#SAY IT LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK-

[rosesrded]

👏🏻 FOR 👏🏻 THE👏🏻 PEOPLE👏🏻 IN 👏🏻THE 👏🏻 BACK👏🏻

Here's the link to the video

👏 SAY 👏 IT 👏 LOUDER 👏

[oikarma]

look me in the eye | pt.2

pairing: max verstappen x rbr!engineer!reader

summary: the rb21 is unfixable but that's definitely not the only reason max verstappen wants you around.

a/n: "who cares what they think" bf and overthinker gf are my roman empire

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Max doesn't give you much of a choice.

One minute, you're wrapping up post-race debriefs with your teammates, pretending that you're not reeling from his reaction to your possible departure. They're very polite and do not pry into the conversation they all obviously heard. The next, he's standing by the garage exit, jacket in hand, waiting.

"Dinner," he says. It’s not a request.

You hesitate, glancing around. "I mean, I don't think-"

"I need to talk to you." His words are softer but still determined. "Properly. Not in the garage. Not with twenty people listening."

Your stomach twists. You should say no. You should.

Instead, you find yourself sitting across from him in a dimly lit restaurant, the scent of freshly baked bread and seared steak filling the air. It's nothing fancy. Fancy means attention. It's quiet, tucked away, the kind of place he probably picked because he assumed no one would bother him here.

But Max Verstappen is not someone who goes unnoticed.

Right now he's focused, barely glancing at the menu. It feels more like a business arrangement than a catch-up. That's how it's meant to be. Max is, in the hierarchy pyramid, somewhere a few diagonal triangles above you.

"Tell me what you need," he says as his fingers tap restlessly against the table. "More support? More control over the car setup? I'll talk to Christian."

You sigh, setting your menu down. "Max, it's not just about that. It's-"

A hushed voice at a nearby table. A phone camera clicks and, judging by the kerfuffle that follows, the person who pressed the button didn't expect it to be so loud.

Your stomach drops. Max's gaze flickers over your shoulder, jaw tightening as realization dawns.

"Shit," he mutters.

You don't turn around. You don't need to. The whispers are getting louder, the occasional giggle or gasp confirming what you already know-someone recognized him. And worse? They recognized you.

Your chest tightens. This is exactly what you didn't want. Attention. Speculation. The internet dissecting every detail of why Red Bull's star driver is having dinner with one of the team's engineers. Especially after that interview. Two things that should not be happening in quick succession.

Max leans forward and his voice is low. "Hey."

You shake your head, gripping your napkin like it's a lifeline. "I need to go."

"If you leave now, it’ll be worse."

You know he's right. Storming out will just make it look more suspicious. But that doesn’t stop the anxiety creeping up your spine.

Max studies you for a moment before making a decision. He leans back, body language shifting, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips. Then, loud enough for the nearby table to hear-

"You're overthinking. Just enjoy your food."

It's so casual, so normal, that for a split second, it throws you off. And judging by the way the whispers fade just a little, it throws everyone else off too.

Max is playing it cool. Acting like this is nothing, just a casual dinner, nothing worth speculating over.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to match his energy. You pick up your menu again, even though you're too tense to focus on the words. "Fine," you sigh. "But if this ends up all over Twitter, I'm blaming you."

His grin deepens. "I'll take full responsibility."

Under the table, where no one can see, his fingers graze against yours. It's only for a second. It's probably an accident, you tell yourself.

You look into his eyes and you know it means so much more than just that.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You wake up to chaos.

Your phone won't stop buzzing. The messages, missed calls, and notifications stacking up faster than you can process. At first, you think it's just another race week frenzy. Then you open Twitter.

Max Verstappen on a dinner date with Red Bull engineer. Garage romance?

Attached is the photo. A little grainy, taken from the next table over, but unmistakably you and Max. He's leaning in, smirking, looking far too comfortable across from you. You're gripping your menu like you were ready to bolt.

There are too comments to keep track of.

user1 she's been in the garage w him all season user2 Bro is dating his own engineer to fix the car 💀💀💀 user3 i fear they look GOOD together user4 is she the one he slipped up about in the interview??

You barely register the rest before Christian Horner is calling you. You pick up immediately instead of letting him go to voicemail. This is bad.

"Do you know what's happening online?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I just saw it."

He breathes loudly-you can hear it over the phone. "Look, we don't comment on personal lives, but if anyone asks, we stick to the story. It was a casual team dinner, nothing more. Max's team is probably already handling it."

Max.

As if on cue, another message flashes across your screen.

Unknown It's Max

Unknown Don't look at twitter

Too late.

By the time you get to the paddock, the damage is done. Journalists are already circling, cameras flashing whenever you so much as breathe near Max's side of the garage. You stick next to Liam's car. You don't know what you're doing there, but he kind of does and pretends to talk with you about something he doesn't understand either. Good lad.

You keep your head down, pretending not to notice the murmurs. When you step into the engineering office, Max is already waiting.

He's scrolling through his phone. You can't see anything behind those startling blue-green eyes of his. You still can't when he looks up. "They're making a big deal out of nothing."

You exhale. "I'm trending on Twitter."

He shrugs, completely unfazed. "And?"

You blink. "And? Do you know what people are saying? That I'm-” You lower your voice. “That I'm sleeping with you for my job. That you’re-”

"Using you to fix the car?" His lips press together. Now his eyes darken, the sky before the storm. "Bullshit. Do they not know how engineers work? They fix the car anyway."

You shake your head. "It doesn't matter if it's bullshit. It's out there."

Max crosses his arms. "So?"

"So?" you echo, incredulous. "I don't want this. I don't want my name attached to you like I'm some stupid tabloid headline!"

He seems to read you. "Do you think I wanted it either? I just wanted dinner. I wanted to talk to you, convince you not to leave. Not...this."

Your anger deflates. You can't be mad at him. People are people.

Max pushes off the desk and steps closer. "Tell you what. If you want, I'll shut it down. Tell them all it's nothing, that it was just a stupid meal. That you mean nothing to me."

The words sting even though you know he doesn’t mean them.

You swallow hard. "Would you?"

His jaw tightens. "If that’s what you want."

You should say yes. You should. But he's the one waiting for you to make a choice-the choice-and you're frozen.

"I don't know," you whisper.

Is that relief you see on his face?

"Then we don't say anything."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The orange army has risen, and it's not McLaren's. The checkered flag waves, and above the screaming engines and the crackling of team radios, one thing is clear: Max Verstappen has won again.

Against the odds, against the struggles, against a car that has fought him all season, he has done what Max Verstappen does best.

He has won.

The Red Bull garage erupts. Engineers shout, mechanics throw their arms around each other, and the pit wall slams their hands down in victory. You barely register the chaos because your eyes are glued to the screens, watching as Max slows down on his cool-down lap, his voice breaking through the radio.

"YES, LET'S GO!" His laugh is breathless. "That was so, so good. Thank you, guys. Thank you."

You exhale. He did it. You don't even recognize the warm feeling going through you because suddenly, he's there.

Before you can even process it, Max is sprinting toward the garage, helmet ripped off, his fireproofs half-unzipped and clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing-shouldn't he be out there?-as he skids next to you.

Your heart lurches.

You don't even have time to move before he reaches you, before his hands find your waist and he pulls you in.

"Max-" Your protest dies in your throat because holy shit he's so close. His breath is warm against your skin, adrenaline pouring off him in waves.

"You," he pants, eyes wild and utterly alive. "You made that happen."

You shake your head, flustered beyond belief. "Max, you-"

But he cuts you off, hands tightening like he's afraid you'll slip away. "No. You fought for this car. You never stopped." He swallows, chest rising and falling. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

You feel every nerve in your body short-circuiting.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just static.

Max searches your face. He looks at you as he does his father, after a race is over. Like this win doesn't mean as much if you aren't part of it. There is one person in the world he cares about making happy...might there be a second?

You’re completely, utterly speechless.

"Lost for words?" he teases.

You shove at his chest, but your laughter betrays you. "Shut up, Verstappen."

You untangle yourself from his grasp and motion for him to greet some other of the team members. The media must be having a field day. And after the entire PR talk, too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The celebrations are still in full swing when Max is pulled into an interview. The champagne drips from his hair as a permanent grin is stretched across his face. He's still breathless, still buzzing, still high off the win.

The reporter from Sky Sports barely has to ask the first question before Max is already talking.

"Max, that was an incredible drive. How does it feel to take this victory after the struggles you’ve had with the car?"

Max laughs easily. "Yeah, it wasn't easy. The car still isn't perfect, but today, it worked. And that's not just me, that's the team, that's the people who keep pushing-"

His words cut off for a second, his mind catching up to his own excitement. His tongue is loose, his filter nonexistent.

And then-

"-that's her."

The interviewer blinks. "Who?"

Max doesn't hesitate. "My engineer."

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Your stomach drops as you watch from the back of the garage, eyes wide as the cameras zoom in on him. He's still grinning, still glowing, and either he doesn't realize what he just said or he does not care.

"She-" he stops himself, shaking his head like he can't find the right words. "She works harder than anyone. Every problem with this car, she's been on it. I mean, I was nowhere at the start of the season, and now, we're here. If anyone deserves credit, it's her."

The reporter raises an eyebrow. "That's very high praise. Would you say she's been a crucial part of your season?"

Max tips his head back in his laughter, and it's so obvious now, the way he's still running on instinct, how he's still in the moment.

"She's been-" He stops, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. And then, softer-too soft for someone who's just talking about an engineer-he finishes:

"She's everything."

The interviewer's eyes widen slightly, and there’s a second-just a second-where you see the exact moment he realizes what he just let slip. Max's lips press together, like maybe if he stops talking now, the words will somehow erase themselves. But the damage is already done.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Max turns his head like he can see you in the garage. He's searching, looking for you.

You panic. You run.

But the world has already heard him. You're not just another engineer.

You're Max Verstappen's everything.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The second you step back into the Red Bull garage, cheeks flushed from your bathroom pacing and breakdown, you know you're screwed.

The looks. The whispers. The way people pretend not to be staring but are absolutely staring. Because, of course, everyone saw the interview.

The moment Max Verstappen, three-time world champion, winner of the race, decided to open his mouth and say-

"She's everything."

You could kill him.

Scratch that. You will kill him.

Your heart is still hammering from the moment you heard it, from the way he looked for you afterward, like he wasn't even the slightest bit embarrassed about saying something that made it sound like-like-you don't even know what it sounded like, but it was definitely not normal driver-engineer talk.

And now, here you are, trying to avoid eye contact with every single person in the garage while searching for the idiot responsible.

It doesn't take long.

Max, being Max, doesn't bother hiding. He's standing by the monitors, still in his fireproofs, arms crossed over his chest, looking completely unbothered. He should be celebrating. Why is he not out celebrating?

He's still waiting for you.

The moment he sees you, his expression shifts. Something smug, something amused, something that makes you want to strangle him.

You grab his arm and yank him into the nearest private space you can find.

"Max," you hiss, barely able to contain yourself. "What the hell was that?"

His brows furrow. "What?"

"What?" you repeat. "You-on live television-you called me everything."

Max blinks, looking so utterly relaxed that you want to shake him. "Yeah."

You stare at him, waiting for him to realize the problem, to acknowledge that he just threw you to the media wolves with zero warning.

Nothing. Just calm, slightly confused Max Verstappen.

"You do realize what that sounded like, right?" You press, feeling your face heat up. "Everyone's losing their minds. Twitter is exploding. Horner gave me a look. Do you know how scary it is when Christian Horner gives you a look?"

Max’s lips twitch. He's fighting a smirk and he's not winning. "I mean… was I wrong?"

"What?"

He tilts his head, like he's considering his words. "You are everything. To this team. To the car. To-" He stops himself, but it’s already too late.

He knows exactly what he said.

"Max-"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

You can't, because he isn't. Maybe you've known it all along. Maybe this is why you can't leave the stupid team, even though it's causing hair loss and severe lack of sleep.

So you don't. Instead, you grab him by the collar and pull him down. Max lets out the softest, most relieved exhale before he crashes into you.

It's not a soft kiss. It's not careful, or hesitant, or anything close to restrained. It's desperate. It's months of tension snapping all at once.

You make a soft noise-half surprise, half something else entirely-and that's all it takes.

Max groans, deep and low, like he's wanted this for as long as you have, and suddenly it's worse, because now he's tilting his head, deepening the kiss, pressing you back until you hit the nearest surface.

You don't even know where you are anymore. A storage closet? A backroom? It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is him. The way he tastes like champagne and adrenaline, the way he kisses like he races. All-consuming and with only one thing on his mind.

You should stop. You know you should stop. The entire garage is just outside. Someone will notice. Someone will hear.

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging just slightly, and Max shudders.

"Fuck," he mutters against your lips, utterly wrecked. His eyelids flutter, long lashes too. Max runs a finger down to your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You're overthinking again."

He's completely right. But you don't stop then. You relax and just let Max Verstappen take over every single thought in your mind.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: i just need a man who's bad at emotions but also so good at them

[slutforpringles]

I'm sorry, can I make something quite clear. I've seen oh 'Justice for Checo'. No, I'm sorry. Sergio Perez should still have been dropped from that seat. Sergio Perez's time in that seat was over. This does not change a thing there. And, he had been given quite a lot of time. So much time. A whole lot of precious time. But also it's not Liam's fault. It's not Liam's fault that Checo got biffed at the end of last year, because the decision was still to be made as to who was going to replace him. You want someone to blame? Did Checo come up to the level that he should have done? No. Did he get enough time? Yes.

Christian Hewgill, Betty Glover and Will Buxton speaking on the Fast and the Curious podcast

via: The Fast and the Curious | Lawson out: Yuki in | EMERGENCY EPISODE with Will Buxton

[miorirenkova]

“dream about me”

park sunghoon x fem!reader

“park that car, drop that phone

sleep on the floor, dream about me.”

synopsis: you weren’t a good person—everyone knew that. cruel, sharp-tongued, and ruthless in high school. but you weren’t a killer. at least, that’s what you told yourself.

just as you were trying to change, news breaks: your high school enemy, park hana, has taken her own life before university.

and her brother?

he’s convinced it’s your fault. determined to make you pay. but the deeper he digs, the more you both realize—hana’s death isn’t as simple as it seems.

warnings: heavy mentions of suicide and bullying, violence, abuse, terrible parenting, heavy topics like death (mentions of a character’s death), gaslighting, manipulation, corruption, blackmail, guilt, trauma, revenge, LOTS of angst, fixation, smut (smut warnings will be given in the smut chapter!!), forgive me if i miss any/more might be added

note: i am so damn sorry for such a late release as i said itd be released in a week but i took a lott more. i was having a hard time sorting the plot out and i also had to go out of city but to compensate i will try to release the next chapter faster!! pls forgive me </3 also this first chapter might be a little boring as its just getting into it and the first chapters might be more story driven rather than romance, but bare with me it gets better!

song for this chapter: anthems for a seventeen year old girl

whole paragraphs in italic are flashbacks of past events and blue text without quotations are lyrics ! if they have quotations, they are lyrics + dialogue in story.

playlist link: coming soon!

mdni . hate comments will be deleted.

!!.under cut.!!

————————————————————————

the rain comes down in a slow, steady drizzle, soaking into the fresh dirt covering the coffin. black umbrellas dot the cemetery, shielding faces already cast in shadows. the air is thick with something unspoken—grief, guilt, or maybe just the weight of the truth no one wants to acknowledge.

you stand at the very back, far from the neat rows of mourners.

you shouldn’t really be here. but you couldn’t get yourself to believe the news until you saw it yourself.

and here you are, standing at her funeral.

hana’s funeral.

park hana, the same girl you used to bully.

her funeral.

the whispers haven’t stopped since the news broke, and they only grow louder now. hana’s friends glare at you through their tears, some shaking their heads like you have no right to be here.

maybe you don’t.

you couldn’t think of a proper answer to the dilemma in your head. the whispers and glares felt loud. screaming at you.

and his silence?

it was the loudest.

sunghoon hasn’t looked at you once. he stands by her parents, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together.

the priest’s voice drones on, but you can’t hear the words. all you can hear is the way hana’s voice used to curl around lies so easily, the way she’d smile just a second too late, the way she’d say your name like it was something filthy. and yet, she’s the one in the casket. she’s the one everyone cries for.

the way she would easily get everyone to see you as the bad one. her as the helpless, kind, smart girl. they didn’t know the way they would spit her words, laced with venom, at you. the way she would mock you.

to others, it was her just trying to fight back. but you could tell those words weren’t a try. she knew it affected you.

your fingers curl into your sleeves. you don’t cry. not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t know if you should.

you don’t know whether your sad, angry or confused. you don’t even know who your sad, angry or confused with.

slowly, the people who had gathered pay their respects and start pouring out.

but sunghoon doesn’t move. he stays there, staring down at the grave like if he just looks hard enough, she’ll come back. slowly, as if he knows you’re still here, his head turns, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

the rage in them is ice-cold. calculating.

you swallow hard. you should leave.

you don’t know what to feel anymore.

————————————————————————

you groan as you slam your phone down on your table, the sound of the news in the background blaring in your ears, despite being muffled due to its source being the living room.

“park hana, high school graduate committed suicide in summer break before college reopens. the second suicide of a student from this high school. is this a cause for concern?” you hear the reporter on the news channel say, the words sounding like an annoying ring to you.

you can’t wrap your head around why it’s bothering you so much. maybe it’s the fact that she was the very person you used to bully. and the fact that there are people who believe its you, whose responsible for her suicide.

maybe you are.

but deep down, something’s screaming at you, telling you not to feel guilty, that there’s so much more to it.

she even got the scholarship she lost and was so fucking happy, her happiness was almost contagious. too bad she held venom when it came to you.

you had no right to comment but it felt so unnatural. almost like she did it for a purpose other than escaping.

but it’s not like anyone would hear out the person who bullied the victim, right?

————————————————————————

the campus is too bright. too loud.

it was the first day of college for everyone. but for you, it was anything but the fantasies of perfection you had.

it couldn’t be, when the events of last week hovered above you like a sword waiting to fall.

the campus was too full of people who don’t know who you are—who you were.

maybe it was good they didn’t know who you are. they wouldn’t start pointing their fingers at you. start looking at you the way your old schoolmates would. bring up your rotten but recent past.

but he was there. of course he was.

you really should have changed colleges. but it was too late when you found out.

when hana got the scholarship for this college, turns out sunghoon applied too and got in. great, both the park siblings would be there to make your life worse than it already is.

except, one of them is gone.

and the other? he looked at you like he wanted your blood, then and there.

thankfully, you hadn’t run into him yet. and you were planning to keep it that way. you would stay away from him as much as you could. and plus, it’s not like he would want to run into you either. he probably wants you out of his sight too. its a surprise he didn’t change colleges himself.

you grip the strap of your bag tighter and keep walking.

it’s not like you didn’t expect this. hana’s death wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a spectacle, a story passed around like a curse. and you, as always, were at the center of it.

a murder suspect who walked free. a bully who got what she deserved.

you find your lecture hall and slip inside, choosing a seat near the back. you groaned, you really didn’t want to take this class early morning.

you even missed the opening assembly because you slept in so you don’t even know what material is being covered. great! as if your day wasn’t bad already!

you looked to your left to examine the person sitting next to you. they.. looked sweet? maybe they could help you out. you could atleast try? it doesn’t hurt.

“hey,” you say, keeping your voice low. “sorry, i kind of zoned out earlier,” lie. you blatantly slept in but now we can’t go saying that and ruining our reputation, can we? “do you know what chapters we’re covering?”

the student—some girl with dark-rimmed glasses and a lazy slouch—glances up, blinking like she’s just now realizing someone is talking to her. “uh… yeah. professor said we’re going through chapters one to three this week.”

“oh, thanks.” you nod, relief trickling in. at least someone is willing to speak to you like a normal person.

she pauses, then adds, “you new here?” now focusing all his attention on you instead.

“..isn’t everyone new? i mean it’s the first day.” you ask, confusion settling inside you. isn’t it everyone’s first day?

“not really, some people took extra classes here to get a head start in the summer vacations. including me.” the girl replied, partially dividing her attention now to take down what the professor was saying. honestly, you were kind of blurring out the professor’s words. you definitely need to catch up later.

you nod before focusing back on the lecture, making small conversation with her as class went on, getting to know her name, emi, as well.

after class finishes, you drop by the vending machines and grab a snack. damn that professor’s lecture made you thirsty and you didn’t even talk that much. it also made you hungry, somehow.

you grabbed a drink and some chips, shoving the chips into your bag before opening the drink, letting the refreshing liquid cool your throat.

you take out your phone and scroll mindlessly through your phone, waiting for your next class when—

a shoulder slams into yours, hard. your breath stumbles out of you, balance shifting as your bag slips from your fingers. you barely register the thud before the realization sinks in, before the air around you turns razor-sharp.

you look up to see who you bumped into when your heart drops.

sunghoon stands in front of you, the overhead lights making his features look even colder, sharper. he doesn’t say anything. he just stares.

but his silence is worse than words. worse than the whispers from the funeral.

you swallow down the bitterness rising in your throat and force yourself to move, bending down to grab his bag that fell. yours barely hung off your shoulder but thankfully did not fall. his on the other hand, did fall.

the moment your fingers brush the strap, another hand gets there first.

“don’t bother.” his voice is quiet, but it cuts through everything. sunghoon snatches the bag from your hand, throwing it in his shoulder where it originally sat.

what the hell, man!?

you straighten up, meeting his gaze fully for the first time in months. his eyes are dark, unreadable, but there’s something behind them. something furious. something unforgiving.

“uh- sorry.. didn’t mean to bump into you.” you bow down awkwardly, apologising. please, please, just leave me alone..

“of course you’re fucking here,” he mutters.

and even before you can hear and process his words, he’s gone. disappearing into the crowd like he was never there. but his words stay. they wrap around you like chains, heavier than the whispers, heavier than the guilt.

you thought time would dull it. that after everything, after summer, after her, maybe he’d let it go.

but now, standing there in the middle of the hallway with everyone still watching, you realize—

sunghoon isn’t ready to let you forget. and maybe, neither are you.

————————————————————————

you felt your heart drop as you heard the announcer take your name. your name for the scholarship.

how?

how could this happen? you never meant to win. all you wanted to do was to make sure she would never win. you didn't even want this.

and yet, here you are.

you knew the look on hana's face without even having to look at her. hell, you couldn't look at her. you felt too guilty, even though you would never admit it.

you ran to the nearest bathroom, desperately wanting to avoid those disgusting stares that they were all giving you.

no, not all of them were bad stares. there were people congratulating you too.

but her stare, and the others who saw this differently? it was enough to drive you insane.

..what the fuck had just happened?!

you were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard your cat claw against your sheets, the unpleasant but comforting sound snapping you out of your thoughts.

the memories of that day. you felt so confused and lost. you didn’t know whether you should feel happy or guilty. even if you caused it.

even if you were the reason hana lost that scholarship.

but you weren’t trying to get it yourself either.

were you truly, deep down, indirectly responsible for her death?

you wanted her out of your goddamn brain.

but you couldn’t.

even when you went on a long drive, desperate to think about anything but that.

anything but her. anything but them.

your hands roughly gripped the steering wheel, the parking lot feeling ever so silent.

park that car, drop that phone.

you get out of the car, leaning on it as you slowly slid down it onto the cold floor of the parking lot, tears stinging your eyes.

sleep on the floor, dream about me.

flashbacks enter your mind once again, torturing you.

you wince as the floor of the lot scratches your knee, making you adjust your legs.

reaching for your phone in your packet, you take it out and unlock it.

your fingers tremble as you scroll through your old messages, ones you swore you’d never look at again. but something—something—pushes you to keep going.

then you see it.

a chat from hana.

you hadn’t seen it as you had muted her messages a long time ago due to not wanting to see her messages in a group chat you shared with her.

the timestamp makes your stomach drop.

sent the night before she died.

“i’ll make sure you start wishing it was you instead.”

————————————————————————

end note: kind of short and boring but forgive me it gets better trust </3 also interaction and feedback is appreciated! ty!!

[ihazyourkitty]

This!!!! So much this!!!! The last paragraph in particular is poignant.

"Why was Steve Irwin praised for free handling venomous animals, yet freehandlers today are condemned?"

(I live in the US, so this post and reference to law makers/the hobby is very US centric. Keep that in mind as you read, please) Let's pull back and take a look at -how- the free handling was approached when it came to Steve. At the beginning of each of his shows, there were several warnings posted, telling viewers how dangerous what he was doing was, not to try it at home, and that he is a trained professional with years of experience and access to anti venom. These warnings were repeated several times through out the the episode, both by Steve himself and the narrator. The animals were treated with respect, he would often avoid the head being to close to him, and he did it to show the lack of maliciousness of these animals. He also had an entire crew with him, so if he were to get bit he could be transported for treatment quickly and efficiently. His entire goal was education, not clout. Free handling keepers nowadays (A majority of the time) do not have any warnings on their free handling photos and videos. They post selfies with these dangerously venomous animals as if it's the most normal thing for regular people to handle them. There's nothing saying that it's dangerous, that it should only be done by professionals, etc. This encourages people who post on the internet for clout to try this, because it gets them attention. These people regularly have the faces of the animals close to their body, and in their hands, again, with no 'do not try this at home' warnings. Just photos as if the animal is not venomous. In a lot of places, training is not required to own venomous animals. You can go online, buy a venomous snake, and often times the person selling the venomous snake won't even ask questions. Dangerous animals are easier than ever to get a hold of, which makes the nonchalance of free handlers even more dangerous. It's not about putting themselves in danger, it's about encouraging others to do the same. Often time these venomous keepers that freehandle do so alone, with no one else around. In the event of a bite, the person may not be able to transport themselves to a hospital for treatment. They often also don't have anti venom on hand. A free handler getting bitten and dying can put the entire reptile keeping hobby in danger because the vast majority of people who write laws, know nothing about the difference in species. They do not care if the snakes are venomous or not, they will see that someone died from a snake bite, see all snakes and go 'this is dangerous' whether it be a corn snake or a cobra.

[cuddlyeren]

Sketching us back together

After an argument before a friend’s birthday party, Hamzah and Y/N spend the night being petty toward each other. Hamzah, still annoyed, decides to get a caricature drawing with Chase instead of Y/N, knowing she had been looking forward to it. As Hamzah gets his drawing done, guilt starts to eat at him.

(Long fic 3: )

—

The party was already in full swing by the time Y/N and Hamzah arrived, but the tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. They had argued earlier over something small—something that, in hindsight, probably wasn’t worth the cold silence now settling between them. Y/N didn’t want to fight anymore, but Hamzah was still annoyed, his jaw clenched as he walked a step ahead of her into the party.

“Hamzah!” Chase called from across the room, waving him over. Hamzah didn’t hesitate, choosing to head straight toward him instead of lingering near Y/N. She sighed, crossing her arms as she glanced around for Mandy and Martin.

“You two still mad at each other?” Mandy asked as she and Martin approached.

Y/N shrugged. “I don’t even know anymore. He’s just being petty now.”

��Yeah, he is,” Martin agreed, watching as Hamzah and Chase laughed at something across the room.

As the party carried on, Y/N tried to enjoy herself, chatting with a few people and sipping on her drink, but she couldn’t ignore the way Hamzah barely acknowledged her. She could feel his eyes on her sometimes, but every time she looked his way, he was quick to turn back to Chase or someone else.

Then, she noticed the caricature artist set up in one corner, already sketching people. Excitement bubbled in her chest—she had always wanted to get one done with Hamzah. Maybe this could be their way of making up.

She turned to find Mandy and Martin, who had already clocked Hamzah’s behavior.

“Go tell him to come do it with you,” Martin suggested.

“Yeah, it’d be cute,” Mandy added.

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Hamzah, who still looked irritated despite laughing with Chase moments ago. She exhaled and made her way toward him.

“Hey,” she said, standing beside him. “Want to get a caricature together?”

Hamzah barely spared her a glance. “Nah, I’m good.”

Her stomach sank. “Really?”

Chase raised a brow but didn’t say anything.

Martin and Mandy, who had followed behind Y/N, stepped in. “Come on, dude, don’t be lame,” Martin said. “Go with her.”

Hamzah let out a small scoff, then turned to Chase. “Nah, I’ll do it with Chase instead.”

Y/N blinked, the words hitting her harder than she expected. Chase, caught in the middle, looked between them awkwardly. “Uh…, are you sure?”

Hamzah nodded, standing up. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Y/N forced herself to nod, swallowing the lump in her throat as she took a step back. “Got it,” she mumbled, turning away before anyone could see the disappointment on her face.

Mandy nudged Hamzah’s arm, giving him a really? look, but he just shrugged it off, still too caught up in his pettiness to realize what he had just done.

As Y/N walked away, Martin sighed, shaking his head. “Dude, you’re being an idiot.”

Hamzah rolled his eyes, but when he finally looked toward where Y/N had gone, a pang of guilt settled in his chest. Maybe he was being an idiot.

————

Y/N sat on the couch, her arms crossed as she fumed. At first, she had been sad—disappointed that Hamzah was still holding onto their dumb argument—but now? Now, she was pissed. If he wanted to be petty, then fine. Two could play that game.

Mandy sat beside her, sighing. “You good?”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “No, but whatever. If he wants to act like that, I’m not gonna sit around waiting for him to get over it.”

Mandy smirked. “That’s what I like to hear. Come on, let’s go hang with some of the other girls.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Together, they made their way to a group of girls who were chatting near the drinks. It didn’t take long before they were all laughing, sipping on their drinks, and enjoying the party. Y/N made sure to be extra engaged, laughing a little louder, smiling a little brighter—just enough so that if Hamzah was watching, he’d know she wasn’t sitting around sulking over him.

Meanwhile, across the room, Hamzah sat beside Chase as the artist worked on their caricature. At first, he had been smug about it, thinking he had won whatever silent battle he was having with Y/N. But as the minutes passed, that feeling faded.

He knew how much Y/N had wanted them to get their caricature done together. She had mentioned it more than once, even getting excited about it before they arrived at the party. And what had he done? Chosen to be petty instead of just letting it go.

Chase, who had been quiet for a bit, finally spoke up. “Hamzah… I feel like you should’ve done this with Y/N.”

Hamzah let out a deep sigh, rubbing his face. “Yeah,” he admitted, glancing toward where she stood with Mandy and the other girls.

He messed up. And now, he had to figure out how to fix it.

——

As soon as the artist handed Hamzah the finished caricature, he barely glanced at it before standing up. The guilt was eating at him, and he knew he had to fix this. He didn’t care how annoyed Y/N was—he wasn’t about to let this drag on any longer.

He scanned the party until his eyes landed on her. She was still with Mandy and the other girls, laughing and looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. But Hamzah knew better. He knew her.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way over, his heart thudding in his chest. As he got closer, Mandy spotted him first. She raised an eyebrow, then subtly shook her head, giving him a clear don’t do it look.

Hamzah hesitated for a second, but he wasn’t about to back down. Ignoring Mandy’s silent warning, he walked right up to Y/N.

“Hey,” he said, standing beside her.

Y/N didn’t even acknowledge him. She kept talking to the girl in front of her as if he weren’t there.

Hamzah clenched his jaw. “Y/N,” he tried again, his voice softer.

Still nothing. She didn’t glance his way, didn’t pause in her conversation—nothing.

Mandy smirked, sipping her drink. “Told you not to come over here.”

Hamzah shot her a glare before turning his attention back to Y/N. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, I get it. You’re mad. But can you at least talk to me?”

Y/N finally turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze for a second before looking away again. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to talk earlier,” she said coolly.

Hamzah exhaled. Yeah, he deserved that.

Mandy leaned over to Y/N, fake whispering, “He had so much fun getting his drawing with Chase, though.”

Hamzah groaned. He knew Mandy was milking this just to mess with him.

Y/N crossed her arms. “You should go back to him. Maybe you guys can frame it and put it up in your apartment.”

Hamzah sighed, stepping closer. “Come on, don’t be like that—”

Y/N turned away from him again, fully ignoring him now.

Hamzah was getting desperate. He knew if he let this go on, it would only get worse. And he hated it—hated when she was upset with him, hated when she pulled away.

Hamzah wasn’t going to let Y/N keep ignoring him. So, before she could turn away again, he grabbed her wrist—gently but firmly—and pulled her toward a quieter corner of the party.

“Hamzah—what the hell?” Y/N hissed, yanking her arm away as soon as they were out of sight from the group. She crossed her arms, glaring at him.

From across the room, Mandy spotted them and shot Hamzah a you just made it worse look before turning back to the girls, smirking.

Hamzah sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know I messed up. I was being an ass, and I shouldn’t have done the caricature with Chase.”

Y/N didn’t say a word. She simply stared at him, unimpressed, before shifting her gaze to the party like she had somewhere better to be.

Hamzah clenched his jaw. “Y/N, I’m serious. I know you wanted to do it together, and I was being petty. I’m sorry.”

Silence.

Hamzah groaned, rubbing his face. “Damn, you’re really mad at me, huh?”

Still nothing.

He stared at her, frustration bubbling inside him. But beneath it, there was something else—something like panic. He hated this. Hated being on bad terms with her, hated the way she was shutting him out.

He exhaled, his voice softer now. “Y/N… please.”

She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. Then, she shrugged. “I don’t know, Hamzah. Maybe you should go back to Chase.”

Hamzah shut his eyes for a second, knowing he deserved that. But he wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

Hamzah sighed, stepping closer. “Okay, I get it. But listen, we can still get our drawing done together.”

Y/N gave him a blank stare. “The line is longer now, Hamzah.”

“So? We can wait,” he said quickly. “Come on, you wanted this, right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, shifting on her feet. “I wanted to do it earlier, with you. But you already got yours with Chase, remember?”

Hamzah groaned. “I know, I know, but let’s just do it, okay? Please?”

Y/N pursed her lips, looking at him for a long moment. Hamzah could tell she was still pissed, but after a sigh, she finally muttered, “Fine.”

He let out a relieved breath and gently grabbed her hand, leading her toward the line. She followed, but her annoyance was clear in the way she barely spoke or reacted to anything he said.

They stood in line, and at first, Hamzah tried to make conversation, cracking jokes or nudging her playfully, but Y/N wasn’t having it. She gave short answers, if she answered at all.

Five minutes passed.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Y/N tapped her foot impatiently, crossing her arms. “This is taking too long.”

Hamzah sighed, glancing ahead. There were still a few people before them, but they were getting closer. “Just a little longer, alright?”

Y/N let out a sharp exhale but didn’t move.

Twenty minutes.

Twenty-five.

Hamzah could feel her patience running thin, and he was getting nervous again. He had just convinced her to do this with him, and if she left now, he’d be screwed.

Thirty minutes.

That was it. Y/N let out an annoyed huff and turned to leave.

“Y/N—wait—” Hamzah reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

“No, Hamzah, I’m done.” Her voice was firm, and for the first time that night, he saw real frustration in her eyes. “I already wasted enough time waiting for you earlier. I’m not waiting anymore.”

And with that, she walked away.

Hamzah stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd, realizing that somehow, he had made everything even worse.

——-

Y/N stood off to the side, away from the party, staring into the distance. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her mind replaying the night over and over again. She wasn’t just annoyed—she was disappointed.

She had wanted this to be something special, something fun. But instead, it turned into another reminder that Hamzah could be so stubborn and frustrating.

She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not Mandy, not Martin, and especially not him.

But, of course, he was the one who came looking for her.

Hamzah approached cautiously, his heart sinking at how closed off she looked. He didn’t say anything at first—he just stepped closer and, without warning, wrapped his arms around her.

Y/N tensed immediately. “Hamzah, no—” She tried to push him away, placing her hands against his chest, but he only hugged her tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Y/N let out a frustrated sigh, still trying to push him away, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he buried his face in her neck, pressing gentle kisses along her skin. “I was being stupid. I shouldn’t have been petty, and I shouldn’t have ignored you. You deserved better.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, her resolve starting to crack. She was still annoyed, still frustrated—but she was also tired. Tired of being upset, tired of fighting.

Her arms, which had been pushing against him, slowly relaxed.

Hamzah felt it—the way she wasn’t resisting anymore. He took it as a sign and hugged her even tighter, pressing one last lingering kiss to her cheek. “Please don’t be mad anymore,” he whispered.

Y/N sighed, finally giving in. She rested her head against his chest, letting his warmth calm her. “I should still be mad at you.”

Hamzah smiled slightly, running his hand over her back. “I know.”

She stayed quiet for a moment before mumbling, “I really wanted that drawing.”

Hamzah squeezed her gently. “I know. We’ll still get one. I don’t care if I have to hunt down another artist tomorrow—I’ll make it up to you.”

Y/N let out a tired breath, finally wrapping her arms around him. “You better.”

Hamzah grinned, knowing he was finally out of the danger zone. “I will. Anything for you.”

And this time, he meant it.

-

Hamzah kept Y/N in his arms, rubbing slow circles on her back as she finally leaned into him. He felt relieved, but the guilt still lingered. He had ruined her night, and he needed to make it up to her.

Before he could say anything else, Mandy and Martin appeared, smirking as they spotted them in their embrace.

“Aww, look at him, all soft now,” Mandy teased, nudging Martin. “Wasn’t this the same guy who was too busy with Chase an hour ago?”

Hamzah groaned, rolling his eyes but keeping his arms wrapped around Y/N. “Not now, Mandy.”

Martin chuckled. “Nah, man, we gotta talk about this. You had her out here mad as hell, and now you’re acting like a lovesick puppy.”

Y/N smirked slightly but didn’t say anything, just letting Hamzah suffer through the teasing.

Hamzah sighed, finally pulling away just enough to look at Y/N. “Okay, I need to fix this.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he was already moving, scanning the party for the artist. He spotted the caricature station and saw that the line was still long. Damn.

But Hamzah was determined. Without hesitation, he walked up to the group in line.

“Yo, I need to go next,” he said, already pulling out his wallet.

A few people raised their eyebrows. “Uh, bro, we’ve been waiting—”

“I’ll pay for all your drawings.”

That got their attention. The group exchanged glances before someone shrugged. “Bet.”

Hamzah smirked. One by one, they all agreed, and soon enough, he was at the front.

Wasting no time, he turned on his heel and rushed back to find Y/N.

Y/N raised an eyebrow as he grabbed her hand, dragging her through the party. “Hamzah—what are you—”

“No time, let’s go,” he said, weaving through the crowd.

She barely had time to process before they were back at the caricature station. Hamzah sat down first and, without hesitation, pulled Y/N onto his lap.

Y/N gasped slightly, her hands instinctively gripping his shoulders. “Hamzah—”

“We’re getting our drawing,” he said firmly, wrapping his arms around her waist so she couldn’t escape.

The artist raised an eyebrow but smiled. “Alright, now this is a pose.”

Mandy and Martin had followed them, and Mandy laughed. “This man just paid off an entire line to make this happen.”

Y/N blinked, looking at Hamzah. “Wait—you paid everyone?”

Hamzah smirked, holding her tighter. “You wanted this, right?”

Y/N stared at him for a moment before shaking her head with a small smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

Hamzah grinned. “Yeah, but you love me.”

She rolled her eyes, but when the artist started sketching, she relaxed in his arms, leaning into him. And just like that, the night finally felt right.

—————————

This fic has been done for like 2 months already but I’m so lazy to post lol. Anyways I’m for sure being active now

I need ideas for stories tho):

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Almost, Always - Chapter 12

paige x azzi

Previous chapters: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11

A/N: I know, it's late... but I did it. It took longer than I thought b/c I had to go back and read through previous chapters since it's been so long lol. Don't worry, I still have motivation to continue this story, I've just been crazy busy. But shout out to all the other amazing writers, I feel like people have been cooking lately.

Anyways, hope you enjoy! And as always, I appreciate the comments, replies, and reactions :)

WC: 4.1k+

Chapter 12 – Back to Baseline

Paige POV

The arena pulsed with that specific kind of energy only game day could summon—louder than nerves, quieter than chaos. Not the pressure-heavy kind, but something looser. A little lighter. It was still early enough that nerves hadn’t settled in yet. The bleachers were empty except for a few staff members and assistant trainers tapping away at clipboards or sipping lukewarm coffee from paper cups. The lights overhead hummed softly, casting a clean, even glow across the hardwood.

It was the morning walkthrough. The unofficial start of game day. Players moved through drills in a half-speed rhythm, still waking up, still shaking out the stiffness from the game before. Coaches wandered the court with hands in their pockets, calling out the occasional reminder, but their voices hadn’t climbed past casual. No whistles. No fire. Just the low murmur of sneakers squeaking, basketballs thudding in irregular beats, and a few bursts of laughter that broke the quiet now and then.

Dijiona had somehow claimed the aux cord during stretches, and no one had protested. The gym now bounced with early 2000s R&B—smooth, nostalgic, and a little flirtatious. A few heads bobbed. One of the trainers sang a line under his breath, caught himself, and laughed. The vibe had shifted, just slightly, like the room exhaled.

Paige was one of the last to jog in. Hoodie pulled low over her eyes, laces still dragging as she stepped onto the court. She didn’t rush. Didn’t need to. There was already a smirk tugging at her mouth like she was in on a joke no one else had heard yet. She paused near the sideline, tugged her hoodie sleeves up to her elbows, and finally knelt to lace her sneakers with the kind of casual focus. 

She felt different today. Not all the way back to normal—whatever normal even meant these days—but steadier. Like her insides had stopped spinning long enough for her to actually hear herself think. The noise hadn’t gone away completely, but it had softened. Muted around the edges.

Her teammates noticed. They always did.

Arike passed by with her usual easy swagger, tossing Paige a lazy, one-handed high-five on her way to the bench. “Somebody slept well,” she said, eyebrows raised in mock suspicion.

Paige gave a casual shrug, her voice dry. “What can I say? Still riding that game one win.”

That earned a snort from Dijonai, who was mid-stretch with a foam roller under her calves. “Nah. You FaceTimed her, didn’t you?”

Paige didn’t answer. Just let the question trail off, floating somewhere behind her like it didn’t matter—not enough to chase, anyway. Her smirk curved a little wider, then settled into something quieter. Steady.

She peeled off her hoodie in one smooth motion, revealing the familiar team tee beneath, and tucked it under her arm as she jogged toward the line for passing drills. Her body moved like it belonged here—no tension in her shoulders, no hitch in her steps. The sharpness was back in her frame, but the heaviness that had hung around her for weeks was nowhere to be found.

There was a rhythm to her now, something that felt earned. Something that hadn’t come from clearing her head overnight, but from finally catching her breath after holding it too long.

The FaceTime with Azzi had been short. Casual, even. But it had cracked something open.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d been gripping onto everything—her nerves, the headlines, the silence—until that call loosened her fingers. They hadn’t fixed it all. They hadn’t even scratched the surface. But the way Azzi had looked at her, voice soft, eyes tired but honest—it had reminded Paige of something simple and undeniable:

They were still them.

And maybe, just maybe, the off-season wasn’t off the table after all. Maybe she could still propose. Maybe it didn’t have to end in distance.

Her chest lifted slightly as she pivoted into a full-speed cut during a drill, ball hitting her hands clean. She caught it, turned, fired it back. Snap. Sharp. Clean.

No overthinking. No static in her head. Just basketball. Just this moment.

“Damn,” Dijonai called from the sideline, mock fanning herself. “She’s back.”

A few teammates laughed. Paige just raised an eyebrow, cocky as ever. “Back?” she said, deadpan. “I never left.”

__________________________________________________

Azzi POV

On the far side of the court, Azzi had found her rhythm. Smooth release, soft arc, net whispering on every make. Five in a row from the corner, each shot falling cleaner than the last. Her form was automatic now — muscle memory and breath control working in sync, the kind of rhythm that felt almost meditative. She was jogging back into position when Aaliyah, trying to be helpful, rifled a pass her way a beat too early — no-look, off-target, and fast enough to catch Azzi square in the thigh.

“Ow,” Azzi deadpanned, gripping her leg with mock betrayal.

A few teammates cracked up.

“My bad!” Aaliyah called, wide-eyed but grinning. “It was a trust pass.”

“You just assaulted me,” Azzi fired back, rubbing her leg. 

“I feel like lunch could fix this,” Aaliyah offered, hands up in surrender.

Azzi tilted her head, pretending to weigh it. “Nah. I’m gonna need lunch and a massage. Minimum. I don’t suffer in silence.”

More laughter broke out, and someone muttered, “She’s so dramatic,” under their breath — but Azzi was already back in line, grinning like she hadn’t missed a beat.

They rotated through drills, shifting from spot-ups to curls, and Azzi drifted through her reps with that same ease. But between cuts and catches, her eyes wandered — pulled across the court like they always were, like gravity had a personal stake in the matter.

Paige was in motion, laughing at something Arike said, her hand tugging absentmindedly at the hem of her shorts. Then a bounce pass — clean, instinctual — right into her teammate’s hands on the baseline. Her body language was looser now, but still sharp, and controlled. That duality Azzi had always admired. Always noticed.

Her chest tightened.

It was unfair, the way Paige could still do that to her. How just the shape of her moving across the floor — the rhythm in her stride, the way her shoulders dipped when she cut into space — could stir something so immediate. So physical. Like recognition before thought.

But today, it didn’t ache. Not in the same sharp, hollow way it had before.

It just… reminded her. Of what they were. What they still could be. Of the version of them that existed before everything got so loud.

And yet, buried under the warmth was a flicker of something harder to ignore — not pain exactly, but doubt. Not about Paige. About herself.

Because Paige made it look easy — navigating the pressure, the cameras, the headlines. Even the FaceTime last night had left Azzi torn in two: relief flooding her chest, and something else tugging at her ribs — fear, maybe. That she wouldn’t be strong enough to live in Paige’s world so openly and still feel like herself.

That the spotlight Paige lived under might always cast too long a shadow.

And then there was the photo. That stupid photo.

The woman at the restaurant — hand on Paige’s arm, smile too familiar — still lived in the back of Azzi’s mind like a glitch she couldn’t quite smooth over. Even after the call, part of her still flinched at the memory of it. Not because she didn’t trust Paige… but because once it cracked, one conversation wouldn’t fix it all. 

You know her. Better than anyone. Better than the internet.

Her mom’s voice surfaced again — calm, steady, impossible to unhear.

Don’t let fear rewrite everything you already know about each other.

Azzi had nodded when Katie said that, let the words settle into her chest like they’d been absorbed. But standing here now, watching Paige light up the court with that effortless charisma, Azzi wasn’t so sure if her fear had rewritten anything… or if it had just underlined what she already knew but didn’t want to admit.

That loving Paige meant learning how to live with the noise. Not just tolerate it. Not just pretend it wasn’t there.

But really live with it — let it move in, take up space, press against the edges of her patience and privacy. It meant learning how to stay grounded when the world decided to pull at every thread of their relationship, twist it, headline it, debate it in comment sections like strangers knew anything about the shape of their love.

It meant loving Paige when her name trended for reasons that had nothing to do with basketball. It meant staying soft even when the world tried to harden her. Trusting the quiet between them more than the noise. Believing the weight of a look over the weight of a headline.

And that wasn’t easy. Azzi had spent years building her identity through control, through quiet, through staying low to the ground. She knew how to block things out, how to lock in. But being with Paige asked her to do the opposite. To stay open. To stay seen.

And sometimes, that was terrifying.

She exhaled slowly, tried to center herself. Reset her feet behind the arc, let the ball rise and fall from her fingertips — clean, practiced, automatic.

At least some things still were.

As walkthrough wound down and the teams broke into their final huddles, most of the intensity had already started to taper off. Players stretched out on the sidelines, shoes untied, conversations drifting toward lunch plans and pregame naps. Coaches swapped notes. The court had settled into that in-between quiet—where the work was done, but the game hadn’t started yet.

Azzi had just finished her cooldown, bent over to tighten her laces one last time, when she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye.

Paige.

Walking toward her. Direct. Unhurried.

Azzi straightened slowly.

They met at mid court—just the two of them, the space suddenly quieter around them than it had been all morning. There was no hiding here. No excuse of a drill or a screen or a shared rotation. Just proximity.

Paige didn’t speak right away. She stopped with just enough distance between them to keep it appropriate—but close enough to feel deliberate. Her eyes scanned Azzi’s face like she was still reading the room, still checking for permission. And then, slowly, that familiar smirk tugged at her mouth.

“You been watching me all practice?” Paige asked, voice low, teasing.

Azzi blinked once. “Please,” she said, feigning boredom. “You wish.”

“Oh, I know,” Paige said, tipping her head slightly. “You got caught at least twice.”

Azzi scoffed, but her smile was already giving her away. “Delusional.”

Paige’s gaze dropped for a split second—just a flicker down to Azzi’s lips, then back up. She didn’t say anything, but the shift in her expression said plenty.

“Solid shooting today,” Paige said casually, like they were still talking basketball. “Almost like you were trying to impress someone.”

Azzi crossed her arms, chin tilted. “Funny. I thought you were the one flexing for attention.”

Paige shrugged. “I mean... can’t blame me. My audience has high standards.”

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide. It was dangerous, the way Paige could do that��thread heat through a single look, make the air feel heavier in a split second.

“Better save it for the game,” Azzi said eventually, voice quieter now. “Wouldn’t want to waste all your charm before tip.”

Paige held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “Who says it’s wasted?”

Before Azzi could respond, a voice interrupted her —someone calling for bags, wrap-up, reset. Paige glanced toward the noise, then back at Azzi.

She didn’t push it. Just gave the faintest nod, like she’d said what she came to say.

“See you out there,” she murmured.

Then she turned and jogged off, the rhythm of her steps just a little lighter than before.

Azzi stood there for a moment longer, pulse ticking faster than it had during any drill.

___________________________________

Paige POV

The hotel room was quiet except for the hum of the A/C and the soft scuff of her slides on the carpet as she moved around. Her game gear was already laid out — jersey draped over the back of the chair, socks and shoes in a neat line by the door. She was trying to keep things routine. Stay focused. But her mind kept drifting.

She’d gone through the scout twice, flipped through clips of Azzi’s last few games more times than she wanted to admit — not for strategy. Just… because.

Outside, the city was moving like it always did — sirens echoing faintly, traffic inching past the windows, people living their lives without knowing what this night would mean to her.

Then her phone buzzed.

Paige didn’t even try to hide the way she smiled.

AZZI: Just a heads up — I’ve been lights out all morning. You might wanna stay glued tonight.

AZZI: Or you know… bring help.

Paige leaned back on the bed, one arm behind her head, thumbs already tapping.

PAIGE: You hit a few shots in shoot around and suddenly you’re Steph Curry now?

PAIGE: I let you get those looks in Game 1 out of kindness.

Azzi replied instantly.

AZZI: 😂 wow

AZZI: You’re lucky I like you.

AZZI: Barely.

Paige smirked.

PAIGE: You love me. Even when I’m locking you up.

PAIGE: Especially then.

A pause. Then:

AZZI: You wish

AZZI: …what’d you pack for postgame though

PAIGE: I brought cookies. Soft ones. Your favorite.

PAIGE: Regardless of who wins, I got you.

AZZI: Dangerous.

AZZI: You can’t talk shit and be sweet. That’s emotional whiplash.

PAIGE: Balance. You know I’m all about it.

PAIGE: See you tonight, Az. Try not to get too distracted.

AZZI: Can’t make any promises.

Paige stared at the screen for a few extra seconds after the last message, thumb still hovering, a quiet grin pulling at her mouth.

It hit her in waves, how something so small — a text, a tease, a familiar rhythm — could settle her like this. Like the noise had dialed down just enough to let her breathe. They still hadn’t had the conversation, the one that would clear everything, but this? It felt like the start of something steady again. Like trust, rebuilt in pieces, could look a little like this.

She missed her. Not in the dramatic, aching way it had hit her last week — but in a more grounded way now. A knowing. A gravity.

Azzi still chose her, even in the smallest moments.

And right now, that was enough.

_______________________________

Azzi POV

The locker room felt different tonight. Not chaotic, not loud — just... concentrated. Players moved around in familiar rhythms: taping ankles, adjusting compression sleeves, layering jerseys over warmup gear. The music thumped low from the corner speaker, more of a pulse than a soundtrack.

Azzi sat at her locker, one leg bent, the other extended out in front of her, methodically wrapping her wrist with pre-wrap even though she didn’t need it. Just something to keep her hands busy.

Her mind wouldn’t settle.

She’d gone through the scout. Run through her shots. Closed her eyes on the bus and visualized every cut, every read, every coverage. But none of it cleared the static. Not completely.

She knew Paige was already in the building. Had probably walked through the same tunnel, under the same lights. She kept picturing her — hoodie up, headphones in, chewing on a drawstring, that familiar quiet fire in her eyes.

And that smile. The one from earlier.

The texts from a few hours ago still lingered in her chest more than they should. They weren’t long. Nothing dramatic. But they felt like something — something solid. Something warm. And maybe that was the problem. Because it made tonight feel like more than just a game.

She didn’t hear Aaliyah at first.

“You good?”

Azzi blinked, looking up to find her leaning against the locker a few feet away, arms crossed, eyebrows raised just enough to let Azzi know she wasn’t asking casually.

“Yeah,” Azzi said, quick. Too quick. “Just locked in.”

Aaliyah didn’t move. “Locked in, huh?”

Azzi shrugged, trying to play it off. “You know how it is. Game day. Tunnel vision.”

“Sure,” Aaliyah said slowly. Then, after a beat: “It’s just... tunnel vision usually doesn’t involve staring at a water bottle for five minutes straight.”

Azzi smiled, but it didn’t hold.

Aaliyah waited. She always was good at that — knowing when to joke and when to just let the silence open a door.

Finally, Azzi sighed and leaned back against the wall. “It’s just been a lot. The media. The rumors. Paige.”

Aaliyah nodded, not surprised. “You guys good?”

Azzi hesitated. “We’re... getting there, I think. We FaceTimed last night. She was sweet. Kind of classic Paige — cocky and soft at the same time.”

Aaliyah gave a half smile. “Dangerous combo.”

Azzi huffed out a laugh. “Tell me about it.”

A pause, and then Azzi looked down at her hands, thumb brushing over the wrap. “It’s not even her I’m unsure about. It’s everything around her. The spotlight. The noise. That photo… shook me more than I want to admit. I know she didn’t cheat. I trust her. But the image—it made something crack, even just for a second. And I hate that it got to me.”

Aaliyah leaned in, her voice lower now. “You’re allowed to feel that. It doesn’t mean you don’t trust her. It just means you’re human.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I didn’t expect it to mess with my confidence like this. Not just in us, but in myself. I used to be so sure of what I could handle. Now I’m not.”

Aaliyah didn’t rush to fix it. Just nodded again. “The noise doesn’t mean anything unless you let it. But if it’s changing how you see you, maybe that’s the part that needs the most care.”

Azzi blinked once, then nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

Aaliyah stood, gave her a gentle bump with her knee. “Anytime. Also... if you light her up tonight, I will be talking shit in the group chat.”

Azzi laughed — a real one this time — and shook her head. “Deal.”

The locker room doors opened a minute later, and the call came. Time to line up. Time to move.

As Azzi walked toward the tunnel, the lights overhead casting sharp beams across the concrete floor, her pulse steadied. She wasn’t fully sure of everything between them yet. But she was walking toward it anyway.

The noise wouldn’t bother her tonight.

It was still there—flashes, cameras, whispers riding every possession—but it didn’t touch her the way it had before. Not the same. Not sharp like it had been in Dallas, when everything felt like it was slipping sideways.

She felt grounded now. Steady.

Her chest had stopped clenching every time she looked across the court and saw Paige. The texts had helped. The little jokes. The cookies. The fact that Paige still knew how to make her laugh, even through the static.

And now, as she rose into her first midrange jumper of the night, everything slowed for half a second — the rhythm of her feet planting, the ball rolling off her fingertips with that perfect backspin, the hush of the air around her as the shot lifted.

It dropped clean. No rim, no rattle. Just net, snapping taut like it had been waiting for her.

She didn’t celebrate. Didn’t need to. She let the sound of it settle into her chest, sharp and satisfying — the kind of hit that reminded her what it felt like to own a moment. To trust her instincts. To feel the game flow through her, not around her.

Her hands fell back to her sides, smooth and controlled, as she backpedaled on defense.

She was here. Present. Not shrinking. Not running.

Coach clapped her back after her second make. Aaliyah chest-bumped her after she forced a turnover on the next defensive set. The energy was building, looping, echoing. She could feel it ripple through her teammates, their confidence growing with each of her buckets.

But underneath all of it, there was something else. Something quieter. She wasn’t just playing for the Mystics tonight.

She was playing for herself.

For the part of her that needed to know she could do this — love Paige and still hold her own under the weight of it all.

And maybe, just maybe, she was playing for Paige too.

________________________________

Paige POV

Azzi was cooking. And Paige couldn’t even be mad about it.

She was completely in her bag—sharp footwork, tight release, eyes scanning the floor like she already knew what was coming two steps ahead. Every read was decisive, every movement clean. She slipped around screens like water, glided into her pull-up like gravity didn’t apply. Paige watched her drain another midrange off a curl, high release, net barely moving.

It was unreal. And also… entirely familiar.

She’d seen this before—in hushed late-night practices, in empty gyms with scuffed floors and no cameras. She’d seen it on national stages too, when Azzi went quiet mode and torched teams by simply refusing to miss. But tonight, under the lights, in front of thousands, against her?

It hit different.

She felt it in her chest.

God, I love watching her when she’s like this.

That thought shouldn’t have landed mid-game, not while they were trailing by three, not with her coach yelling coverages from the sideline. But her mind didn’t care. The thought slipped in any way—warm and sharp and unshakable—curling through her bloodstream like muscle memory.

She wasn’t just impressed. She was proud. And a little turned on. Which was, frankly, inconvenient.

They crossed paths during a dead ball, players rotating to reset, refs holding whistles at their sides. Paige stepped forward as Azzi slid back toward her spot at the top of the key. For a split second, it was just the two of them in motion. No defenders. No distractions.

Paige tilted her head, and waited until their shoulders brushed.

“Try not to get too hot out there,” she murmured, voice just above a whisper. “I’m trying to keep this game interesting.”

Azzi didn’t even blink. She felt the heat rise before she could stop it. Just that look from Paige — knowing, playful, way too close. It landed like a second heartbeat.

“You guarding me,” she said, deadpan, “or just spectating?”

Paige’s grin slipped in slowly like a secret trying to stay hidden.

The game was down to free throws.

Azzi stood at the line, hands on her hips, eyes locked on the rim. Paige was at half-court, arms crossed, breathing hard, sweat sticking to her jawline.

They looked at each other for a beat. Not long. Just enough.

Paige didn’t smile. Neither did Azzi. But something passed between them—an understanding.

Then Azzi stepped to the line.

First free throw. Clean. Second. Even cleaner.

Wings called timeout, but it was too late. Mystics up four. Ten seconds left. Game two was theirs.

The locker room was quiet, but it wasn’t heavy.

They’d played well. Just not well enough. And usually, that would gnaw at Paige—tighten her chest, keep her stuck in replays. But tonight? It wasn’t spiraling. Just stinging a little.

Her phone buzzed as she unlaced her shoes.

She barely looked at the name on the screen before unlocking it.

AZZI: I gave you a warning. You didn’t listen.

Paige smiled to herself, thumb already flying.

PAIGE: Please. I was just being polite.

AZZI: Polite? You fouled me on the last possession.

PAIGE: I was going for a dramatic ending. You’re welcome for the storyline.

AZZI: My hip disagrees.

PAIGE: Want me to kiss it better?

The typing bubbles appeared, disappeared. Then came back.

AZZI: You’re lucky I like you.

PAIGE: You love me.

AZZI: 😶

PAIGE: Don’t worry. I won’t make you say it after a win. I’m generous like that.

AZZI: Wow. So humble.

PAIGE: Seriously though… you were locked in tonight. Couldn’t look away.

A longer pause.

AZZI: Thanks. AZZI: I wanted to prove something. To myself. Maybe to you too.

PAIGE: You did.

She paused before sending the next one, then added:

PAIGE: Still owe you cookies though.

AZZI: I haven’t forgotten. You bringing them in person?

PAIGE: You inviting me?

AZZI: You already know the answer to that.

Paige’s breath caught—just for a second. She didn’t reply right away. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she leaned back, phone resting on her chest, a small smile settling into place.

[aleskie]

hey idk if you heard the song jonny or the reprise version by faye webster yet but idk i just got this fic idea wherein oscar wasn't just ready for a relationship or its the other way around.. idk just hurt me 😭

I LOVE THIS SONG!!! It's on my crash out playlist HAHAHA This is a lil unedited btw I wrote it in one go and well....here it is!! I hope u like it :>>>

DID YOU EVER EVEN LOVE ME? | Oscar Piastri x Reader

WARNINGS: None. Just. idk it's sad i guess...

The room is tense—air so thick it clings to your skin, somehow warmer despite the usual cold London breeze. The white walls of the apartment stretch around you, casting long, inky shadows, leaving little room for light. The silence is deafening, louder than the hum of traffic below, pressing in on you from all sides.

It’s been your apartment for a month now. Your own space. Something most people would celebrate—throw a housewarming party, invite friends over, fill the rooms with laughter. But for you, it’s been a reminder. An empty echo of everything you’ve lost.

It makes you question everything. Your choices. Your worth. The very foundation of who you are.

You think that’s what love does to people. It breaks them. Leaves them raw. You try to pray sometimes, whispering into the dark, hoping some deity—any deity—might be listening.

Some nights, you ask for revenge, for some cosmic retribution to make him feel the weight of the pain he left you with. Other nights, you just beg to feel nothing at all, to be numb, to let the emptiness take over so the ache would finally stop.

Sometimes you ask for him back.

They say love is patient. Kind. It trusts, hopes, perseveres. And for a time, it was—it did. For a time, love was stolen kisses in hidden corners, hushed phone calls on nights you were apart, midnight screenings of obscure films, hands clasped tight in the bitter cold, just to keep each other warm.

A knock at the door breaks you from your thoughts. Sharp. Unmistakable.

It’s him.

You knew he'd come—you’d read the message over and over, the words burned into your mind. He was coming to get his things. You’d cried yourself to sleep last night, knowing this moment would come.

And now it has.

"You have a key," you tell him as you pull the door open, stepping aside to let him in.

"It's your space," he says simply. "I didn't want to impose."

This is our space, you want to tell him. This is our home. 

But the words lodge in your throat like splinters. Instead, you turn away, walking toward the kitchen counter where the last of his things sit packed away—boxes filled with the remnants of a life that, not too long ago, felt unshakable.

You hand one over, your fingers brushing his.

You hate it. The fire that still flickers beneath your skin when he touches you. The way your body betrays you, how your heart still trips over itself, clinging to some fragile, stupid hope. That this is a mistake. That he’ll realize it, take it all back, and come home.

But he doesn’t. He turns to leave, silent and sure, just like he did that night—the night he decided you weren’t worth staying for.

"Why?" The word slips out before you can stop it, the weight of it filling the room. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears you. Of course, he does.

He pauses, shoulders tense.

Tears blur your vision, hot and unwelcome, but you refuse to let them fall. You won’t give him that. You won’t let him see you break.

He turns slowly, meeting your gaze. "I don’t know what you want me to say."

"Anything." Your voice shakes. "Literally anything."

He exhales, a quiet, tired sound, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s searching for the right words. Or when he knows there aren’t any.

"I didn’t want it to be like this.” His voice is low, careful, like he’s stepping over shattered glass. "This isn’t easy for me either. I…" He exhales, voice softening. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did."

"I’m sorry,” he whispers.

"You walked away, Oscar," you say, the words trembling but firm. "You left, and you didn’t think I’d be hurt?"

"I didn’t walk away," he says after a beat. "I just—" He sighs, shaking his head. "You wanted things I couldn’t give you."

“I wanted things that you promised me!” The tears fall, and it feels like you’ve lost, like your very heart has betrayed you. “You said you wanted me—a family, a home. You said you loved me!”

“I do!" His voice is sharp, insistent.

"Then why?"

He falls silent, the weight of the question pressing between you. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “I’ve worked my entire life for this. To get that seat. To win. I—” He looks at you then, and it’s the worst part—the way his gaze still holds that tenderness, that warmth, the one you’ve memorized like a scripture, a prayer. The one that makes you hope, even now. “It’s my dream.”

“You said I was your dream.”

“We were seventeen," he breathes. "What did we know then?”

“I knew I loved you.” The sob rips through you, raw and helpless. “Fuck, I still love you.”

His face twists, pained. “You think I don’t?” His voice is gentle. Soft. Guilty. “You think I don’t regret it?”

For a long moment, it’s just silence. The space between you stretching, breaking, unraveling like the seams of something that was never meant to last.

Finally, you whisper, the words barely holding together—fragile, afraid.

“Oscar…did you ever even love me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. And maybe that’s the answer. Maybe he did. Once. When love was simple and young, when life hadn’t wedged itself between you. When dreams were still dreams, untouched by sacrifice, and the future was some distant thing you had all the time in the world to figure out.

Maybe he’s right and he still does. Just not enough.

Not enough to stay.

He takes a breath, slow and measured, like he’s been holding it in for too long. Then he shifts the box under his arm, adjusting his grip like it’s heavier than it should be.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

And just like that, he turns.

Walks to the door.

Opens it.

Leaves.

The sound of it clicking shut echoes through the room, louder than it should. Louder than it has any right to be.

You stand there, staring at the empty space where he stood just moments ago, waiting. For something—anything. For him to come back. To say he made a mistake. To tell you this isn’t the end. Or at the very least, to give you some kind of answer, some final piece to help you understand where it all went wrong.

But there’s nothing.

Only silence.

A silence he will never hear.

[vinecovered-mech]

“If people like us blindly follow orders, the fascists won't need to bash down the door, they'll have already won”

[alexandraundone]

[rockwoodchevy]

Somethin' in Common

Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

summary: Joel comes across someone at the bar who has something in common with him. Something he wouldn't wish on anyone.

word count: 1.9k

warnings: child loss, some swear words

a/n: OMG!!! I cannot believe the feedback I got on 'Cold'! I'm SO glad you guys loved it! Here is another little writing I thought of today. Not sure how I am feeling about this one but let me know if y'all like it!

___________________________________________

Joel seldom treats himself to a night out at the Tipsy Bison but after days like today, where it seemed that everyone and everything was out to get him, he thinks he might just deserve it.

As he sits towards the end of the bar area, he watches as the world continues on without him. Couples, families, and loners like himself go about their lives, seemingly forgetting that all of them are still living in end times. Joel scoffs to himself, returning to the drink he had been nursing. It was his third one, about to be his fourth. The bartender, whose name he didn’t even bother to listen to, sauntered over to him with the bottle of whiskey. He gave Joel a look, almost of pity or disgust he wasn’t sure. 

“Another?” He asked, already starting to pour the poison into his glass.

“Keep ‘em coming until I say so.” Joel grunts out to the man, pulling the glass back to him before the bartender even finishes pouring it. A small amount of the liquor spilled onto the bar in front of Joel but he didn’t flinch as he raised the glass back to his lips. The bartender rolled his eyes as he wiped the counter down, walking away from him back to the other patrons sitting towards the end of the bar. 

Joel continues to sip on his drink, watching as people come in and out of the bar. He doesn’t think twice about the woman who comes in, hood up over her head like she is trying to hide from someone. She sits down on a stool 3 seats down to his right and removes the hood from her head. She’s a pretty girl, Joel thinks to himself. His head snaps to his left when he hears the bartender say a name, walking over to the woman with a big smile on his face. She smiles shyly at him. Joel repeats the name in his head. Pretty name, fits her perfectly. 

“Hi, Mathieu.” Her voice resonates through the bar, though it might just be through Joel’s head from all the whiskey he's had. So Mathieu was his name. 

“Want your usual?” He asked her, already beginning to make a drink. She nods.

He makes something with a couple of liquors that he isn’t sure of before plopping it in front of her. She practically slams it in one go, Mathieu smiling as he starts to make her another.

“I have a surprise for you.” He says, turning to walk towards a back area. She follows his movements, eyes wandering to her left. She makes eye contact with Joel for a moment, smiling at him. He gives a small grin back before they both look away from each other back to their respective drinks. 

A few moments pass before Mathieu comes back from wherever he was with a smile white box in his hands. He placed it in front of the girl, stepping back from the bar. She gave him a confused look, opening the box in front of her. Her face froze and Joel couldn’t quite place the emotion on it. Reaching in the box, she took out what seemed to be… 

A small cupcake?

Joel was a little shocked. He hadn’t seen a cupcake in quite a while. It wasn’t huge or anything too flashy, just a regular sized vanilla cupcake with a bit of frosting on top. She placed it in front of herself, leaving her forearms resting on either side of it. She was rubbing her thumb and pointer finger together on both hands before lifting one of them to her face. Joel followed her movements, watching as she wiped at her eyes. Mathieu placed a comforting hand on the arm that remained on the bar and ran his thumb over her skin. 

“Thank you.” She let out, voice a little louder than whisper. 

“Don’t thank me yet.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small pack of matches. He struck one, the flame burning huge and bright for a moment before settling into a small light. He stuck the match in the cupcake, motioning for her to blow it out. She let out a watery laugh but blew out the flame no less. Mathieu clapped and spun in a little circle, making her laugh a little harder. 

Joel scoffed a little at the sight. There really wasn’t anything special to him about birthdays, especially after everything that happened on his all those years ago. He shook his head, taking another swig from his glass. Until another one of their conversations caught his attention.

“If you don’t mind me asking… how old would he have been today?” Mathieu asked her, leaning on the bar towards her. 

“Ten.” She said, voice low. “He would have been ten.” 

“Wow. Double digits, huh?” Mathieu tried to lighten the conversation.

“Yep.” She looked at the cupcake, picking it up and turning it in her hands. “He hated vanilla.”

Mathieu stood up in his spot, looking at her wide-eyed. She looked at him, a small smirk on her face. Lifting the cupcake to her mouth, she took a big bite out of it. “But I don’t.”

He laughed at her, shaking his head. “I have to keep doing my job, but I’ll be back.” He walked off to the other group of people at the bar and engaged in conversation with them. 

Joel was intrigued at the conversation that just occurred in front of him. Who were they talking about? He looked back at his glass, moving it around and watching the ice and liquor move around before he spoke. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but-”

“No worries. You aren’t the first person to ask about it.” She looked up at him. She reached a hand out to him, offering him her name. He obliged in her offering, meeting her hand in the middle of them and giving it a shake while telling her his name. When she let go of his hand, she turned in her seat to face him.

“Today is my son’s birthday. He would have been ten years old today.” She told him, not breaking eye contact. “He passed away 6 years ago. Infected got him. I didn’t have the heart to… to kill him. You know, afterwards.I couldn’t have imagined my son dying, let alone at my hand.” She looked down at her hands, ringing one around her wrist. 

Joel looked at her with shock on his face. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting but it wasn’t that. He wasn’t quite sure what to say back to her but he knew what not to say. Because he was tired of hearing it too. He turned his body towards her and took a deep breath before he began.

“I lost my daughter. At the beginning of everything. So I understand the pain you’re going through.” He grunted out to her.

She looked up at him, the shocked look mirroring his from earlier. She hadn’t met another parent who lost their child and it felt somewhat comforting to know that she had someone who understood her. She smiled at him. And he smiled back. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, randomly sipping their drinks when Mathieu came back over to them.

“How are you guys doing?” He asked.

“I think I am gonna head out, Mathieu.” She said to him. He nodded at her and let her know that she was good to go. She thanked him before turning to Joel and giving him a nod. He hesitated for a moment and watched as she walked towards the exit. Fuck it, he decided. He called her name, standing from his seat. Turning to look back at him, she gave him another smile.

“Can I walk you home?” Joel asked her. 

She beamed at him, making his heart hammer in his chest. “I would like that.”

He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair he was on and rushed over to her as he was throwing it on. They walked out of the bar together, walking side by side in a peaceful silence, only the sound of the town and the few people around could be heard. They reached her home about 10 minutes later, just a couple of minutes from Joel’s place. He walked her to her door and watched her stop before she opened her door. She spun and looked at him.

“Do uh… Do you wanna come in? I’m not sure if you like it or not but I got some coffee grounds in a trade recently and have been dying to try it.”

He smiled at her, nodding as he stepped forward towards the house. She welcomed him in, pointing towards the living area as she stepped into the kitchen to make the coffee. He explored around the living room, looking at the small trinkets lined along the fireplace she had. There was a polaroid of her and a small child who he assumed was her son. The boy looked quite a bit like her, same nose and small smile. He grinned at it as memories of Sarah at that age ran through his mind. He heard someone clear their throat and he turned to see her standing in the doorway with two mugs. 

“That’s my boy. He was little there.” 

“I assumed it was. Handsome fella, he was.” Joel said, walking to the couch she was now sat on. He sat next to her, graciously accepting the mug from her. They both sipped on it and hummed at the delightful taste. She giggled at the sound of their hums harmonizing together and he laughed in return. They sat in silence for a moment before he spoke. 

“Thanks for the coffee. It’s difficult to get some nowadays.”

“It is. I don’t wanna tell you what it took to get it. I’m glad I did though. It’s actually really delicious.” She examined the mug before placing it on the table in front of them. She leaned back on her couch and looked at him. “So… tell me about yourself, Joel.”

He looked a little taken aback. “Ain’t nothing special about me. Nothin’ anybody would really wanna know.”

“Try me.”

So, they spoke for a bit. About their hometowns, their respective kids, their travels, how they both ended up in Jackson. But also about themselves. Their likes, dislikes, what they wished they could have done if the world hasn’t ended. Before they knew it, the sun was starting to rise. They had spent all night enjoying each other’s presence and neither of them were too upset about it. 

“I should probably get home. Ellie is probably wonderin’ where the hell I am.” Joel said, standing from his comfortable position on the couch. She stood behind him and walked him to the door.

“It was really nice talking to you, Joel. It’s nice being able to have someone who understands, you know?”

He nodded at her. “It is. I appreciate the coffee and company.”

“I appreciated your company too.” She said, beaming at him. 

They both stood by the door when Joel suddenly turned to her. 

“Can I see you again?” He asked shyly. She immediately nodded. 

“Whenever you want. You do know where I live, so.”

“Okay.” Was all Joel could say. 

As he was turning to leave, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He was taken aback for a second but couldn’t help it when his grin grew bigger. 

“Can I see you tonight?” He asked, a hand coming up to rest on her cheek.

“Name the time and place and I’ll be there.” 

[red-in-the-ledger]

Where’s My Love; Part I.

joaquin torresxreader, angst

You weren’t supposed to be here.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked through the comms, laced with disbelief. His eyes, wide beneath his headgear, locked onto you like he’d seen a ghost.

“What—what are you doing here?”

You didn’t answer.

Your stare was unwavering—empty. Cold. A shadow of who you used to be. That’s when it hit him like a punch to the gut. You weren’t in control.

Your warm, honeyed eyes—the ones that once held nothing but light and love when they looked at him—were hollow now. Glazed over. Stripped of everything that made them yours.

“Y/N! Hey!” he called out, louder this time, as he watched you smash the back window of the black SUV in front of you with a precision that didn’t feel human.

The sound of shattering glass echoed like gunfire.

He barely had time to register it before you reached in, pulled out the silver canister—the one filled with enough adamantium to tip the scales of global power—and tucked it beneath your arm like it was nothing more than a grocery bag.

“Joaquin, you need to do something. Now!” Sam’s voice crackled through the earpiece, urgent and sharp, snapping him out of his daze.

“What—what do I do!?” he asked, but he already knew. He just couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t even let the thought fully settle.

“Stop her.” Sam’s voice softened now, as if he knew the weight of what he was asking. “I know what she means to you. But if she gets away with that canister, the war begins. And a lot of people—millions—are going to die.”

Joaquin’s feet felt like they were bolted to the pavement. His breath caught in his throat. This couldn’t be real. Not you. Not like this.

But then you turned to him.

Still silent. Still watching.

And you ran.

Joaquin didn’t think. He moved, his instincts taking over.

“Target is mobile!” he barked into the comms, already sprinting after you. “I’m going after her!”

His chest ached with every step—not from the running, but from the heartbreak. Because deep down, he wasn’t chasing a threat.

He was chasing the ghost of the woman he loved.

You moved like a shadow, cutting through the dimly lit alleyways with practiced speed. Every twist and turn seemed premeditated, like you knew this city better than he ever could.

And maybe you did now.

Joaquin’s boots pounded the pavement behind you, breath ragged as he tried to close the distance. “Y/N!” he shouted, voice cracking with desperation.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch.

Up ahead, a fire escape ladder dropped from a brick wall. You leapt, scaling it effortlessly, one hand still securing the canister. Joaquin followed, slower, heart hammering with dread.

You were trained, sure. But this wasn’t training.

This was weaponization.

“Sam, I can’t get close to her!” Joaquin gasped, climbing two rungs at a time.

“Buy time. We’ve got backup rerouting to your position.”

“Great. I was hoping to have an audience when I get my ass kicked.”

You reached the rooftop and kept moving, your silhouette framed by the low city lights, wind whipping your hair around like wild strands of warpaint. Joaquin finally hauled himself up after you, stumbling slightly as he landed—but you were already near the ledge.

“Y/N, stop!”

You did. For just a second.

He saw the smallest flicker in your eyes. A hesitation. A crack in the ice.

Joaquin was nervous to move. Scared even the smallest movement would scare you off. His hands were raised, voice gentler now.

“I know you’re still in there,” he gulped. “Whatever they did to you, whatever they’re making you feel right now—it’s not real.”

Your grip tightened on the canister.

“Please,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

The wind howled between you, loud and merciless. Then—your body jerked. A shudder passed through you like a system overload. You staggered back a step.

“Y/N?”

A glitch.

You dropped the canister.

It clanged against the rooftop.

And then—your hands flew to your head as a scream ripped from your throat, raw and agonized, your knees buckling under you. Joaquin’s heart stopped. He dropped to his knees beside you, but kept his distance.

“Hey, I’ve got you. I’m right here, okay?”

More than anything, he wished he could pull you into his arms and erase the world around you.

Your breathing was shallow. Broken. And when your eyes finally met his, something familiar shimmered there—something real.

“J?” You mumbled. Your voice barely above a whisper. But he heard it. Clear as day.

Before he could respond, or even take a breath, a dart embedded in your neck with a hiss.

Your body slumped forward and collapsed into his arms.

“No—no, no, no!” Joaquin cradled you as your body began seizing.

His eyes scanned the shadows around them. A rooftop away, he caught the glimpse of a figure vanishing into the dark.

Whoever did this… they were smart, calculated.

And now?

Now it was personal.

—

Everything was heavy. Your limbs, your head—your heart.

The world came back in fragments. A dull, aching hum beneath your skin. A low beeping somewhere close. The sterile sting of antiseptic in the air. And the soft pull of fabric sheets beneath your fingers.

You were lying down.

Alive.

You blinked against the blurry overhead lights, your throat dry. A groan escaped before you could stop it.

“Y/N?”

The voice was soft, but immediate. Familiar.

You turned your head, slow and sluggish, and there he was—Joaquin. Sitting beside you, still in tactical gear, dried blood on his temple. His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You stared at him. Confused. Dazed.

“What…?” Your voice came out hoarse.

He leaned forward, hands shaking just slightly. “You’re safe. You’re—back.”

Back?

You frowned, trying to piece together the fog in your mind. There were flashes—brief, violent snippets like broken glass.

A black SUV.

A canister.

The rooftop.

“I…” You paused, something inside you flinching. “I - I wasn’t…”

“I know.” He reached for your hand, hesitating just long enough for you to pull away—but you didn’t. You let him take it. His touch was warm, grounding. Real.

But they couldn’t stop the vicious attacks of memories flashing behind your eyes.

Images—sharp and jarring—struck like lightning. The SUV. The glass shattering. The cold weight of the canister in your hands. The scream of civilians. The sound of Joaquin’s voice—begging you to stop, to look at him, to remember.

You flinched.

Your fingers twitched in his grasp, breath catching as another wave surged forward. You saw blood on your hands—someone’s blood. You weren’t sure whose. You didn’t even know if it was real. But it felt real. Too real.

“Hey,” Joaquin said gently, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

You shook your head. “It’s not,” you replied, voice low, cracking. “I can still feel them. In my head.”

He didn’t pull away. Just leaned a little closer, like he could shoulder the weight for you if he tried hard enough.

I’m not letting them get to you again.” His voice was quiet, but deadly sure. “We’re gonna find out who did this. And we’re gonna end it.”

You wished you could believe that was enough.

But the truth was—it wasn’t just manipulation. It was invasion. They’d crawled into your head, rewired your instincts, buried commands under your skin.

And worse?

Part of you followed them. Willingly.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. “I could’ve killed you, Joaquin.”

“But you didn’t,” he said, without hesitation. “You came back.”

You looked down at your hands—calloused, bruised, unfamiliar.

Did I?

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “Do you remember the first time we trained together?”

You blinked, confused by the shift. “What?”

“You disarmed me in under four seconds and laughed in my face.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched. “You tripped over your own foot.”

“Exactly,” he said, a tiny smile playing at his lips. “That’s the Y/N I know. Smart. Fast. A little cocky. A lot terrifying.”

You let out a shaky breath.

He leaned in, his eyes boring into yours. “She’s still in there. I see her.”

“And I’m not letting them get to you again.” His voice was quiet, but deadly sure. “We’re gonna find out who did this. And we’re gonna end it.”

You stared at him. At the pain etched deep behind his eyes. And something inside you cracked—something you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

Before you could answer, the door opened. Sam stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“We need to talk,” he said. “All of us. Now.”

You exhaled slowly and sat up, ignoring the dizziness.

You’d just come back from the edge.

Now it was time to face what waited beyond it.

[22ayla21]

hi! could I make a request for Jing yuan x fighter pilot reader? no pressure tho🩵

Maybe reader is from another ship and gets transferred to the Loufu, very confident/badass, and the General finds himself annoyed by their reckless behavior but can’t help being attracted to them.

love your writing so much! your works are always so fun to read <3

The General and the Pilot

It irritated him. The way she looked death in the eye with such audacity. But it also attracted him.

Xianzhou Luofu greeted a new day under a clear sky, reflected in the shimmering domes of aurotechnology. Order was maintained, mechanisms worked flawlessly, and every ship in the air docks fulfilled its purpose. Everything was as it should be.

Until today.

Jing Yuan, one of the seven Arbiters-Generals of the Cloud Knights, possessed impeccable composure. He didn't succumb to emotions, maintained self-control in the most alarming moments, and never allowed external chaos to disturb his inner peace. But watching the newly arrived pilot in the reddish Yaoqing Xianzhou uniform land on Luofu at such speed that even experienced guards turned around in fear, he felt irritation.

The ship, piloted by this woman, entered Luofu's atmosphere at a reckless speed, ignoring prescribed safety protocols. She drove the machine with such audacity, with some kind of reckless challenge, as if deliberately testing his people's patience.

The general stood on the observation platform, hands clasped behind his back, watching this disgrace. As soon as the ship finally came to a halt, shaking the hangar with the blast of overheated engines, she jumped out of the hatch.

Tall, with a defiant glint in her eyes and a stride that spoke louder than any words. Her entire posture screamed of complete self-assurance. She didn't apologize. Didn't even glance at the officers exchanging worried words. Just smirked, as if she knew her maneuvers would cause confusion, and enjoyed it.

Jing Yuan felt a slight pain in his temples.

She was one of those who challenged everything and everyone. Too assertive, too self-confident.

And, even worse, he couldn't deny that she attracted him.

The woman proved herself on Luofu with the same audacity as during her landing. She was an excellent pilot—no one could dispute that. But her approach to combat operations was dangerously aggressive, too bold. Where others followed tactics, she charged headlong. Where his warriors analyzed the situation, she relied on intuition.

Jing Yuan saw how she laughed in the face of danger, how she accepted challenges that others would consider reckless.

And it irritated him.

Because he knew that if her luck ran out one day, the consequences would be catastrophic.

But it also attracted him.

Because he saw in her that spark of life that he himself had long allowed himself to lose.

He watched her movements—light, almost dancing, even in battle. Her confidence, her defiant behavior... All of it was both irritating and mesmerizing.

Jing Yuan was used to people who showed respect for authority, who followed orders. And her? She simply looked him in the eyes with a defiant half-smile, as if questioning everything he said.

He should have reined her in. Explain to her that her methods could cost lives. That he wouldn't tolerate such recklessness in his army.

But every time he was about to do it, he met her gaze—lively, filled with challenge—and realized that saying the right words would be much harder than he anticipated.

She was fire.

And he... he already felt that fire starting to burn him.

[airandyeah]

Crying For Help (Alpha!Higuruma X Omega!Reader X Alpha!Nanami) Pt.8

My Masterlist Series Masterlist Warnings: Obvious A/B/O dynamics, I will mark every chapter as 18+ like all of my other A/B/O stories. Drunken confessions, late night calls...

The next week is hard.

Between Sukuna being, well… Sukuna—with his relentless smirks, innuendos laced between legal jargon, and the way his eyes always seemed to find you first in a room—your patience wore thin. He flirted shamelessly during case discussions, only stopping when things got serious… or when Higuruma’s jaw visibly clenched across the table.

The case itself was an absolute monster. Pages upon pages of conflicting testimonies, shady evidence trails, and enough red flags to start a parade. You barely had time to breathe between sorting files, updating logs, and prepping Higuruma for court.

And then there were the Alphas.

Nanami, always composed, always watching. You could feel the weight of his gaze like it had heat—sharp and assessing. He didn’t speak much, but his presence lingered like a pressure behind your eyes.

Higuruma was different. Warmer, closer. The way his voice dipped when he asked how you were holding up, the way his hand brushed yours a second too long when passing a document. He wasn’t subtle—but neither were you.

They hovered. They watched. They circled. And you? You were one snapped pencil away from losing it entirely. ~~~

It was late, the kind of quiet where the city outside your window felt half-asleep.

You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body, steam still curling in the air when your phone buzzed on the counter.

Higuruma's name lit up the screen.

You hesitantly answered, holding the towel a little tighter around yourself as you pressed the phone to your ear.

His voice came through—drunken, slurred, warm with something unfiltered. “You’re… you’re so beautiful,” he mumbled, breath hitching slightly. “A perfect omega… can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your stomach flipped, heart caught somewhere between panic and something else—something softer, something dangerously warm.

“Higuruma… are you okay?” you whispered, voice barely above the hum of the bathroom fan.

He laughed, but it was low and almost sad. “Shouldn’t call… know I shouldn’t. Just—fuck. You don’t even realize, do you?”

He continues, voice thick and slurred with drink, but still somehow gentle—too gentle for someone who always kept such a pristine, buttoned-up image.

“D’you know how hard it is…?” he murmurs, the words tumbling out with no filter. “Workin’ with you, Watchin’ you walk around all confident, like you don’t even know what you do to people.”

You swallow, unsure what to say, heart thudding louder with each confession.

“You’re a perfect omega,” he slurs again, softer now, almost like a secret. “Smart. Sharp. Gorgeous. And fuckin’ kind. S’not fair.”

There's a pause. You can hear him shift on the other end, maybe sitting, maybe lying back.

“I shouldn’t be sayin’ this,” he mutters, barely audible. “But I think ‘bout you too much. Too damn much.”

The silence that follows is heavy—hot and electric. You're stunned, frozen in place, the phone still pressed against your ear, towel forgotten.

Do you say something? Or just listen, like a fool, heart aching in your chest?

You snap out of the haze his words put you in, blinking back the warmth crawling up your neck.

“Higuruma,” you say softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Are you home? Or… somewhere safe, at least?”

There’s a pause on the other end—quiet, except for the faint hum of city traffic and his uneven breathing.

“I’m… yeah. M’home,” he finally mumbles, though it doesn’t sound convincing. “Took a cab. I think. Maybe.”

You sigh, running a hand down your face, heart pounding with concern now more than anything. “Okay. Just—don’t go anywhere, alright? Drink some water. Lie down.”

He chuckles lowly. “You worry about me?”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a flutter in your chest. “Someone has to.”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound crackling through the speaker. “You’re so freakin’ perfect,” he drawls, words slurring together like honey over gravel. “All worried about me… like a proper omega… always so sweet ‘n thoughtful.”

You can practically feel the smirk through the phone, the weight of his words curling around you.

“Bet you’re sittin’ there all neat,” he mumbles, “pillow in your lap, brows all furrowed like you do when you’re thinkin’ too hard—‘cause you care. ‘Cause you always care.”

His voice dips lower, breathier. “Fuck, y’really are perfect.”

His voice turns softer, almost vulnerable, slurring just a bit as he continues, “I wish you were mine, y’know? Not just… this. I mean—shit—I think about you all the time. Nanami does too. He just—he’s too proud to say it.”

There’s a heavy pause, the line filled with his slow, uneven breaths. “We’re both so fucked when it comes to you.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, heat prickling at your skin as you stare at the ceiling.th

“Higuruma…” you murmur, voice caught between concern and disbelief.

“I mean it,” he breathes. “You’re—God, you’re everything. How the hell are we supposed to work with you every day?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. This was too much—too fast. “Okay, I’m hanging up now,” you say, trying to keep your tone steady despite the flutter of something you can’t name tightening in your chest.

“Wait—no, don’t—”

But you’ve already tapped the screen, the call ending with a hollow beep.

You stare at your phone for a moment longer before sighing and tossing it onto the couch beside you. This week just keeps getting worse. ~~~

The next morning, you’re a mess of nerves.

You keep checking your phone like it’ll spontaneously combust with some regretful message or angry voicemail, but… nothing. Not a single text from Higuruma.

When you walk into the office, he's already at his desk. Calm. Focused. He gives you a polite nod, no trace of the drunken slurring or raw honesty from the night before.

For a moment, you wonder if you dreamed it. But no—your call history is right there. One call. Nearly twenty minutes. His name lighting up your screen.

Still, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at you like he remembers baring his heart—or that he mentioned Nanami, either.

And maybe that should be a relief, but somehow it just makes your chest ache more.

In reality, he remembered every word.

The slurred confessions. The way your voice wavered with concern. The silence before you hung up.

But when he passed your desk the next morning—he was pretending. Letting you keep your dignity, sparing himself the awkward aftermath. It was a silent agreement, unspoken and suffocating.

You hated how relieved and disappointed you were at the same time.

Taglist is always open for anyone! Just comment, send an ask, or a DM and I'll add you! Taglist: @ollyissleepy , @erintaro , @hellv1ra Perma Tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine

[thatrandyalexfroma03]

WIP Bucktommy

Might be trash

Sex with Buck was great.

The morning after, when Buck told him to his face that ‘He didn’t have feelings for everyone he slept with.’ 

Well, that was not so great. 

Yeah, he could have done without that kick in the guts. 

The not-so-subtle reminder that he was alone in this world. 

So now he’s drowning his sorrows in a bar, having told Buck he had a shift to get to so he could get the hell out of dodge as quickly as possible. He may or may not have cried a little in the truck on the way home. 

And at home watching Love, Actually on repeat.

And on the drive here. 

And now, he’s alone, wallowing in his own self hatred and insecurity and he’s happy that way. 

Until.

“T-Bone, is that you?” an annoying familiar voice calls out. Of all the Harbour station crew to turn up at this dank, run down dive bar it would have to be Zach. Why couldn’t it be Lucy? 

Let Tommy paint you a picture: Probie Zach Anderson. Twenty-four. Six-one—but claims six-five. Brown hair in the latest idiotic haircut that screams try-hard fuckboy, which, unfortunately, is exactly the vibe he’s going for.

Zach slides onto the barstool beside him without invitation. Not that he would get one, because Zach is the reason why Tommy has no faith in the next generation. 

“All alone? That’s mad sad, man.”

Tommy knocks back the rest of his drink and glares. “Aren’t you alone too?” 

Zach shrugs the comment off and clicks his fingers at the bartender like he’s summoning a servant, which, as everyone knows, is the best way to get (and keep) the bar staff on your side. Bar staff love to be clicked at, it really resonates with them. “Yo, drink down here, bud!”

Then, he turns his attention back to Tommy, like he's bestowing a gift: “Only for now. Alpha wolf on the prowl, baby, lining up the next victim.”

Tommy’s not sure what’s worse between that sentence or the fact that the bartender hasn't come over to shut him up. Zach clicks his fingers again, louder this time, and Tommy briefly wonders what the legal consequences would be for hurling someone into a jukebox.

He’s pretty sure that the bartender would turn a blind eye if not for the damage to the jukebox.

“Alpha?” Tommy repeats, sighing sadly. He’s too tired for this. Too heartbroken. Too old. And now he’s stuck next to a walking podcast episode on why women don’t like nice guys. Spoiler alert, it’s because if you have to tell people you're a ‘nice guy’ you're not a nice guy. 

Also, while Tommy is giving away spoiler alerts, if you have to refer to yourself as an Alpha, well, you’re not an Alpha. All these wannabe tough guys on the net. 

The bartender finally makes his way over, and Anderson confidently places his order with the smug efficiency of someone who thinks he’s charming when he’s really not. Tommy doesn’t bother listening to whatever anecdote Anderson launches into; it’s already clear it’s something he couldn’t care less about. The silver lining? Anderson��s  too busy talking to notice the bartender discreetly diluting his drink with a flick of his wrist. 

Oldest trick in the book for a bartender dealing with a douchebag. 

Clearly and mercifully the bartender has clocked the dynamic between them. He doesn't even try to hide it and Tommy says nothing, although he might get the bartender a dry smile. With a dull thud, the Bartender slams the glass down in front of Anderson, then gestures silently to the payment terminal.

Anderson taps his phone with a chirpy, “Yo bro, chur for that,” like they’re in the middle of a bonding moment.

Call Tommy old but he remembers when phones were for calling people, not paying for whiskey. 

The bartender couldn’t look any less impressed as he walks away without a reply but Anderson doesn’t notice. He’s too busy chatting away to Tommy like they’re old pals. “Anyway, I was just telling Cassidy the other day…”

Tommy cuts in. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure running into you, Anderson.”

It’s really not, it’s bad enough having to deal with him at work. 

“Anderson?” Zach barks out a laugh, slapping Tommy on the back like they’re frat bros and not barely-civil coworkers. “Come on, old man, drop the formality. Call me Zach.” His eyes light up with all the self-satisfaction of someone who just solved a riddle made for toddlers. “Or—wait for it—Zac-attack. Zee Man. You know, like The Man, but with Zee?”

Tommy stares at him.

“Zach,” he says flatly.

“Yes?” Zach perks up.

“Shut up.”

Zach grins like that was the warm-up punchline he’d been waiting for. “You got it, T-Bone.”

“No,” Tommy says instantly, the tone sharp enough to slice ice. It’s a terrible nick-name. 

Zach, undeterred, clicks his fingers at the bartender again until Tommy smacks his hand like he’s disciplining a toddler.

“That’s not how you get someone’s attention without looking like a dickhead,” Tommy says, dry as dust, while Zach clutches his hand like he’s been wounded in battle. His glass is empty, which is probably because the universe hates him.

“Dude,” Zach whines, rubbing it dramatically, “What the actual hell bro.”

“You’ll live,” Tommy muttered.

“Thanks, Doctor Phil,” Zach argued, nursing it like he was about to file for compensation. “And FYI, they’re here to serve us ,dude. We’re literally the reason they have jobs, bro. Plus,I tip, okay,  I’m not a douche.”

Tommy arched a brow. “You just said three douchebag things in one sentence.”

If he had a drink he might throw it in Zach’s smug, very punchable face but he has no drink, and frankly it would be a waste of decent alcohol. He’d much prefer it if Zach was anywhere but here. Preferably on another planet. One with no atmosphere.

“A whiskey, please, and one for my friend here.”

It probably isn’t polite to take a drink from someone whom he dislikes, but then he could consider it a payment fee for putting up with him.

“Dude, we should totally snap a quick piccy for the ol’ Insta. Get a vibe going. You and me, hash tag the whiskey bros.”

Tommy stared at him, incredulous. “I have no idea what you just said.”

Zach already had his phone out and was trying to figure out which side was his ‘better angle.’

Tommy downed his whiskey in one clean swallow.

Zach blinked. “Bro. That was, like, an expensive pour—”

“All goes down the same,” Tommy replied as Zach huffed, before raising his hand to click only to glance over to Tommy and change his click for a polite wave, “Hey, Bartender…” another glance at Tommy, “Uh, when you’re free.”

The bartender took a criminally long time to get free to the point Tommy thought Zach was actually going to break the stool from his impatient fidgeting, “Can we get another whiskey please, my mate here downed his in record time.”

The bartender looks at Tommy, then at Zach before muttering, “I wonder why.”

“I know mate, I know.” Zach replies, “He has issues.”

Ironically, in the moment, Zach is right and the bartender is wrong. 

[wassupmygays]

louder for the people in the back LMAO

"It’s the passionate ones that maybe feel like, because they’ve come to the show a lot, they feel like they have the right to [say] ‘Well, they’re my friends now,’” he said. “It’s like, we are. We love y’all, but I don’t know you. Just because you come to the show a lot doesn’t mean I know you. It’s tough."

from trevor wayne's new interview here

this is hella applicable to all fandoms of broadway and beyond!!! just because you think you know the cast, bc you know all about them or youre at the show all the time or whatever, doesnt mean they know you! and thats okay. that's how it Works, and we've gotta respect that for literally everyones safety lmao