to the core of the issue, his appeal would never have worked at this point because a) Akechi's pride is dependent on him maintaining his solo act, and b) he just got outed as not actually hating Joker in front of seven other people including Joker himself lmao.

So, uh, sorry, Morgana. Points for trying.

[villainsidechick]

Hey there gurl. I can see where you're coming from and that's hard to digest. I'm not a creator so I can't really understand how you feel. I haven't been super active lately but this hit me in the feels.

People have valid views. They can have valid criticisms too. I'm not trying to say none of that matters. I want everyone to feel they are valid and represented.

All in all, it's YOUR story. You have well-thought-out characters and beautiful prose. Even pro writer's self insert to some point (cough Twilight cough). Not that I'm comparing you to her.

You're writing what you know/what interests you. Although I agree all marginalized people should be getting more representation in every aspect, especially entertainment. But you're also not a pro. You're writing fanfiction in your spare time. No one is expecting perfection. And since you're white, it seems unconsciously you would write that way not that you're intentionally trying to be biased. You're self-inserting into the character that you're writing.

You've at least acknowledged this and that's something many wouldn't even bother doing. But for anyone to expect you to change your stories or that you feel you have to -- I don't think that is fair either. I can't imagine the level of time, creativity and talent it takes to write the way you do.

I mean no disrespect to any person of color, gender, religion, etc by saying this. I rarely see Bisexual representation either and I doubt it will change. Thank you for writing a Bi Silco btw. I need to reread it cuz I've been on my Nosferatu/vampire shit lately but seeing a bi character anywhere surprises me. Some might not like it because they see Silco as gay (which I like) and some may only want him straight (which I also love because I would bang that old man into the dust). I know you're bi too and so there you are representing what you know.

But you can't possibly please everyone with your stories. As far as tagging, you do have your fics tagged as OC too (I did look). So hopefully, that's a heads up to any reader.

If you feel more comfortable writing in that POV, maybe just add extra tags to state the OC is caucasian female? I specifically look for tags in stories that I want and don't want.

You could keep your OC in the younger Silco story with the hair, and everything, but maybe just not mention the skin color? There are plenty of poc with all sorts of hair colors. Silver hair, purple eyes would be hot on a woman with dark skin. So maybe you don't need to change much -- IF you want to. Don't change it because you feel you have to.

And maybe your future stories you could do something like making the character's appearance a bit more vague. Before I read Ink and Dagger's Drink with Me, I saw all the fanart and I visualized the character exactly like that when I was reading, a buxom, white female with short dark hair. That's probably the most popular fic in all Silco fandom. So I think you shouldn't beat yourself up that your doing something wrong.

If it was so wrong, no one would be reading your stories and gurly, they are eating it up. So, I want you to smile. You acknowledged someone's legit grievances and that you made a post about it shows you DO CARE. You are such a fucking tender heart and I don't want to see you demoralized and stop writing.

Please write your stories they way you want. Finish the ones you are already working on and don't worry about it.

If you keep writing more Silco fics, then you can decide how you want it to go. If you want to keep writing Reader pov, then do it. There's no one right or wrong way. Writing is hard. Art is hard. If it was easy, dumbshits like me with no talent would do it. People like it or they don't. Ultimately, it's your art.

Maybe this will piss people off and I don't care if I lose followers or get hate but I've been talking to you on and off for months and you are such a sweetheart and treat people so graciously and full of kindness. I would be angry to see something I know makes you happy turn into something that makes you paranoid and unhappy because you're trying too hard to make others happy. You were not hurting anyone on purpose. You were just doing what was inspiring you.

You addressed the issue with grace and honesty. I also don't think anyone should tell you how to write your stories. They can choose to read or not. There are hundreds of fanfics out there. You do this for free. You can try your best and it may still not be good enough for some people. All you can do is try something different. If it doesn't work, then you do you.

Baby gurl, write the way you want. I will be there to read it. If it's only the two us fangirling over monster fucking vampires and Silco parading around as the Phantom. So be it.

I feel like I owe my readers an apology.

It's been made known to me that readers who are POC feel excluded in how I've written my 'you/reader' style Silco fanfics.

I've never written Reader-style fics before this. This is new to me and I fear my white privilege is showing because they way I've written the "Reader" is essenitally white.

This was not intentional to exclude anyone or make them feel 'taken out of the story' because I failed in properly making the "Reader" neutral so the actual reader could visualize that character to fit the "you" perspective.

I honestly never even considered it or that I was doing this. It's just how I saw the character and I should have tagged the stories as OFC and not "you", even though it's written that way.

I'm not sure how to correct this unless I rewrite them. Please be aware I did not intentionally mean to exclude anyone from being able to insert themselves into the Reader character because I wrote 'her' as white.

I think I'll scrap future Silco stories i was planning to write to avoid this and not make anyone uncomfortable or offend them. I don't think I can write them as OFC since readers seem prefer the "you" format but I'm not sure how to write a blank character either.

I feel like im alienating a whole group of readers and I'm really sorry.

Addendum:

I don't want to be that person who ignores valid criticism.

But for my sanity, I'm just going to finish Bend as is. To change it or rewrite when it's almost finished will throw me off and delay it further when it's taken me a year to post one chapter. I'll rewrite it when it's done but I don't think that will appease those right now and im sorry. But I can only do so much with the little time I have. I think it's better i just get it done and over with.

I'll most likely scrap the other stories and start over. People don't seem to care for OC stories and prefer Reader pov. Either way I'll need to rewrite them. My writing style has always been a certain way and it may take time to change how I do it. I've never thought of it before and now I should take more care in being more inclusive or not write Reader povs anymore. Either way I'm prepared to lose readers.

At this point I cant honestly say when a new chapter will come. For those who have been crazy patient with me, I cant ask you to continue to do so.

I'm literally staring at the new chapter and have no motivation right now. I'm stuck. Please check out all the other great Silco authors out there.

[golby-moon]

made a thing that kinda applies to @letsdrawcastiel's monthly prompt of winter cas I suppose since those are Christmas cookies right there. this is a continuation of another art piece thingy I made a little while back

the epic saga continues. Dean and Cas somehow managed to actually make the cookies, but never got around to decorating them for...important reasons and as usual, we shall now all bow our heads in prayer for Samuel Winchester and this miserable existence he calls life

(poor poor Sam, like he's not the one who hung up the mistletoe and I can still never spell that word right on the first try ghbgiy)

(12/12/24)

[kindaasrikal]

Batman and Ninjago are having too many similarities right now.

“You know Ras?-” which one “you know, the cult leader saying he’s trying to make the world better but makes it worse-” WHICH ONE

“Oh man i can’t believe Jay ran away and became some weird villain anti hero-” WHICH ONE ARE WE TALKING ABOUT.

[necrotic-nephilim]

so. now that my accidental hiatus is over and i've rattled myself free of the grave, i just want to give a general update on this blog and where i'm at with it. because i do love this blog and want to post, but when i made this blog, the intention of it was canon-based metas and discussions around DC that were often ship-focused, but also just generally my opinions on the fandom. and of course i enjoy rolling around in the filth and having a lot of sexual/dead dove posts on main, but it did overwhelm me a bit when that became my entire blog and i got more asks than i could keep up with.

so in the future, i think i'm going to stagger how fast i answer asks and try to find a healthy mix of my own metas, dead dove shipposting, and whatever else i want to put here. and while i don't want to close asks because i invite discourse my way, i do have to say i will be much slower to answering them. sometimes we will be whores on main, sometimes we will be analyzing this fandom and it's source material on main. who is to say. but either way, we're back and no one can get rid of me.

[animation-is-my-jam]

Yuppp!! Exactly

-And I like Two-brains being a father figure and dadbrains is an interesting concept, it's only that looking at his character, it would make sense he would be a flawed parent in his own way and kinda bad at it but that what makes it good in writing and character exploration. Villain found family is also good. I'm only miffed at the idea that somehow the villains would be a better family for characters like Becky or Tobey (and calling the botsfords/claire awful or irrelevant) when no i think those kids fine where they are. I mean, I do think the villains can be part of Tobey's family (he's a lonely boy), and that's cute, but actually taking care of him in a parental way? Jhjffshgee oh no. (And reading your tags, you're so right Victoria is right there when it comes to her being adopted by the villains, it'll be messy but like 100× better than what she has with her parents. I've actually seen a concept from someone of her getting taken in by blhg and invisibill, and that's cute).

-also yeah the abusive accusations are ugh. They've always been. I can see why, but again, this is a woman trying to stop her son from literally causing mass destruction on a weekly basis. It's fair to say that she could subconsciously does fall into a form of abuse (neglect or control) but then again it's not actually on intent or ignorance and it could come from her being a heavily stressed single mother who has no idea how to handle her son lashing out yet (have you tried looking after a smartass 10 year old? oh, my stars). But she loves him. It's obvious she does. And she is protective of him (you ever think about how she also wants him to stop with the robots because he could get hurt? He almost could have died multiple times if not for WG and ig the pbs censors). If there's anything to pick apart with her and her parenting (which I've done), I love her sm but she's my problematic queen). It's her own pride and ego about him, probably earing his own ego (like getting him into many competitions or bragging about his intelligence, which at first he didn't seem comfortable with if we want to look at the pictures on his house wall). And of course, her busyness not to notice his emotional distress, and even her leniency on him continuing to be a villain. People say that she's not letting him be with his fixation on robots but like...despite how she tells him to stop with the robots she hasn't actually taken his passion away, at most she grounds him and no robot privileges, yes, but like...she continues to let him have his stuff, even his privacy after a grounding. It's only until he does some bad that she goes into mom momcopter mode. She's actually letting him get away with a lot more than people think. If anything, she is probably soft on him because she doesn't want to downright take away what he likes (she probably thinks he already distains her), only telling him to quit it because she is a very offhands mom like that. Which is kinda part of the problem, but that depends on the person on whether or not a parent should step in on a kid's fixation that leads to dangerous actions (which they should. At least, i think so). All in all, Claire just has to take him to therapy and even go herself. And both should just talk to each other. Geez Louise, I can tell when two people want to close themselves off emotionally. ^i know most of this is just speculation and probably hc too, but it does come from a place of analytically reading of her character and Tobeys. Limited that we have.

how do you feel about people who think tobey should be taken in by dtb or the botsfords or just forget he has a mum?

I think they're all cowards and stupid.

When people say they want complicated female characters but they can't handle a flawed mother who they now deem as irredeemably abusive....What I am talking about this fandom can't even handle Becky when she's mean to Tobey (as she should be).