#and she might do something really dangerous

[tizeline]

TSAU Season 2 Finale - Part 2

Click here to get to Part 1

So Leo and Raph portal to Big Mama's hotel, Raph isn't very enthusiastic about making a deal with Big Mama considering Draxum has always warned them of how dangerous she can be, but it's not like they have a lot of better options. So while Raph is contemplating how to get BM's help without completely screwing themselves over, Leo immedietly jumps in as soon as they meet her and suggests that Raph can fight in the Battle Nexus in exchange for her help! Without consulting Raph about any of this first! Uh oh! So needless to say, Raph starts freaking out a little bit about this, which is made even worse when Leo just decides to reveal that the both of them were made from Lou Jitsu's DNA! UH OH!!

So the reason why Draxum has always tried keeping his sons away from Big Mama is because just them being genetically modified super soldiers already makes it more likely that BM would wanna kidnap them and force them to become gladiators in her Battle Nexus. This possibility doubles triples quadruples if she were to ever find out that they're more or less biologically speaking Lou Jitsu's kids. Not to mention she might wanna take revenge on Draxum for stealing Lou Jitsu from her. All of this is to say, Draxum has always made it very clear to his sons that this is something they need to keep hidden from her. It's a big secret. A big secret that Leo just revealed to Big Mama. The one thing Draxum told them not to do? Yeah Leo just did it. What the fuck.

Listen, Leo's inital offer of having Raph fight in the Nexus wasn't quite enough to get Big Mama to agree to the deal, she needed an extra push, so Leo took a calculated risk and revealed their secret origins. From here on out it plays out basically like in canon, with Raph freaking out the entire time. They both get Lou Jitsu outfits cuz Raph is basically being marketed as "Lou Jitsu Jr". Then when the battle begins Leo also gets yeeted into the arena, it's revealed that he actually planned this entire thing, him and Raph defeat the enemies and Raph is confronted witht he fact that Leo may or may not be a tactical genius???

No one ever really realized just how strategic Leo can be, including Leo! Granted, he can also be very impulsive and reckless at times so it's not entirely their fault no one ever realized Leo's full potential. That being said, he can clearly be real clever with coming up with strategies and plans when he puts his mind to it, he just outsmarted BIG MAMA! No one outsmarts Big Mama! Raph had already started to learn that maybe he should trust Leo a bit more than he usually does when he found out that Leo was right about the whole Dark Armour thing, but this moment right here really cements it for him. But with this little side-quest over and done with, it's time to head back to Donnie, April, Splinter and Shelldon.

So what have they been up to this entire time? Well, again it's rather similar to in canon, they've just been fighting Shredder the entire time lol, April gets to kick ass using a crane! Mikey doesn't get to yeet that big boat this time tough :( since he's not even here. What does still happen is that Donnie almost gets his fucking shell ripped to pieces by Shredder (he's called that for a reason ig). Donnie's battle shell in the AU already isn't really armour and it leaves half of his shell exposed, and he's not even weaing it right now! THANKFULLY he has gotten good enough at using his Ninpō at this point so that he can use that to shield himself, cuz otherwise LEMME TELL YA he'd be fucking DEAD.

Finally they end up that alleyway where Donnie have managed to calculate that Shredder is supposed to appear in. That's when Leo and Raph return with the mystic collar they got from Big Mama, again the rest basically plays out like in canon, Shredder shows up and they manage to get the collar on him and he's finally defeated, yay! Big Mama shows up, sends him to some magic prison dimension and I'm sure this is definitely not gonna become a problem later on, yay again!

With that entire distaster prevented, everyone is now tired as fuck so it's time to go home. With all the drama going on in the Draxum family at the moment, Splinter suggest that Leo and Raph should stay at his and Donnie's home, if only for a few days if they don't feel comfortable going back to Draxum. Leo and Raph decline though since they feel a responsibility to make sure that Draxum and Mikey are doing okay, especially since The Hidden City authorites may or may not come after them now that all their crimes have been exposed. But Leo and Donnie promise to meet up again soon now that they're officially BROS!

Aaaand that's the TSAU season 1 finale! A lot of stuff is gonna go down in season 2, like all the Draxum family drama, Mikey's angsty teen arc, Shredder coming back and causing problems, Mikey maybe getting a cat, Donnie properly bonding with at least some of his brothers, and finding out wherever Casey disappeared to! So yeah, stay tuned for that!

Also bonus doodle vvv

[quarterlifekitty]

This is so so random but I just saw a TikTok where a girlfriend wanted to spend time with her boyfriend while he worked on something in their garage so he gave her a random piece of wood that she could hammer some nails into so that she would feel included. Like he wasn’t using it for his project he just wanted to give her something to do and make her feel included and she was so happy. I might have explained it badly but it was pretty funny and cute and I keep thinking about the COD men doing that when their girl wants to spend time with them when they’re out in the garage :((

Lmao this is so cute because I also really love mindless meaningless tasks. Fun fact I used to just have a big piece of wax and I would use a knife to shave pieces off of it and then when I was done I’d melt all the shavings back together and start all over

I think Nikolai totally does this— but he makes it a little more useful. If there’s something he wants to use for parts, he’ll ask you to dismantle it. It’s like a big messy puzzle for you to tear apart.

Soap works with pretty dangerous chemicals and I doubt he does any of it at home but I think he’s obsessed with children’s STEM enrichment so he’s making activities trays for you since you don’t have any babies (yet). He’s making fizzy cloud dough.

John is kinda overprotective and nervous about you getting hurt (doesn’t matter if you’re like a trained soldier and he’s seen you kill people. He doesn’t want his darling using a handsaw). So he usually asks you to decorate stuff he’s made— tells you he doesn’t really have any sense for aesthetics. So you paint and stain his woodwork and pick out hardware for his furniture and apply molded embellishments, drawer liners, that sort of thing

Simon will literally just give you a plank of wood to hammer a bunch of nails into. Puts it up on the wall when you can’t put any more in. Unintentionally makes you into one of those people who can sink a nail in 1-3 hits if you focus. It’s a little scary.

I don’t think Gaz has any garage hobbies necessarily, so you’re making the enrichment for him. Like if you’re sewing, you just give him all your test/scrap fabric to pick stitches from and cut into teeny tiny pieces.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

I got to thinking and realized something. Wouldn't you be the scariest thing in home? A human with sharp teeth, resilience and strength. To the puppets, who are all made of soft fabric, you're a machine made of flesh and bone.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Scary parts of the Reader

★ You might not think of yourself as intimidating, but from their perspective, you're a walking anomaly. A creature unlike anything they’ve ever seen. Even frank didn't know what you were! And he's supposed to be the smartest neighbor.

★ Puppets tear, unravel, and fade. Requiring patches or stitches. Even after that, they never look the same. But humans? You heal, your body repairs itself. Leaving you good as new after getting a scrape. That alone could make you seem unnatural.

★ There’s a fine line between strange and scary, and in Home, you might find yourself stuck between it. At least when you first move in. Even so, the tight knit community welcomed you.

★ If you use your teeth to open something, be prepared for some strange looks. Poppy might flinch, then look at you with concern. "O-Oh my goodness, oh dear. Why would you do that?! Is this just… normal for you?" Eyes darting between your mouth and whatever was torn open.

★ On days where you didn't have any sleep, Eddie gets nervous around you. It's something about the way you move that unsettles him. Partnered with the unfocused look in your eyes. Would Eddie be scared? No, not exactly. But he keeps his distance until you’re back to normal.

★ The worst thing Frank learned was that you're a predator. Specifically, an apex predator at the very top of the food chain. Before, Frank saw you as merely an oddity. Now, he sees you as something a little more dangerous.

★ After figuring out human's hunt prey by chasing them to exhaustion. Frank refuses to play tag with you. Saying "Absolutely not." While crossing his arms. "There is no way I'd willingly put myself in a situation where I have to outrun you."

★ Julie loves you, she really does! But sometimes you can be a downer. Even if it's not on purpose. Your serious moments just throw her off. Having a more realistic view on the world would make you stick out in the neighborhood.

★ Your stomach growing freaks out Barnaby. To him it sounds like a dog growling at him. And he reacts accordingly. Leaning back to put some distance between himself and whatever might be dwelling inside of you. Mabey just a little scared.

★ Howdy once saw you bite down on a plastic cord. Cutting it without the need for scissors. "Whoa there, neighbor! Did you just..." He gestures towards the cord, trying to process what he just witnessed. Watching you bite through tough materials is too much for him.

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Out of Frame

It’s not a flashy job, not in the way people outside of pro sports might think. But it matters. You handle content planning, player interviews, behind the scenes footage, postgame edits and those little viral moments that somehow make fans feel like they’re part of something bigger. You know when to post, how to frame a win, how to soften a loss. You’re always watching, always chasing that perfect 30 seconds that tells the story better than stats ever could.

You’re used to being needed. Not in the loud, dramatic sense, but in the way a team needs structure. Someone to tell the story right. Someone to catch the best moments as they happen and spin them into something fans can feel. You don’t need the spotlight…you just make sure it shines in the right direction.

Which is probably why you don’t notice the way Caitlin looks at you. Not really.

You see her, of course. You’re always seeing her. Behind your lens. In your peripheral. In the center of every thumbnail. But the way she sees you? That’s something different entirely.

To Caitlin, you’re not just a camera or a job title. You’re gravity.

She’s quiet about it, at first. Respectful. You’re staff. Professional. Probably out of reach. She tells herself it’s a harmless crush…something that will fade once the season gets hectic.

But it doesn’t.

It gets worse.

It starts in the gym. A week into the season, she catches sight of you perched on a stool near the wall, camera poised, headphones in. You’re laughing quietly at something Kelsey said…shoulders shaking, head tipped back…and the sound is muffled but real. You’re not looking at Caitlin. You’re not looking at anyone.

And she can’t look away.

Later, she can’t even remember if her shot went in. She only remembers the angle of your smile and the flutter of her stomach that followed.

You become a constant in her world. The season blurs…practice, travel, games, media obligations. She barely remembers what city she’s in most days. But then you walk into the room with your laptop and your clipboard and your hoodie sleeves baggy at your wrists, and suddenly she’s grounded again.

There’s a moment…three games in, when you adjust her mic for a postgame interview. Your fingers graze her collarbone. Barely a touch. She doesn’t breathe for five seconds.

She replays it in her head that night like it meant something. Like you felt it too.

She doesn’t sleep.

She finds excuses to talk to you. Always small. Always careful.

“Hey, that edit was sick, what song was that?”

“Mind if I tag you in this repost?”

“Do I look weird in that warmup shot, or is it just me?”

You always answer patiently, kindly, like you’re just doing your job. Which you are. But every time you speak to her…Caitlin feels like she’s winning something.

Every time you smile at her, it burns.

She starts to memorize things..your go to drink, the song you hum under your breath while editing, the way you chew the inside of your cheek when something’s not syncing right. She notices that you wear the same vintage Fever hoodie on road trips and that your phone screen is cracked in the corner and that your laugh gets softer when it’s late and you’re tired.

She knows it’s dangerous, how much she notices. How much she wants to notice.

How much she wants you.

One night in June, she walks past the media room at 11:42 PM. Lights off, but you’re still inside…just the glow of your laptop on your face, headphones around your neck. She shouldn’t knock. She should go to bed.

Instead, she lingers. Watching you work, jaw clenched in focus, hair pulled up in a way that drives her insane. She presses her fingers into the edge of the doorframe until they ache.

You look up.

She nearly turns around.

But then you smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice quiet in the dark.

She shrugs. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head. “Wanna sit?”

She does.

You don’t notice it, but she looks at you like she’s memorizing. Like she’s cataloguing every part of you for the nights she’ll be alone. She watches the way your fingers fly across the keyboard. The way your lips press together when you’re deep in concentration. The way your leg bounces softly under the table, probably to whatever beat you’re hearing in your headphones.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmurs after a while.

You glance at her. “At editing?”

“At… all of it. Telling stories. Capturing people. Making us look like more than stats.”

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thanks.”

She wants to say, You make it hard not to notice you.

She wants to say, I think about you when I should be thinking about basketball.

She wants to say, I’m falling for you and you don’t even see it, do you?

Instead, she says, “You ever film yourself?”

You blink, confused. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is low. Careful. “Just think it’s a shame. You’re always behind the scenes. Someone should show your side.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “I’m better off out of frame.”

She swallows. Doesn’t argue.

But the thought claws at her the rest of the night.

Because you don’t know it, but you’re the whole picture to her.

A week later, Caitlin gets fouled hard mid game. She hits the court. Slides. The arena gasps. You gasp.

She doesn’t get up right away.

She hears her name shouted, hears her teammates’ voices, but the first one she really hears is yours. From the baseline. Soft, strained. Desperate.

“Caitlin.”

You’re not supposed to be that close. Not supposed to sound that shaken.

Later, after the trainers clear her, after she’s checked and iced and fine, she catches you watching her. From behind your camera, lips pressed tight, brow furrowed.

She waves a small “I’m okay” toward you.

And you…you smile. It’s brief. But it means everything.

She clings to it like a lifeline.

She starts drafting texts she’ll never send.

“You made me feel seen today. I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.”

“I keep trying to be normal around you and failing spectacularly.”

“Tell me to stop and I will. But God, I hope you don’t.”

She deletes them all.

She can’t risk it. Not yet. You’re too important. Too good. Too… unreachable.

But the yearning? The wanting?

It’s constant.

It’s everything.

[goyardgoyangi]

fwb! oliver aiku who just wants to be yours

It’s a Wednesday night, and you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, your back against the headboard, scrolling through your phone. Oliver’s in the bathroom, the sound of water running as he gets ready to join you.

You hear the bathroom door creak open, and you force yourself not to look up. You already know what he’ll look like—after all, hooking up has become more than just a weekly occurrence. Wet hair, half his shirt off, that mischievous smile playing at his lips.

You’re halfway through tugging your hoodie over your head when he says it.

“You ever think about not seeing other people?”

You stop, fabric caught around your elbows, heart stuttering like a missed step on the stairs.

“What?” you ask, laughing, because that’s the only thing you know how to do around him when things get too real. “Since when do you care about stuff like that?”

Oliver leans back against the pillows, arms folded behind his head like this conversation isn’t threatening to blow everything up. Like he’s just thinking out loud. Like he doesn’t know what this sounds like.

“Dunno,” he says lazily, heterochrome eyes flicking over to you. “Guess it’s just been a while since I hooked up with anyone else.”

You force his hoodie down over your hips, turning to face him. “That’s not what this was supposed to be.”

“I know.”

“And you’re the one who made it clear—no strings. No drama.”

“I know,” he repeats, quieter.

There’s a long pause. You busy yourself with finding your socks on the floor, because looking at him feels dangerous right now. You’re already too comfortable in his bed, too used to the smell of his body wash lingering on your skin. Too used to waking up tangled in sheets that aren’t yours.

Oliver Aiku—confident, a heartbreaker, and reckless—is exactly the type of guy you don’t fall for.

You met at a party, not a meet-cute. You slept together before you even exchanged last names. And somehow, that turned into “you up?” texts, shared post-practice smoothies, him memorizing how you take your coffee. All under the unspoken agreement that this wasn’t anything more than convenient. Comfortable. Fun.

“Look, I’m not trying to ruin anything,” he says after a beat, voice a little more cautious now. “Just thought I’d be honest.”

Honest. Funny. Honesty from a guy who’s rumored to have ghosted at least three girls on campus in the last semester alone. You’d heard the stories. You weren’t blind.

And you never let yourself forget: you were just the next one in line.

“I don’t want to do this with you,” you say quietly, not looking at him.

“Do what?”

“Pretend like this could be something more than hooking up. That’s not who you are, Aiku.”

He sits up a little straighter at the sound of his last name. You only call him that when you’re annoyed. Or scared. Usually both.

He moves toward you slowly, carefully, like you might bolt. He stops just in front of you, hands at his sides, not touching. Not yet.

“Do you really think I’d spend this much time with someone I didn’t care about?” he asks. “You think I’d go to your research showcase, or memorize your exam schedule so I don’t bug you the night before, or delete my apps months ago—just for a hookup?”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You want to pull away. You want to tell him that this is supposed to be nothing more than a distraction. That this—whatever this is—was never supposed to go beyond the physical.

But you don’t. Instead, you pull your leg back, creating space between the two of you. You want to say something—anything—to make it stop. To push him back into the safe, familiar routine you’ve built.

You turn. “Oliver. You’re you. You flirt with waitresses in front of me.”

“Not lately.”

“You smile at every girl like you already know what she sounds like moaning.”

He winces, like your words sting. Maybe they do. He hides it fast.

“I don’t do that with you.”

Exactly.

That’s the problem.

Because somehow, somewhere along the line, he stopped treating you like a hookup. You didn’t notice it at first. Not when he lingered after sex. Not when he asked about your classes. Not even when he started showing up at your study spots, silently keeping you company until 2 a.m.

You only noticed when it felt harder to leave.

“You’re just bored,” you mutter. “You like the chase.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

He goes quiet. For a moment, you think he’ll shrug it off—go back to playing it cool. That’s what you’ve both been good at.

But instead, he says, “I think about you. A lot.”

You blink.

“When you’re not around,” he continues, quieter now, “I catch myself looking for you. Like, wondering if you're gonna show up to the quad in my stupidly oversized hoodie, or if you’re gonna skip your 10 a.m. like you always do when it rains.”

You bite your lip, guilt already starting to crawl up your spine. But you can’t let him see it. You can’t let him know how much it hurts to even think about letting someone get close to you again.

You shake your head. “But this is what you’ve always done, right? Hook up, move on. That’s how it works,” you say, trying to keep your tone light, like it’s no big deal.

He laughs, but it’s not his usual carefree laugh. It’s bitter. “You think that’s how I want it? That’s what I used to do, yeah. But you—” He stops himself, exhaling slowly. “You’re different.”

You shake your head, trying to mask the tightening in your chest. “I’m not. I’m really not. I’m just a girl you happen to sleep with.”

Oliver’s face falls, and for a moment, you almost feel guilty for pushing him away. But then you remember the countless times you’ve been burned by guys just like him—guys who seem perfect until they don’t care enough to stick around.

You can’t let that happen again.

[bu3ck3r]

tied together — part 3

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

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

tied together – masterlist

paige’s pov:

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

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

five minutes. no response.

she chewed on her sleeve.

was it too much? too soon? too obvious?

then the screen lit up with a text from azzi.

hey. what’s going on?

short. careful. but not cold.

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

i just… can we talk? like really talk?

yeah, i’m here paige.

the typing bubble flickers.

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

was it?

that makes her stop. her thumb hovers.

no. it wasn’t.

azzi doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

her hands shake a little.

so where does that leave us?

i don’t know. confused? wanting more?

paige’s heart pounds.

do you?

yeah. i do.

another long pause.

paige types something. deletes it. types again.

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

there’s a beat. then:

i still do.

and that’s it. that’s the shift.

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

this thing between them?

it’s not going away.

do you want to ft?

the question makes paige’s breath catch.

yeah. yeah, i do.

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

it only rings once.

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

they don’t say anything at first.

just… look.

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

paige breaks the silence first, voice quiet.

“i didn’t think you’d pick up.”

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

that hits her harder than it should.

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

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

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

paige nods, barely blinking. “me neither.”

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

and just like that, something’s begun.

something real.

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

together.

paige’s pov:

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

azzi tagged in a photo.

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

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

paige’s stomach twisted violently.

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

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

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

it didn’t.

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

was she moving on?

did she already move on?

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

it was just nika, poking her head in.

“you coming to team breakfast tomorrow?”

“yeah,” paige mumbled, voice rough.

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

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

one new text.

it was from azzi.

just a stupid meme about basketball.

paige stared at it for a long time.

she wanted to answer.

she wanted to ignore it.

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

and hated herself for it.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

azzi should’ve been asleep hours ago.

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

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

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

she flopped back onto her bed and exhaled loudly.

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

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

her phone buzzed again.

a new text — this time, from bree.

u good?

azzi thumbed a reply.

yeah. just focusing on the big game.

it wasn’t a total lie.

but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

paige’s pov:

morning came brutal and too soon.

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

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

azzi had posted again.

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

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

it gutted her.

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

she was nervous about seeing azzi again.

even from 800 miles away.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

azzi should’ve been locked in.

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

a new notification.

paige bueckers liked your story.

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

something hot curled low in her stomach.

something she tried to smother.

focus. game first.

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

paige’s pov:

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

it was reckless. stupid.

but she couldn’t help herself.

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

azzi was beautiful out there. sharp. effortless.

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

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

paige clenched her fists under the blanket.

was it her fault?

her heart ached and soared and cracked all at once.

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

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

she hovered. then hit send.

and immediately regretted it.

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

what if she was ruining her focus?

but five minutes later, her phone buzzed.

you’re watching?

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

always.

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

“always.”

god.

it made her legs feel weak.

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

not fear. not nerves.

hope.

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

like someone was watching just for her.

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

the crowd went wild.

but all she could think about was paige seeing it.

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

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

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

it was beautiful.

south carolina won.

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

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

she deserved that. deserved to be happy.

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

she really shouldn’t.

but she did.

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

the three dots appeared almost immediately.

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

paige’s heart twisted.

it wasn’t off. you were still you.

another long pause.

and then azzi texted:

facetime?

paige almost dropped her phone.

her thumb fumbled over the screen.

she called without thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

there was a long pause. comfortable. aching.

“i saw the post,” paige said suddenly.

azzi blinked. “what post?”

“the one with… you know. that girl.”

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

paige’s face froze.

“oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

they stared at each other. neither looking away.

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

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

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

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

the air left paige’s lungs.

“yeah,” she said. “same.”

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

the call stretched late into the night.

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

they just talked.

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

it was easy. effortless.

it was terrifying.

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

azzi was quiet for a long time.

then she said, “come visit me.”

paige’s heart stopped.

“azzi—”

“i’m serious.”

“it’s not that simple.”

“it is. you come. we figure it out.”

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

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

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

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

but fear still sat heavy in her chest.

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

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

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

the call ended sometime after 3 a.m.

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

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

it was never going to be that easy.

she rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.

but still, she didn’t regret asking.

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

she was going to take it.

no matter what.

paige’s pov:

practice was hell. paige couldn’t focus.

every play call blurred. every drill felt off.

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

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

paige nodded automatically. lied. automatically.

“yeah. just a little tired.”

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

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

paige swallowed hard.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

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

the draft text stared up at her.

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

she didn’t send it.

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

her heart raced.

she found a flight.tomorrow morning.

her thumb hovered over “confirm.”

click.

it was done.

no going back now.

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

one new text. from paige.

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

azzi shot upright, heart pounding.

was she dreaming?

was this real?

her hands shook so hard she could barely type.

you better not be messing with me paige.

wouldn’t dream of it.

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

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

another text. from bree.

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

azzi’s stomach plummeted.

no visitors. no paige.

not now.

not yet.

paige zipped her suitcase shut with shaky hands.

flight confirmation email glowing on her phone.

hope blooming stupid and fast in her chest.

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

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

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

as she was about to leave, her phone buzzed.

new text.

from azzi.

paige. we have a problem.

paige froze.

heart in her throat.

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

what kind of problem??

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

her fingers hovered over the screen.

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

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

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

you’re so annoying.

and you love it.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

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

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

she didn’t care.

because paige was here. paige came for her.

the text had been simple.

i’m outside.

no hesitation. no second-guessing.

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

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

paige. here.

their eyes locked. neither of them moved at first.

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

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

azzi crashed into her without thinking.

arms around her neck. face buried in her hoodie.

breathless. shaking. laughing.

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

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

azzi pulled back just enough to look at her.

“you’re gonna get us both expelled.”

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

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

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

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

from everything else.

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

“you’re so bad at sneaking.”

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

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

for a second, neither of them moved.

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

azzi rolled her eyes. “shut up.”

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

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

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

azzi raised an eyebrow. “real welcome?”

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

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

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

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

this wasn’t slow.

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

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

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

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

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

paige hovered over her, breathing hard, eyes dark.

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

azzi blinked up at her, dazed.

“i’m perfect,” she breathed.

paige’s lips twitched into a crooked smile.

“good.”

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

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

the world spun around them.

like only this mattered.

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

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

god, she missed this.

missed her.

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

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

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

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

“you’re such a sap.”

“only for you.”

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

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

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

paige gasped in surprise and azzi grinned against her mouth.

“my turn,” azzi whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

“you missed me that bad, p?”

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

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

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

azzi’s smile faded, replaced with something hungrier.

she tugged paige down again, harder this time.

neither of them was pretending anymore.

they needed this.

they needed each other.

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

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

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

and azzi let her.

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

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

paige groaned into her mouth.

“baby, please.” she whispered without thinking.

azzi’s fingers stilled.

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

paige froze.

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

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

“say it again.”

paige lifted her head, grinning.

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

azzi shivered.

it shattered something inside her.

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

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

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

“like what you see princess?”

azzi narrowed her eyes, heart hammering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it wasn’t about proving anything.

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

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

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

paige couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe.

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

it was overwhelming. it was perfect.

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

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

she looked wrecked.

she looked beautiful.

paige cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her jaw.

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

azzi closed her eyes like it hurt to hear.

“i missed you too,” she breathed.

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

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

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

paige smiled against her skin.

“already did.”

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

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

they didn’t.

but they pretended.

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

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

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

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

both of them froze.

azzi’s heart leapt into her throat.

another knock — louder this time.

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

it wasn’t bree or aliyah.

it wasn’t anyone who knew.

azzi and paige locked eyes — wide, panicked.

paige mouthed:

hide?

azzi shook her head quickly and whispered:

stay quiet.

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

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

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

footsteps retreated down the hall.

azzi slumped back against the door, heart hammering.

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

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

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

“you love it.”

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

yeah.

she loved it.

she loved her.

even if she couldn’t say it yet.

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

paige pressed her forehead against azzi’s.

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

azzi tightened her arms around her.

“then don’t.”

paige laughed softly.

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

azzi kissed her temple.

“if i have to.”

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

but eventually, reality crept back in.

paige’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.

azzi felt her stiffen.

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

where are you? call me. now.

azzi’s blood ran cold.

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

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

“what if they know?” azzi whispered.

paige swallowed hard.

“i don’t care.”

azzi did. she cared so much it hurt.

but she also cared about paige more than anything.

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

not again.

paige reached out and took her hand, squeezing gently.

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

azzi nodded, throat too tight for words.

together.

for as long as they could be.

for as long as the world would let them.

azzi’s pov:

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

the hallway was quiet.

too quiet.

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

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

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

azzi didn’t fix it. couldn’t.

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

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

it felt like coming home.

and now paige was gone again.

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

it was geno.

he didn’t yell.

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

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

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

paige nodded, throat tight. “yeah.”

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

paige looked down at her shoes.

“i’m sorry.”

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

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

paige nodded again.

but something in her chest clenched.

she wasn’t sorry about azzi.

she was sorry it got close to costing her this.

azzi’s pov:

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

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

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

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

alive. not benched. miss you already.

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

told you i was worth the risk.

you’re worth everything.

her heart dropped to her knees.

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

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the week that followed it got easier. and harder.

they texted constantly — like nothing had changed.

and maybe that was the problem.

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

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

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

“you’re lucky you’re hot.”

“that’s not cute, that’s just true.”

“fine. i miss you. happy now?”

”…keep talking.”

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

but under the sweetness, little cracks formed.

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

azzi waited.

one hour. then two. then six.

nothing.

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

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

azzi stared at it too long.

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

she told herself not to spiral.

but the truth was — she had spiraled before.

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

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

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

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

and then, slowly, typed:

i don’t like feeling like an option.

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

she read them again.

and again.

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

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

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

but azzi didn’t know that.

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

paige hit call without thinking.

it rang once. twice.

no answer.

she swore under her breath and tried again.

this time, azzi picked up.

she didn’t say anything at first.

neither did paige.

just breathing.

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

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

azzi closed her eyes.

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

“then why did you?” azzi asked quietly.

“because i’m scared,” paige said.

azzi blinked.

“scared of what?”

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

her voice broke on the last word.

azzi’s heart twisted.

“you’re already enough,” she whispered.

another long pause.

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

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

silence again — but it was warmer now. softer.

and then paige said it.

not dramatic. not loud.

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

“i love you.”

azzi froze.

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

paige’s breath hitched. “too much?”

azzi swallowed hard, her voice suddenly shaking.

“no.”

a breath.

“i love you too, paige.”

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

her throat went tight. her chest cracked wide open.

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

just quiet.

and then—

“took you long enough,” azzi said softly.

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

azzi sniffled. “make me.

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

another beat of silence.

then azzi whispered, “come see me again.”

paige stared at the ceiling.

“i want to,” she said. “i just…”

“are you scared again?”

paige didn’t answer.

but she didn’t need to.

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

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

paige’s pov:

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

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

paige looked at him, heart thudding.

“what rematch?”

he tossed her a printed sheet. tournament seeding projections.

and there it was.

uconn vs. south carolina. potential final four.

her hands trembled as she stared at the page.

everything in her chest turned cold.

because she wasn’t ready.

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

not after they said i love you.

[flwrkid14]

another gotham, another fate

Gotham never gets a Batman.

Bruce Wayne disappears into himself. Maybe he travels. Maybe he drinks. Maybe he walks the edge of the Cave and never steps down. Maybe he just grows old behind cold marble walls, haunted in a quiet, personal way. A man who never found a way to scream back at the world. Either way, there’s no cowl. No mission. No signal in the sky.

And the city… adapts. It grows meaner in places, quieter in others. Crime learns to wear a suit and speak politely. The monsters don’t vanish—but they go unchecked. Gotham learns to live without hope.

The tragedy isn’t what it becomes.

It’s what they don’t.

---

The circus keeps moving.

Dick Grayson still loses his parents, but no hand reaches out through the crowd to catch him. No cape wraps around his shoulders. No name whispered through a cowl. He mourns, of course. He bleeds. But he doesn’t break.

He stays. With the cast mates who knew him as a toddler, who helped raise him between acts. The circus becomes a family in the truest, rawest sense—fractured, mismatched, and fiercely protective. He learns to laugh again.

Some nights, after a standing ovation, he disappears from the tents. He climbs buildings barefoot, somersaults across rooftops just to feel the wind kiss his face. There’s a pull he doesn’t understand, a familiarity in the city’s breathless heights. He never becomes Robin—but he dreams of being something, of doing more. And on the nights he flies, Gotham holds its breath like it almost remembers him.

---

Jason Todd stays dead to the world, but he doesn't die.

He becomes a ghost anyway. Just not the dramatic kind. He becomes something softer and sadder—just another kid in Crime Alley whose name nobody knows.

He finds peace in the quiet corners of the city: secondhand bookstores, shuttered libraries, crumbling apartment stairwells where no one asks questions. He steals poetry like he used to steal bread, tucks it under his shirt like it might keep him warm. His world is stitched together with phantom echoes and survival.

Some nights, he walks past a building he doesn’t recognize and feels like he’s being watched. Some mornings, he wakes up with a bruise on his knuckles he can’t explain.

He passes a graveyard one night and feels something tug at his ribs. A name he doesn’t remember. A blow he never took.

---

Tim Drake learns to sit still.

There are no shadows on the wall to chase. No dark knight to unravel. Just quarterly reports and dinner parties and whispered disappointment behind every door.

He keeps to himself. He’s good at it. He excels in every subject, learns how to navigate the Drake Corp boardroom like it’s a warzone. His parents are proud. He tells himself that’s enough.

But his hands twitch when the city goes quiet. His eyes flick toward rooftops like they’re supposed to mean something. He doesn’t know why.

Still, he watches the skyline like it’s a secret. Like if he studies it long enough, he’ll catch a glimpse of something important. Something he missed.

---

Stephanie Brown gets away with a lot.

No Bat means no one’s watching the alleyways. No one’s tracking the daughter of a third-string villain. She still puts on a homemade suit—just once. Paints a domino mask on with eyeliner, tapes foam to a sweatshirt, and climbs out her bedroom window.

It rains that night. She falls off a garage roof and cracks her elbow. She doesn’t try again.

Instead, she gets really good at pretending. She aces tests she didn’t study for. She flirts with danger in all the wrong ways. Gotham doesn’t need saving, she tells herself. And even if it did—who the hell would want her?

But some nights, when she sees police tape or hears a scream echo through the dark, she wonders what she could’ve been. What she almost was.

---

Cassandra Cain is made into a weapon.

There’s no one there to stop it. No Bat in a rain-slick alley whispering that she’s more than muscle memory and silence. No hand reaching out to rewrite her story.

So she runs. She slips through Gotham like mist—half myth, half shadow. People call her a ghost. A rumor. A girl-shaped legend with hands that only know how to end things.

She doesn’t know how to be anything else.

She hides in the forgotten places—abandoned church basements, subway tunnels worn thin by time. There, in the dark, she traces shapes into the dust with trembling fingers. Her body remembers violence, but her soul aches for language.

She learns to speak without words—through stillness, through motion, through the ache behind her eyes.

She watches dancers on the corner and mimics them in secret. Studies the curve of joy in their movement.

And sometimes—only sometimes—she watches from the rooftops. Watches a boy leap buildings like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Watches a girl in a patched costume refuse to give up. And it hits her like a bruise she doesn’t have a name for.

On rare nights, she dreams of masks. Of meaning. Of something that could’ve saved her.

But dreams slip through her fingers. And she always wakes up alone.

---

Barbara Gordon still gets shot.

Not by a man with a painted smile and a laugh that curdles blood. Not in a sick cosmic joke meant to break her spine.

Just... by a man with a gun on a street she shouldn’t have walked down. Wrong place, wrong time. Gotham doesn’t care either way. It never did.

She survives. Barely. And that’s the end of her independence. Of her plans. Her father cries at her bedside and she learns to swallow bitterness for his sake.

Eventually, she gets a chair. Then a keyboard. Then the city itself beneath her fingers. She becomes a digital ghost. A phantom in the wires.

She doesn’t call herself Oracle. No one does. But if you know where to look, she’s there. Watching. Listening. Waiting for someone who never came.

---

Duke Thomas still shines.

He loses his parents anyway. But not to Joker gas. Not in the headline-worthy way. Just quietly—Gotham’s way. Slowly. Unfairly.

He learns to survive without light. He walks through shadows like he owns them. There's something special in him, but no one’s around to name it. So he names it himself. Hope.

He joins protest groups. Breaks up fights. Tutors kids. He’s the kind of good that burns without needing a symbol. But still—when he’s alone, he dreams of yellow. Of armor. Of being chosen.

Instead, he chooses himself.

And maybe that’s enough.

---

Damian Al-Ghul Wayne is never born.

The League sharpens blades, not bloodlines. Talia walks away from the idea of motherhood, and Ra’s doesn’t see the point in heirs when there’s no Detective to challenge him.

But sometimes, in the quieter halls of the Lazarus Pits, something echoes. A flicker of potential that never arrives. A space left empty. The world feels strangely unbalanced, like it’s missing a knife it was meant to be cut by.

And somewhere—perhaps in a life that never gets to begin—there’s a boy who dreams in perfect sword strokes and paints his nightmares in watercolors. A boy raised by monsters, who could’ve become something else.

Someone no one ever gets the chance to save.

---

There’s no Batcave. No signal in the sky, rising above the city like a promise.

But still—Gotham makes something in the dark. Not quite heroes. Not quite villains. Just people. Half-formed. Half-healed. Haunted by versions of themselves they’ll never get to be.

You can almost catch glimpses of them—out of the corner of your eye, just past the edge of memory.

A boy in a circus who still flies. A kid in an alley who still aches. A quiet heir who still waits. A weapon shaped like a girl who moves like silence. A spark in purple who refuses to dim. A lightbearer who still shines. An oracle in the dark who still listens. A son who was never born.

And a city that never got saved.

[pukefactory]

Imagine reader seeing Ena fight for the first time, and how skilled she seems to be in combat. It's a little unnerving at first but they notice how distressed she is - bordering on some kind of breakdown yet not stopping once the battle is over. They have to help her snap out of this, even if it's a risk getting near her. She could be entering her green cracked form too, since that seems to have something to do with it.

It happens suddenly. One moment, ENA is herself—half-witty, half-weird, trailing metaphors behind her like ribbons in a breeze. The next, it’s like something deeper inside her snaps taut. The world around you fractures in sharp, unnatural angles as danger unfolds—and you see ENA fight for the first time.

She’s good at it. Unsettlingly good. Her movements are erratic but intentional, like choreography stolen from a fever dream. The air feels wrong. Her voice—usually poetic or clumsy or sweet—turns jagged, echoing as though there are three of her speaking at once. Her expressions flicker in impossible combinations. And the worst part? She doesn’t seem triumphant. She seems lost.

When it ends, it doesn’t really end. The enemy is gone, reduced to screaming pixels or curling voids or something that’s no longer there—but ENA keeps going. Her fingers twitch. Her eye pulses an unearthly red. That fractured green spreads across her like a virus made of grief and static. You call her name—twice, three times—but she doesn’t answer. She’s somewhere else, trapped inside a storm only she understands.

She’s not violent. She’s terrified.

Terrified of whatever part of her takes over when things go wrong. Terrified of what you might think of her now.

So you move forward. Carefully. Risking the aftermath, the echoing aura that hums with barely-contained power. You take her hand. Her skin’s cold and buzzing like television snow. You say something—soft and honest. Something that makes no logical sense in this place but feels like truth anyway.

And just like that, she returns.

A sharp breath. A blinking eye. A shiver that breaks the trance. She looks at you—not like a monster, not like a glitch, but like a girl afraid she’s ruined everything. You wrap your arms around her before she can say a word.

And in that moment, you understand: ENA doesn’t need someone to fear her. She needs someone who sees the storm and stays anyway.

[abbotjack]

So here’s the thing, I haven’t watched Animal Kingdom and I am also insane. But Pope reminds me a lot of the Minotaur from the labyrinth. Like before he was shaped into a “monster” he was someone’s baby and there was love there once. And he’s always trying to find his way back to that. The Minotaur had a name too, but no one ever called him that. I often find myself wondering if, when Thesus dragged him out of the labyrinth, if he finally got to see the stars for which he was named again? Is Andrew hoping to see the stars again? He wasn’t always a weapon or a threat. But being down there in a dark all alone would make monsters of us all.

And to go on a different tangent, there’s a line by Ocean Vuong that I’ve been turning over in my head for years and I think might be applicable to Pope:

“What I really wanted to say was that a monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”

I didn’t have a point beyond needing to tell someone this. And also, your writing is incredible. I’m constantly looking to see what you’re up to while I’m rereading your work. Thank you!

God.

You don’t even know what you’ve done with this ask. I read it and just sat there. Staring. Because it didn’t just make sense—it shook something loose. Not because I hadn’t thought of Pope as a monster before—but because you reframed the word. You reminded me that the monster didn’t make the labyrinth. He was just left inside it.

And yeah. Pope is the Minotaur. Not the horror-movie version—blood-soaked and howling—but the tragedy. The cautionary tale no one ever finished reading. The part where the boy was born into a house that already saw him as wrong. Too much. Too dangerous. Too emotional. Too intense. Where people locked him away and then blamed him for what he became in the dark.

Because here’s what kills me—Andrew wasn’t always Pope.

He was a twin. He was somebody’s baby. He was Julia’s brother. And for a long time, he was just a kid trying to survive in a house where love came with strings attached and violence passed as loyalty. He was a boy who loved so deeply and so literally that when Smurf told him protecting the family meant hurting people, he didn’t even flinch. He just obeyed. Because what else do you do when the woman who gave you life also teaches you how to take it?

That’s the labyrinth.

It’s not some mythical stone maze—it’s Smurf’s house. It’s the way she shut the doors behind him. The way she turned him into a weapon and then acted like she had nothing to do with the blood on his hands. The way she gave him one job: Protect them. And how every time he tried to protect someone, he ended up hurting them instead.

And still—still—he wants out. Not out of the family, not really. But out of the story they wrote him into. The one where he’s the threat. The one where he’s always the one people warn each other about. “Pope’s crazy.” No—Pope is traumatized. Pope is exhausted. Pope is made of a love so feral and so misdirected it devours him from the inside out.

So your line—“I wonder if when Theseus dragged him out of the labyrinth, if he finally got to see the stars for which he was named”—it wrecked me. Because I don’t think anyone’s ever asked that. Not about the Minotaur. And definitely not about Andrew Cody. But yes. I think he’s still looking for them. I think every time he climbs onto that roof and stares out at Oceanside, he’s trying to find the stars again. Trying to remember that there was light before all this. That there was a boy before the monster. That he had a name before they took it from him and made it something to be feared.

And Ocean Vuong—don’t even get me started. That line has lived in the back of my brain for years like it was waiting for a name to attach itself to. “A hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.” That’s it. That’s Pope. That’s the way he stands in front of J with a gun in one hand and grief in the other. That’s the way he holds Lena like she’s breakable, even after everything he’s done. That’s how he stands over Julia’s grave like a ghost. That’s what it means to be him. That’s the tension I’m always writing toward—the impossibility of being both danger and protection. Of being the knife and the hands that pull it out.

And maybe this is where I get too personal, but I don’t care. Writing Pope feels like standing in a house you built out of barbed wire and trying to convince yourself it’s safe. It’s exhausting. It’s cathartic. It’s holy. Because I’ve never written anyone who makes me ache the way he does. Who feels like a myth I want to rewrite from the inside out. He’s not clean. He’s not neat. He’s not the hero. But he never stopped trying to be something more than what they made of him. And that—that’s the part that kills me.

So no, your message wasn’t pointless. You gave me a whole new frame to write from. You reminded me that monsters didn’t name themselves. And more importantly, you reminded me that the Minotaur—like Andrew—was always trying to get home.

Thank you for that. And thank you for reading. For seeing the shape of the man beneath the myth. For tracing the outline of the boy in the dark. I promise, he���s still in there.

[wileys-russo]

a dangerous new hobby II a.russo

"less? babe i'm home!" you called out as the door clicked shut behind you, kicking off your shoes and hanging your jacket up, the house feeling a hundred degrees warmer than the bitter frost of outside you'd just trudged through.

you heard her before you saw her, footsteps making their way toward you as you were halfway done unwrapping your scarf when the blonde appeared.

"hi baby.” the familiar comfort of her accent warmed you just as much as the ac, her hands grabbing the scarf you were trying to untangle and using it to tug your body into hers making you laugh.

"i missed you." the striker exhaled, wiggling your bodies as she squished you tightly making you laugh.

“i wasn’t even gone for two hours less.” you grinned tilting your chin up slightly, smile widening as the girl sweetly pecked your lips a few times in greeting.

"is something baking?" you questioned with a frown as you sniffed the air, stepping back as your girlfriend made quick work of removing your scarf and hanging it up for you. "yes! i have been baking." alessia beamed happily as you gave her a look of uncertainty.

ever since she'd felt a twang in her knee and been benched to rest the poor girl was going absolutely stir crazy, only really leaving the house to attend games or rehab.

which had lead to her trying to find any and every way to occupy herself while you weren't home to engage her attention and focus.

"right..." you trailed off slowly, your girlfriend scowling unhappily at your lackluster response. "and what is that supposed to mean?” alessia huffed crossing her arms over her chest and staring you down with a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised toward you.

“you just aren't normally the best baker in this relationship my love, thats all. but still such a wonderful cook!” you replied gently, trying to approach it in the nicest way possible and sugar coat the truth, which was that alessia was yet to actually bake something that wasn’t raw or burnt, in fact just yesterday she’d somehow managed a tray of cookies that were black on the outside and still sludgy undercooked mush in the middle.

"well thank you for that unwavering vote of confidence!" alessia grumbled with a roll of her eyes. "i just have a big meeting tomorrow that i can't miss due to a case of mild to severe food poisoning baby, thats all." you smiled with a wink before slyly ducking around her.

"oi! come here." you tried to take off but you weren't fast enough as long arms wrapped around your waist and tugged you off the ground. "alessia your knee! put me down." you smacked her shoulder sternly as she easily held you up.

"its fine! you stress more than leah and thats saying something love." her free hand connected with your bum as she manhandled you into the kitchen and forcefully sat you down into a stool by the island.

"i stress because i care and i care because if you properly do your knee some damage and i have to play nurse for another few months, i fear our relationship may not survive because you are a terrible patient!" you shook your head at the memory, trying to crane your neck to see what she was pulling out of the oven, but to no luck as her body blocked the view.

"i was not!"

“oh yes you were. for the first couple weeks you refused to sit still, drove your teammates up the wall with your sideline coaching, drove me up the wall with your inabiity to listen, you-"

“yeah alright! jesus what is it pick on alessia day?" your girlfriend scoffed and turned her back toward you with a shake of her head.

"thats every day my love." you bit back with a grin as she turned to wag a finger in your direction. "cheeky girl." the blonde tutted grabbing you a glass of wine which you thanked her for with a kiss.

"you know i didn't mind that little nurses uniform you had, maybe i might have to hurt my knee again." alessia grinned as you again smacked her shoulder. "maybe for your birthday if you're lucky russo. you and your super knee need to get back to scoring goals on the pitch before you can score any off of it." her face brightened at that making your lips curl into a slight smile of amusement.

"so do i get to know what im taste testing? after all you do need to be able to tell the doctor the cause of my death." you sipped at the wine with a smirk as alessia turned around hands on hips.

"i slave away all day over a hot oven to cop this ungrateful attitude, you're looking the right way to be single by the weekend.” the forward waved a wooden spoon at you only furthering your grin, enjoying this switch in power dynamic as normally it was alessias constant little teasing comments which grated at you.

"i'll make sure my next girlfriends a proper baker then, free carbs on tap and no risk of severe illness." you continued to poke at her with a smile, the blonde now choosing to ignore you as she fussed over whatever likely under or over baked good she was shielding from view.

"get out of my face and go shower!" the taller girl shooed you off as you grinned, darting over to kiss her sweetly before retreating to the bathroom, still in the dark about what it exactly was you'd be eating as alessia hurried to spin around and stretch out so you couldn’t see it which made your eyes roll.

but finally showered and feeling much more relaxed you sent a message to kyra warning that if you and alessia weren't heard from again the cause of death was her baking, the poor australian often the back up guinea pig whenever she’d come over after training.

the midfielder sending back a series of concerned emojis promised to come up and visit with coffee tomorrow morning, as clearly if alessia was baking again she was much more bored than originally letting on.

"baby, come try please!"

tucking away your phone you tugged on a pair of uggs given the winter chill and wandered downstairs, quite pleasantly surprised with the sight you walked into.

“oh less it looks lovely.” you admitted with a small smile, a two tier cake smothered in butter cream and clearly hand iced flowers sat middle of the table, the blonde having set it up with candles.

"five star service for you my girl." the striker smiled charmingly, pulling out and pushing in your seat for you, your hand balling her top and tugging her mouth down to meet yours for a moment in thanks.

you smiled utterly smitten as alessia cut the pair of you a slice each, tapping her lips for another kiss before setting the plate down in front of you and sitting on your left.

"go on then! eat it, see if its edible." the girl mocked with a roll of her eyes, taking a large bite of her own piece and not showing any signs of disgust.

so with a little less hesitation than before you stabbed up a forkful and slipped it into your mouth, eyebrows furrowing as alessia watched on awaiting a reaction.

your eyes widened as you chewed and swallowed, alessias smile turning smug at your obvious delight as you quickly took up another large forkful of cake and groaned happily.

"good then?" "delicious less holy shit!"

"you know my love if football doesn't work out i think we've worked out your backup career. next star of the great british bake off!" you complimented with a wink making her laugh.

"well making you happy makes me happy." the blonde smiled as you leaned across to kiss her again, mumbling an apology for doubting her against her icing covered lips.

"you know love i think i'll take my apology in the form of that little nurses costume tonight. all this baking and decorating suddenly has my knee playing up!" alessia winced dramatically as you snickered.

“mmm poor baby.” you pouted sarcastically, poking your fork back into the cake and shaking your head with amusement as alessia carried on her performance of pain, grinning at the small laugh you couldn’t hold back at her theatrics.

it was in that moment you decided not to mention the cake box from your favourite bakery you’d noticed poorly hidden and wedged behind the bins when you arrived home.

[the-almighty-bling]

If there is one thing common between Nakan and Khun Thara, that is they are both trying to change Tong’s perspective of Mark and to get Tong to ditch Mark at the end of the day.

For Nakan, he wants Tong to think that Mark is dangerous and he does this by showing Tong the cold-blooded, violent and animalistic (vampiric) side of Mark. In those fighting footages Nakan selected to show Tong, there is no hesitation from Mark when crushing his enemies skulls. Even Tong was a little taken back I believe (going by his expression) because this is such a big contrast to the warm teddy bear vampire he has been so used to now.

For Khun Thara, we learnt from the ep 9 preview that Khun Thara believes Mark’s love for Tong is but an infatuation stemming from the golden blood. Now I am not sure if Khun Thara really believes this because she would be right going by the rule that vampires do not have feelings and are numb to emotions. But I am feeling that Khun Thara is trying to lead Tong away from Mark. It’s not revealed how much Khun Thara knows about the power of the golden blood yet so it’s hard to make a judgement. But surely she would know that her words will have impact on Tong? This might cause Tong to harbour doubts regarding Mark’s feeling for him? Is this what she is aiming at? And the consequence would be Tong leaving Mark. Is this what Khun Thara wants? While it might seem that Khun Thara is pulling Tong on to her side, my theory is that she is afraid of losing Mark to Tong. Remember that Khun Thara personally hunted Mark down and turned him because he is crucial to the organisation. She probably needs Mark for something but the Mark she needs is one that is not on Tong’s side (not favouring Tong more than her).

It’s actually quite interesting to see that the tactic both Nakan and Khun Thara used to persuade Tong to leave Mark is a reduction of Mark to one with no feelings, just lust and violence and sad to think that alienating Mark is a goal both “coincidentally” shares for different reason. (But in ep 8, we know and Tong knows our Mark is not like that!!!! Tong I know you will stand up for Mark!!!!)

Even more devastating to think that Mark has been living so alone in his entire 100+ years until Tong came. The want to connect (to others) must have always been in Mark’s mind but losing human emotions might have led Mark to forget about this. And now, Mark is socialising again and feeling once more after consuming the golden blood, falling in love too, regaining a little of what he is probably always been looking for.

Tong is Mark’s world now and I can’t imagine how sad it is if we were to see Tong being taken from Mark and Mark going back to his old world.

[softshuji]

'Heyyyyy you, handsome man, you single?' you say, slightly tripping over your feet as Hanma comes to take you by the elbow and lead you from the bar. Your friends are still hollering at you from behind but you half turn, give them a wave and let him pull you gently to the exit.

'Single? Nah, got a beautiful girl for myself,' he says, partly using his arm to push the throng to the side,.the other pulling you to his chest where you rest a hand and the side of your head as you're led to the exit. He looks down at you, winks, a soft and tender smile, the kind that's usually reserved for the inside of your four walls, but you look so pretty to him right now, in the jeans that are an off black and grey, a shirt that's entirely too thin for the weather, but beautiful nonetheless.

Your eyebrows twist and the effort has your eyes burning. 'A beautiful girl? She's very lucky. you're soooo handsome, so sexy.' And the edges of it are slurred, worn down by tiredness, the late night, alcohol buzzing through your system.

He snorts, unexpectedly and it brings a smile to you unbidden. 'Thanks Sweetheart, now let's get you home huh?'

You breathe out his name when the first gust of cold sir blows into your lungs, a 'shuji' that feels raw and vulnerable and personal, intimate in the way nothing else is, letting your eyes linger on him as you're carried into the passenger seat of the car.

He thinks you're a little funny today. You have a strange look in your eyes. Like he might disappear if he moves out of sight, like you're trying to commit him to memory and he shifts with self awareness as he drives.

He can tell you're about to say something. You're always quiet before you say something philosophical, or soft and tender. Like you're turning it over, picking it apart before you let it out into the world, taking a quick breath and turning your hair in your fingers, cheeks still flush with warmth.

'Yknow...... I'm really glad we met Shuji,' you say, head leaning against the window, eyes turned up to the blanket of stars peppering the midnight sky.

'Yeah?'

'Mhm. I don't think- even if- y'know- we broke up or something- I don't think I'd ever fall in love with someone else. I don't think I ever could.'

A muscle slides in his jaw, a flush and creeping warmth crawling through his chest. 'I'm one of a kind princess what can I say?' and it shakes, just a little, tenderness catching him off guard.

You tut, playfully, direct a glance at him. 'I'm serious. I wouldn't want to either. I think I'd spend the rest of my life trying to find you in someone else. I love you,' you say, so simply, so upfront. 'I love you, and if something ever happened to you, or if you never wanted me anymore, I don't think there's any man who could make up for what you'd leave behind.'

He frowns then, a hand gripping the steering wheel, the soft cadence of alarm ringing in his head. 'Did someone say something to you Pretty Girl?'

You shake your head, a hand resting just under your chin. 'No, no, just something I was thinking about. I look at everyone else and I feel lucky. I get to be loved by , and to love the most handsome guy, the sweetest, the one who loves me the most. What could I ever complain about?'

There's a funny feeling in his stomach, brewing as he pulls up in front of the house and walks around to lift you from the car. You cling, like you always do, to his shirt, his jacket, lips cold against his neck and he lets you, wraps his arms tighter.

'You feelin' okay sweetheart?' and he rests a hand on your forehead as he nudges the door shut.

'Mhm,' and you burrow further against him as he slips into the bedroom and seats you on the edge of the bed, bending to undo your heels and massage your ankles, your toes, your calves, the entire way up to your thighs.

How funny. To have a man so big, so beautiful, so dangerous kneeling at your feet. To have a man who can kill with a hand behind his back bending to kiss your ankle as he slips your shoes off. What magic, what tricks did you play to get him here?

'Yknow....'.

'Mhm?'

'You say you're a mean man, a monster, a bad man.'

'I am, pretty girl, don't forget.'

You run a hand Through his hair, a light scratch against his scalp. 'I don't think I quite care sometimes yknow. You love me and that's the only part that matters. I think sometimes about how many guys you've killed, how many husband's and father's you've taken from girls like me, and sometimes I just....I think of you not coming back to me, and I realize it could be me one day, losing you. I'd do anything, kill, die, just to keep you with me.' This end part Peters off into a whisper, lost between your breath and he stares up at you, bewildered, terrified, love and longing swirling in his eyes.

'Okay, come on now Doll, let's get you ready to sleep,' he says, against the lump his throat, his chest caving, aching, thrumming.

And it's a whisper of a touch when he wipes your makeup off, pours water into a glass to down in one go, slips you into something comfortable before you slide into bed together, him curling around your body, the entirety of it pressed against your back, and arms coming to rest against your stomach.

'Hey Baby?' you half turn, eyes fluttering.

'Hm?'

'You ever think about what would've happened if I hadn't pursued you?'

He cracks open an eye, squinting. 'Huh? Last time I checked I'm the one who asked you on a date sweet girl.'

You huff. 'That's so typical of you, thinking you did all the work. you think I didn't put in complex moves for us to be together?'

'Oh yeah? Like what?'

'Well it definitely wasn't a coincidence that I saw you every day. Or that I kept finding convenient excuses to speak to you when I didn't need to, or that I somehow knew everything about you before we'd officially started dating.'

He presses his lips to your neck. 'Oh so you were stalking me huh? That's cute, I like the dedication sweetheart, but you could've just asked me if you liked me so much.'

You pout. 'No, I needed to win you over. See you were playing checkers and I was playing chess pretty boy.'

He barks out an unexpected laugh. 'Right, I'll remember that Princess.'

It's a quiet reconciliation, and you're both aware of it swirling between you. Unspoken silences, declarations left unsaid, the conflict of his feelings and fear, that you're quick to soothe, because you love him entirely. And you sleep, together, him pressed against you, and safe, in his arms, where you belong.

[minnie-cai]

TIMECAST - Roaring Twenties

The Pink Pony Club

pianist!art donaldson x burlesque dancer!reader

c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The music was never written down.

Art played it like a secret, fingers moving from muscle memory, heart memory. No sheet. No name. Just a tune he’d stumbled into one night after watching her dance and never managed to shake loose.

It didn’t match the other numbers. Too slow. Too sad. It had no business lingering beneath rhinestones and tassels. But it fit her. The real her. The one he only caught glimpses of between routines—when the lights dimmed and the sweat on her shoulders hadn’t yet cooled.

Carmen—though that wasn’t her name, he was sure—had a laugh like a brass bell and walked like she’d never been taught to apologize. On stage, she glowed. A constellation of sequins and hips, dazzling and deliberate. Offstage, she smoked French cigarettes and swore like a man on leave.

Art kept his eyes down when he played. Most nights.

Except for hers.

She was halfway through her number, some wild, thumping thing with feathers and a chair, when she caught him.

Not just looking. Watching.

Her mouth curved mid-spin, slow and dangerous. She pivoted, winked, and blew him a kiss so theatrical the crowd howled.

He fumbled the next chord.

The number ended. Applause. Laughter. A crash of cymbals. Carmen disappeared behind the velvet curtain, and Art was left blinking at ivory keys like they’d betrayed him.

It wasn’t until an hour later, after the last call had been whispered through shadowed booths and the club was quieter than a prayer, that she approached.

He was still at the piano. Always was. Tinkering with chords like they might one day answer a question he didn’t know how to ask.

She perched on the edge of the piano bench without asking. One long leg crossed over the other. Glitter smudged along her collarbone like stardust.

“That song,” she said. “The slow one. The one you always play when I dance. Is that for me?”

Art didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

“I just…” He cleared his throat. “Play what fits.”

A beat of silence.

Then Carmen laughed, soft and sharp. “You’re lucky I like flattery, sweetheart.”

She slid off the bench and disappeared into the dressing room corridor, scent trailing behind her like rose perfume and danger.

Art stared at the keys a long time before touching them again.

—

The Pink Pony Club was never silent, not really.

Even after the doors locked and the girls peeled rhinestones from their skin, there was always a hum. A low, ambient hush like the place had its own pulse. The walls held secrets in their velvet folds. Lipstick prints on half-drunk glasses. Ghosts of applause in the rafters.

Carmen lit a cigarette with one hand, the other holding her silk robe shut at the chest. She was perched on the piano bench again, bare legs crossed, one heel dangling from her toe. The smoke curled around her like mood lighting.

Art played.

He didn’t ask what she wanted. He just let his fingers move—minor chords, soft harmonies, a lazy rhythm like the stretch after a long, slow kiss.

She hummed along under her breath.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asked, eyes closed.

“Sometimes,” he said.

Carmen cracked one eye open. “That a joke?”

He shrugged.

She took another drag. “You always play like you’re dreaming.”

“That’s when it sounds right.”

Silence again, except for the music.

Carmen reached into her robe pocket and pulled something folded and worn. She slid it across the top of the piano toward him. Art stopped playing.

It was a flyer. Faded. Creased from being carried too long. A girl in feathers smiled from the page, kicking her legs in silhouette. The headline read “Amateur Night—$20 Prize” in a cheap, jagged font.

“That’s me,” she said.

He looked up.

“I was seventeen,” Carmen said. “Didn’t even know how to sew a snap into a bodice yet. I borrowed shoes from a girl I met in the train station bathroom.”

Art didn’t ask how she got there. He just waited.

She tapped ash into a teacup. “I didn’t win. But Miss Kitty saw me. Told me I had legs like a chorus line and the face of a woman who’d never lose a fight.”

Art stared at her for a moment.

Then, carefully, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a thin, leather-bound book. He laid it between them. Inside, faded pencil notations danced across yellowed pages. Sheet music. Some finished. Some not.

Carmen raised a brow. “This your diary?”

He gave a small, helpless smile. “I don’t… write things down. Not really. But this is how I keep them.”

She touched the edge of a page, delicately, like it might flake apart.

“Play me one of these,” she said. “Something no one’s heard before.”

Art hesitated.

Then he turned the book, laid it flat, and began to play.

The song was slow. Not sad, but wistful—like a window left open on purpose. A melody that didn’t ask anything of you, just stayed awhile and listened.

When it ended, Carmen blinked and cleared her throat like she hadn’t meant to.

“You got a name for that one?”

He shook his head.

She leaned back. “Call it Glitter.”

Art looked at her.

She smiled, a real one this time. Smaller. Softer. “That’s what it sounded like. Glitter in a drain.”

—

They called her Sugar Lace.

She arrived on a Tuesday with a battered suitcase and a voice that tried too hard to purr. Said she came from St. Louis, used to work the Rivoli, knew how to handle men and high kicks in equal measure.

Her curls were firetruck red. Her heels were too tall for the way she walked. Her perfume came in waves, like someone had spilled it on her train ticket.

Carmen clocked her before she even finished her introduction.

Too gay. Too eager. Too much brass, not enough brass band.

But Miss Kitty took her in anyway. Because Kitty always did.

Kitty didn’t turn girls away. She took the raw ones, the bent ones, the ones with lipstick too dark and shoes too big. She’d press a compact into their hands, teach them how to glide instead of walk, and make them family before anyone else could ruin them first.

“You don’t have to be the best,” Kitty said once, holding a girl while she cried in a beaded bra. “You just have to be yours. Everything else is rehearsal.”

Still, Carmen had earned the late night slot with blood, bruises, and boa fluff. So when Sugar Lace strutted onstage in Carmen’s eleven o’clock spot four days later, something behind her ribs twisted sharp.

From his bench, Art noticed too.

He always did.

⸻

Carmen was in the wings, arms crossed, one brow arched like a challenge. Her corset still clung to her ribs from the earlier number. She hadn’t even taken her lashes off yet. That’s how fast the schedule had flipped.

Miss Kitty stood behind her, cigarette smoke curling around her like a halo. “She’s a novelty act. Just passing through. Don’t bristle.”

“She’s flailing.”

“She’s trying.”

“She stole my slot.”

Kitty smirked. “No one steals from you, baby. Not without consequences.”

Carmen’s eyes flicked to the stage.

Sugar Lace was mid-routine, something involving a velvet swing and a poorly timed glove toss. The crowd liked it well enough—men laughed too loud and slapped tables—but there was no rhythm. No tease. Just noise and skin.

And the piano?

It didn’t sing.

Carmen’s head snapped toward the bench.

Art’s fingers were still moving, but the tempo was wrong. The chords a little off. The cue for the bridge came too early, then too late. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Sugar tripped her exit spin, laughed like it was part of the act, and jogged backstage to scattered applause.

Kitty didn’t say a word.

Carmen did.

She waited until the next act had started—one of the twins with champagne bottles and a comedy bit—then found Art exactly where he always was after a misstep: by the side piano, fussing with a page of fake sheet music like it might confess for him.

“You messed up,” she said, arms folded across her chest.

He didn’t look at her. “Sorry.”

“You don’t mess up.”

“I just wasn’t… focused.”

“Try again.”

Art glanced up, eyes meeting hers, cheeks already flushing.

“She took your number,” he said softly. “I didn’t like it.” He shrugged.

Silence.

Then she leaned down, placed a hand on the bench beside his, and kissed his cheek. A quiet press of mouth to skin. Nothing flashy. Just real.

“Don’t go starting a fire on my account, piano man,” she whispered. “Unless you want me to dance in the flames.”

⸻

Later that night, the girls were curled up in the dressing room like cats after a long hunt. Robes slipped from shoulders. Stockings dangled from the edge of the vanity. Glitter stuck to everything—skin, mirrors, even the doorknob.

Goldie passed around a tin of balm for bruised feet. Jo flipped through a gossip rag, reading the horoscopes out loud in her fake radio voice.

Lorna was painting her nails with bootleg polish, one leg kicked up on the makeup table. “Carmen, you hear your replacement?”

“She’s not my replacement,” Carmen said, biting into an apple like it had personally offended her.

“She cracked her knuckle on the swing,” Jo offered. “Heard it from Theo.”

“She’s got nerves,” Kitty said, appearing from the hall with a fresh martini in hand. “She’ll learn.”

“She doesn’t listen,” Carmen muttered.

“She’s scared,” Kitty replied. “You remember what that felt like?”

Carmen didn’t answer. Only clicked her tongue in annoyance.

Goldie grinned. “Art sure listened.”

Jo whooped. “You see that chord sabotage?”

Lorna raised her glass. “To shy boys with good ears.”

They clinked imaginary glasses and howled with laughter. Carmen rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

Across the room, tucked half out of view, Art sat alone with a paper napkin full of notes, scrawled staves, and tiny sketches of stars in the margins.

He wasn’t laughing. But he looked like he wanted to.

And Carmen? She looked at him and felt it.

The spark.

—

It started with a kiss behind the prop curtain.

It was after a long set. Carmen still glittered at the collarbones, sweat like pearls at her hairline, her robe clutched loosely over her costume. Art had just finished packing up the second piano—his fingers still tingling from playing her exit number like it was a love letter he wasn’t allowed to send.

She passed him in the hallway, didn’t even pause, just grabbed his tie and pulled him into the dark behind the curtain.

The kiss was fast. Heat and lipstick. A bite on the bottom lip.

She didn’t say anything after. Just slipped away like nothing had happened.

But it did.

God, it did.

⸻

The next time was in the back storage closet between sets. She cornered him while he was reaching for a fresh music stand. Kissed him again—slower this time, mouths fitting like they’d rehearsed it. Her thigh pressed between his. His hands, awkward and reverent, found her waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold her even now.

She broke the kiss and whispered, “This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

He nodded.

It already meant everything.

⸻

It kept happening.

A dressing room when no one was looking. An empty stairwell at midnight. Once, breathless, against the hallway wall while the show thundered through the floorboards above them.

She touched him like she needed something from him—release, relief, quiet. He let her take it. Gave himself up in pieces.

But he never touched her like that.

He touched her like a hymn.

⸻

Art didn’t know how to be casual.

He tried. He told himself he could. But every time Carmen kissed him, he melted into it like sugar in heat. Every sigh was a song he wanted to write. Every time she undid her robe for him, he wanted to kneel.

She’d press him against the cool tile of the back room, kiss his throat, pull open his shirt with impatient hands. He’d slide his palms up her thighs, feel silk and strength and softness. He’d breathe her in like she was the only real thing in the city.

She’d laugh—low, wicked—and tell him not to get sentimental.

And he never said it out loud, but—

Too late.

⸻

One night, after, they lay tangled in the dressing room chaise, her head on his chest, their clothes half-askew.

He traced the edge of her arm with two fingers. Light, like a breeze. Her skin raised under it.

“You always touch me like I’m breakable,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” he whispered back.

“But you think I am.”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed the back of her hand.

It wasn’t love. Not exactly.

But it was something blooming wild and impossible in the dark—like orchids in a whiskey glass.

—

“Okay,” Jo said, leaning across the vanity with a cherry popsicle between her teeth, “so when are you gonna admit you’re absolutely, catastrophically, full-body stupid over the piano man?”

Carmen blinked. “Jesus, can I breathe?”

“Nope,” said Goldie, kicking her heels up on the chaise. “You’ve been walking around with that just-fucked shimmer for weeks.”

“You’re glowing like a cabaret Virgin Mary,” Lorna added, rifling through someone else’s lipstick bag. “Spill it.”

Carmen didn’t mean to.

But it was late, and her robe was falling off one shoulder, and she still smelled like his cologne from when he pulled her into the stairwell between sets. And her thighs? Still trembling a little.

So she smirked, twisted open her perfume bottle, and said, “Fine.”

Jo straightened.

“I’m fucking him,” Carmen said.

Screaming. Absolute chaos.

Goldie fell off the couch.

Lorna choked on her gum.

Jo slapped the mirror. “Oh my god. You’re fucking Art?”

Carmen lounged. “I’ve fucked him in the linen closet. Twice in the prop cage. Almost on the piano bench, but he got shy.”

“You corrupted a musician,” Goldie gasped from the floor.

“He said ‘oh fuck’ like it was a prayer,” Carmen said, grinning. “He says my name like it’s gonna kill him.”

Jo threw her popsicle. “You bitch.”

“He holds me like I’m gonna break,” Carmen continued, dreamy now, voice going all warm. “But he eats me out like he’s trying to ruin my afterlife.”

Lorna screamed. “I need him to teach a masterclass.”

“I’m gonna die right here,” Jo said, wheezing. “Art ‘I-blush-when-you-say-bra’ Donaldson? With the tongue of God?”

“And the hands,” Carmen added, dazed.

Goldie climbed back onto the couch like a ghost. “Tell me he calls you ‘ma’am.’ Tell me he whimpers.”

“Oh, he whimpers. He asks. He begs.”

The room exploded.

Jo was crying. Lorna rolled off the table. Goldie was chanting, “I knew it, I fucking knew it,” like a victory song.

Carmen tucked her chin into her palm, smug and soft at once. “And now,” she added, “he looks at me like he’s halfway in love and doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

Silence.

Then a long, collective awwwwwwfuckkkk.

Jo wiped her face. “I’m gonna be sick. That’s adorable.”

“He’s gonna write you a fucking symphony,” Lorna said, starry-eyed.

“He did,” Carmen admitted, quiet now. “He played it for me after I let him take my stockings off with his teeth.”

Even Kitty—passing by the door—stuck her head in, arched a brow, and said, “Just make sure you’re not leaving a mess on the floorboards.”

Carmen winked. “No promises.”

—

It was half past three and the club was asleep.

The glitter had settled. The air was thick with old perfume and spilled gin. Somewhere, the record player was warbling a tune no one had flipped in hours.

Theo was behind the bar, wiping glasses and humming to himself, when Art slid onto the stool in front of him—shirt rumpled, tie loose, face a little too flushed for someone who definitely hadn’t been drinking.

Theo looked up. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”

Art stared straight ahead. “I think I’m in love with Carmen.”

Theo blinked. “…Okay?”

Art buried his face in his hands. “She climbed on top of me and told me not to come unless she said so and then kissed my neck and I think I blacked out for ten minutes and also she stole my glasses after.”

Theo set the glass down carefully.

Art kept going. “She bit me. Like actually bit me. And I liked it. Like, a lot. And then she made this sound—like a gasp but also a laugh—and I swear to God my soul left my body.”

“Okay.” Theo leaned on the bar. “What exactly do you need from me here?”

Art looked up, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. Advice? Perspective? A cigarette? A shovel to dig my grave?”

Theo sighed. “I pour drinks for a living. I once got broken up with because I didn’t know what ‘astrological incompatibility’ meant.”

“I’m so fucked,” Art said, voice rising. “She’s cool. She’s hot and charming and terrifying. She could eat me alive and I’d thank her. She laughs when I beg. And then she cuddles me like I’m breakable.”

“Sounds like you’re having a great time,” Theo said dryly.

Art slammed his head onto the bar. “She calls me baby. Like she means it. Like I’m hers.”

Theo slid a whiskey across to him. “Here. On the house. For your suffering.”

Art didn’t drink it. Just stared at it like it might hold answers.

Theo, against his better judgment, softened. “Look, man. She keeps coming back to you, right?”

Art nodded miserably.

“She kisses you after? Not just the… you know. Stuff?”

Art blushed. “Yeah.”

Theo shrugged. “Then maybe stop spiraling and let it be good. Not everything has to make sense. Especially not in this dump.”

Art looked up slowly. “She moaned my name.”

Theo put a hand up. “Nope. And we’re done here.”

Art smiled.

It was soft. Nervous. Stupidly, blissfully content.

“Thanks, Theo.”

“I did nothing.”

“You were here.”

“Tragically,” Theo muttered, walking away. “Fucking musicians.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She didn’t knock.

She never did. She just slipped in past the curtain like a secret, still in her robe, cheeks pink from the dressing room heat. Her heels were off. She walked barefoot across the sticky floor like she owned it.

Art was alone onstage, the club empty now except for the two of them. The lights were half-down, just enough for shadows to lean into everything. He was playing something soft. Something new.

She didn’t speak. Just slid onto the piano bench beside him like gravity had dragged her there.

He didn’t stop playing.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Pressed her lips to his neck. Light. Thoughtless. Familiar.

He breathed out hard.

“You left a button undone,” she murmured. “I thought you were trying to kill me.”

“I didn’t—”

She unbuttoned the next one. Slow.

“You’ve got the softest fucking skin,” she said, and he swore his soul left his body.

“I, uh—”

She kissed his throat. Lower. Dragged her nails lightly down the back of his hand where it rested on the keys.

“I came here to say thank you,” she said, voice like warm smoke. “For letting me be a greedy, filthy, terrifying thing around you.”

He swallowed. “You’re not—”

She looked up at him. “I am. And you like it.”

He did.

He liked it more than he’d ever liked anything in his life.

“I can’t breathe when you look at me,” he admitted.

She straddled his lap.

“Good,” she said.

He kissed her like he was scared of being good at it. She bit his lip until he stopped being scared.

⸻

They didn’t have sex on the piano bench.

They almost did.

But then Carmen looked at him, fingers curled in his curls, and saw something tender in his eyes—something not just hard or needy, but open.

So she leaned in close, cheek pressed to his, and whispered:

“I want to hear the song you wrote me. The one you don’t want me to know about yet.”

Art froze.

Then—without a word—he adjusted the bench, flexed his fingers, and began to play.

Carmen sat in his lap, wrapped in robe and affection, listening to her heart get played in harmony.

The melody was all her edges.

And all his softness.

[inawickedlittletown]

Dog Days (BuckTommy) - 4/4

Summary: While on a call Buck and Hen get turned into dogs.

Words: 3.1k

Read on Ao3

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

-

Part Four

“Oh, Buck,” Karen said as soon as Tommy had left, “what have you gotten yourself into.” 

Just like Hen’s black labrador looked and felt like Hen, she thought that Buck’s mixed dog made a lot of sense for him. She thought he could have passed for a goldendoodle except that he was bigger than any she had ever seen which could have just been a Buck thing and not a dog thing. He did have insanely long legs as a human. 

Hen made a sound that equated to her doggy laugh. 

“Well, you don’t have to pretend to be a dog with me,” Karen said. “The kids have no clue, though.” 

The weird thing about the whole thing was how much she both missed and didn’t miss Hen. Hen was right there and she wasn’t out there running into fires or other dangers. She was at home with Karen even if she was on four legs and couldn’t talk or do any other human things. The whole thing was odd. 

Having Buck around didn’t change much, and Karen couldn’t tell if the two of them could communicate or not via barks. It was fun to watch them get into some sort of play which was actually more fighting if anything. When the kids got home, they seemed thrilled to have not just one dog, but two to play with. Buck was almost as happy as the kids. 

Karen was sure Buck would be a very tired dog by the time that Tommy showed up to pick him up. Watching them, Karen did wonder if Tommy had any suspicions. Dog Buck was very like human Buck except this one had an actual tail to wag. Then there was the birthmark. How could anyone not notice that and connect the two? 

Of course, you’d have to be crazy to connect the two because most days people were not being turned into dogs by random witches that worked out of a strip mall. So, unless that was something you expected to happen, there really was no reason to expect it. 

That night, as she was getting ready for bed, she got a call from Tommy. 

“Hi,” Tommy said, sounding almost nervous. “Just wanted to check in. How’s Buddy doing?” 

“He’s passed out on Denny’s bed right now,” Karen said. 

It was actually cute how he had his head on Denny’s pillow with him, their backs pressed together. She had taken several pictures. 

“I’ll send you a picture,” Karen said. 

“Good. Good,” Tommy said. 

“You really care about him, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “It’s the hardest thing, trying not to care.” 

Karen scoffed. “No, honey, that’s not a bad thing. Caring is important, it makes you human. You caring for this dog you’ve had for two days is good. But you aren’t just talking about Buddy, right?” 

Tommy was silent for a moment. “I…I mean—”

Karen hadn’t known she was going to go there, but she thought that someone needed to say something to Tommy so that when Buddy did turn back into Buck things might go well. 

“It’s none of my business, but you’re not the only one that probably feels like they messed up. But I also know you two were really happy and that for the rest of us the break up came out of nowhere. Hit him pretty hard. I think I still have walnut loaves in my freezer which says a lot.” 

“I just don’t think he feels the same way.” 

“You don’t really believe that do you? He adores you.”

Tommy laughed. “How many people come out and stay in their first queer relationship? This can’t be it for him.” 

“Except that maybe that’s his choice to make,” Karen said. 

Tommy sighed and Karen didn’t get to say anything else because Tommy was being called out and Karen knew that sound way too well. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Karen said. “Be safe out there.” 

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

—

Tommy was excited to see Buddy when he got off shift. He’d missed the dog far more than he expected. His thoughts had also sort of stayed on Evan after the conversation he had with Karen. Maybe, it was possible that he and Evan still had things to talk about and clear up and yet…and yet, Tommy was more than a little cautious about how that might go. His heart was already too fragile to allow himself to truly hope. 

“Wait, did you and Buckley rekindle the flame?” Lucy asked when she noticed that Tommy was rushing a bit to grab his things. 

“No.” 

“Then why are you so ready to take off? Wait…do not tell me you started seeing someone else?”

“I’m fostering a dog,” Tommy said. “I have to pick him up from the dog sitter.” 

“And the dog sitter is Buck?” 

Tommy rolled his eyes. “None of this has anything to do with Buck. I gotta go.” 

Of course, the thing was that Buddy had sort of helped him deal with the fresh round of missing Evan, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Lucy. 

When he arrived at the Wilson residence, the door was opened after one knock by Denny.

“Hi, Tommy,” Denny said and let him. 

The dogs were with Karen and Mara in the kitchen. Both were weirdly well behaved. It had been highly unusual behavior in one dog and definitely worse in two. 

“Where’s Hen?” Tommy asked. 

The chocolate lab barked. 

“At work,” Karen said. 

Buddy barked and rushed towards Tommy, wiggling his tail and taking a turn around Tommy and rubbing himself against his legs. It was going to be so hard to give him up. Tommy might wind up at the nearest dog rescue almost as soon as Buddy went back to his family. 

“How was he?” 

“Great,” Karen said with a chuckle. “Although I think Bu — Buddy missed you.” 

“Did he get in a fight?” Mara asked, pointing at Buddy’s eye. “He has a scar.” 

“Ah…I have no idea. I mean, I think so.” 

“Or, it could be a birthmark,” Denny said. “You know like Buck has.” 

Buddy was looking up at Tommy. His eyes were so blue and so very familiar. The scar or birthmark, it was shaped in a familiar way too. 

“It’s weird,” he said. “It’s just in the same place as Evan has it and their eyes are the same color.” 

Karen coughed. “Weird,” she said. Her voice sounded strange. 

The chocolate lab barked. Buddy barked. 

“Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you for watching him, Karen.” 

The kids each hugged Buddy and for some reason decided to hug Tommy too and Karen pet Buddy and placed her hand on Tommy’s arm when they reached the door. 

“What I said on the phone before…don’t give up on Buck just yet.” 

He didn’t want to. He wanted to be back together with Evan more than anything, but with the way things had gone last time he just didn’t know if he and Evan could get on the same page. Maybe, but probably not. What Tommy was sure of, was that there would never be anyone like Evan for him again. 

Tommy didn’t bother clipping the leash on and Buddy followed him to the car. 

“Work was kinda slow,” he informed Buddy. “I’m sure you had way more fun than I did.” 

Buddy barked in response. 

When they got back to the house, Buddy seemed happy to get inside. He went ahead of Tommy and straight to the couch where he spread himself out. 

“Oh, is that how it is?” Tommy asked. 

Buddy rolled over to look at him. Tommy couldn’t stop thinking about how much his eyes reminded him of Evan. Maybe he could have put it off if it wasn’t for the mark over his eye. There was even something about the way the curls atop his head fell. It was a stupid thought…he was just seeing things. He wanted Evan and he was just seeing him in the dog, that was all. 

Except that, just as he was about to turn away from Buddy, something seemed to happen. Buddy shuddered and tumbled off the couch, shaking. Tommy rushed towards him as he went completely still. 

“Hey, hey, are you okay? Damn it, of course you’re not.” 

Tommy reached towards him, but before he could make contact, Buddy was surrounded by blinding light and Tommy had to close his eyes. He opened them slowly a second later and gasped. 

Evan lay where Buddy had. He was entirely naked, the dog collar barely hanging onto his neck from a rip in the fabric. At first he lay still and Tommy was too shocked to move. Buddy had been right there and now Evan was. Evan turned onto his back, displaying his chest complete with his dark tattoos and the neatly kept chest hair. The happy trail that went down to…Tommy averted his eyes, finding Evan’s face instead. 

Evan blinked at Tommy. 

“Uh, hi,” Evan said and winced.

“What the hell,” Tommy said. “Buddy was…and you…what the fuck, Evan?” 

Tommy turned and grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and threw it at Evan even though he had seen and spent a lot of time mapping out all of Evan’s glorious body plenty of times. 

“Thanks,” Evan said, followed by, “I am so sorry.” 

“You were the dog,” Tommy said. 

“I was the dog,” Evan said and he sat up first and then stood, wrapping the blanket around his lower half which still left his chest on display and Tommy could admit to it being a bit distracting. 

“How?” Tommy asked. 

He tried to think back to the past few days. He’d told Buddy so many things, just rambled at him knowing that the information wouldn’t matter to the dog and that even if it did, it wouldn’t be repeated to anyone. Buddy had been his companion. His friend. Tommy had gone out into the backyard and picked up his poop. But it was Evan. Buddy was Evan. 

“There was a witch,” Evan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Threw something at me and Hen and then…well, we got turned into dogs.”

Tommy had no words. Evan had been living with him for days as a dog. Tommy had bonded with him and been getting ready for the emotional upheaval that he’d go through once he had to give him back and meanwhile all along it was Evan. His ex-boyfriend who Tommy…god, he had told the dog that he loved Evan, hadn’t he? He hadn’t even told Evan that, but he’d told the dog. 

Tommy walked away. He ran his hands through his hair and he heard Evan’s bare feet on the hardwood floor following him towards the kitchen. 

“I didn’t ask Chim to bring me to you. I didn’t really have much choice in any of this either. But…but I kinda loved it, okay?”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Tommy asked, whirling around. 

He felt betrayed and taken advantage of. He felt like…like he’d been lied to and then he’d been stupid and spilled his heart out to someone that didn’t love him back. 

“Look,” Evan said, “we can do this with me in a blanket or I can borrow some clothes and we can really talk about it.”

When Tommy didn’t respond, Evan shuffled his feet. 

“Or…or I guess I could just go. But I still need to borrow clothes and maybe your phone. No idea where mine is.” 

“No. Stay,” Tommy said. He couldn’t face the idea of Evan leaving. 

 “Good. I’ll be back.” 

It gave him a few minutes to think about things and maybe cool off a bit. He gave Evan a nod.

Tommy thought about calling Chim. He thought about calling Karen. Had Karen known? That irritated him because she probably did. Chim definitely had, though, and he had been the one to ask him to watch Buddy without all the information. 

He texted Chim. 

Tommy: You should have told me. WTF. 

When his phone buzzed and buzzed, he ignored it. He’d deal with Chim later. 

-

Buck was kinda freaking out a little. He just hadn’t expected to turn back right then and there like nothing had happened. Not that he was sure how he’d wanted to change back or that he wasn’t happy to have his real body back. He took the collar off and dropped it on Tommy’s bedside table and even though a part of him wanted to take a shower and really clean off all the time he’d spent as a dog, he instead went into Tommy’s drawers and pulled out a t-shirt and then grabbed sweatpants that were actually his and that Tommy had kept. 

He took a couple of breaths before he returned to the living room and yes, maybe he did sniff Tommy’s t-shirt. Tommy was sitting, head in hands. He looked worse than Buck had ever seen him in all the time he’d known him. Any trepidation going into this left and all he wanted was to wrap his arms around Tommy and hold him.

“Should have known,” Tommy said. “I should have known.” 

“You should have known what?” Buck asked. 

Tommy took a moment before answering.

“That your birthmark wasn’t a coincidence,” Tommy said, looking up at him. “That something like this would happen to you. First the boils and now this, it’s like you’re some magnet for weird stuff.” 

“I’m not saying I’m not,” Buck said. “And I’m…I’m sorry you thought I was a real dog.” 

“People don’t just go around being transformed into dogs.” 

“That you know of,” Buck said. 

“Evan,” Tommy said with a groan. “What the fuck! I was talking to a dog…I was…”

Buck crossed the room to Tommy, dropping to his knees in front of him and reaching for his face, cradling it between his palms.

“Hey, hey, there’s so much I wanted to say back when you were telling me all that stuff. But I couldn’t. I was a dog and couldn’t talk. I should have called after that night. I wanted to so badly but I was…I didn’t want to do this for the wrong reasons. I didn’t want to call you because I was lonely and missing my best friend especially when you thought I could have feelings for him. Which…no, Tommy, never. I could never, not when I am so in love with you.” 

Tommy gasped. “You’re what?” 

“I love you, you idiot,” Buck said. “Do you know how much it sucked every time you said I didn’t have feelings for you? How you really believed that and yeah, it was my fault, but you left. You left that morning instead of letting me explain and I…I should have called. But I love you and I’m pretty sure that witch turned me into a dog because she could tell I was wholly miserable without you. So if you don’t want any witch or mummy to mess with me, then you’ll just have to be with me. Alright?” 

Tommy, whose face was still in Buck’s hands, nodded. 

So, Buck kissed him. It was familiar and wonderful and it was just as Buck had remembered it, if not better. Tommy kissed him back, grasped at his shoulders and brought him closer and then pushed him back just as quickly. 

“What’s—” 

“Evan, you were a dog.” 

“Yeah, I’m aware. It was really weird.”

Tommy wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re not a dog.” 

“Me too.” 

“And I love you too, Evan.” 

When he was a dog and Tommy told him that he still loved him, Buck had felt sad and desperate to be able to do anything so that Tommy could know the feelings were reciprocated. Hearing it directed at him, it made him feel secure. It made him feel like nothing else mattered. Tommy loved him. He could have floated away and gone happily. 

Tommy kissed him and Buck focused on the feel of his lips, the sweep of Tommy’s tongue in his mouth and how he wanted Tommy to be the only person that he kissed probably forever. 

-

They could only ignore Tommy’s phone for so long. 

“Howie,” Tommy said. 

Evan was still sort of perched on his lap, his arms around Tommy’s neck and his hands in his hair. 

“We should check in with Karen too. See how Hen is doing,” Evan said. 

“How did this happen again?” 

Evan told him about the fire and the old woman that lured him and Hen into her store. How she didn’t speak a word of English but then turned both him and Hen into dogs. 

“I think she meant it for me. Hen just got in the way. And wait, so you did believe Billy Boils cursed me.” 

Tommy just sighed. Magic and curses…he was still more than a little skeptical, but he’d seen Buddy transform into Evan right before his eyes. He couldn’t deny that it had happened and he also couldn’t deny that Evan’s boils had disappeared by the morning after Billy’s funeral. 

“I think most people don’t encounter things like this as often as you do,” Tommy said. 

“Did I ever tell you about the time a ghost called 9-1-1?” 

“Evan,” Tommy groaned. 

“Okay, I’ll tell you some other time.”

Evan smiled and nodded. Tommy’s phone vibrated again and he finally picked up. It wasn’t Howie, though, but Karen. 

“Hey,” Tommy said. “How’s Hen doing?” 

“Gave me a bit of a shock, but she’s good. I take it Buck is back to normal too?” 

Tommy couldn’t even be mad at Karen, not when her wife had been turned into a dog and not when she wasn’t the one to bring Evan over and not tell him that it wasn’t just a dog he’d be looking after. 

“He is,” Tommy said. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” Karen said. “I hope things weren’t too awkward.” 

“No…I guess it did turn out to be a good thing. You, uh, you weren’t wrong.” 

He glanced over at Evan, who was watching him right back. 

“Good. Good. I’ll let you go.” 

“Can you also tell Howie to stop calling.”

Karen laughed. “Sure.” 

“That takes care of that,” Evan said, inching closer. “I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’m just really happy to be here with you.” 

“Oh?” 

“I missed you so damn much, Tommy.” 

“Me too, Evan. Me too.” 

Evan smiled at him. He looked beautiful, eyes glinting and happy. 

“You know, when we do move in together, I think we should get a dog,” Evan said. 

“We’re not naming him Buddy.” 

Evan laughed until Tommy kissed him into silence.

[acourtofthought]

Have you seen the latest news? SJM's message in the giant Acotar book could be a direct reference to chapter 21 Acosf. I think it's the Gwynriel book. I love Gwynriel but it also kind of makes me so sad to wait another couple of years for Lucien and Elain's situation to be concluded. They've been on the sidelines for so long. 😭😭😭I know I'm not the only one feeling down, even if I'm happy that the shipwar will come to an end and we might get a glimpse of Elucien too... but still.

The large book is Chapter 21 of ACOTAR where Feyre meets Rhys.

The quote is from Chapter 21 of ACOMAF where Feyre meets the weaver and thinks on how she's a wolf (Nesta's also called a wolf).

Chapter 21 of ACOSF is when Elain says "Why?" "Shall I tend to my little garden forever?" "You can't have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater."

And

"I am not a child to be fought over." "Find me when you wish to begin."

And

"Yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you."

Where Nesta says, "look who decided to grow claws after all, maybe you'll become interesting at last."

Chapter 21 of SF actually doesn't mention the Valkyrie at all. Chapter 56 is when Nesta turns to Chapter Twenty-One of the book Gwyn was working on.

Is that scene meaningful? Absolutely. But is it more meaningful than Elain finally standing up for herself and showing teeth and volunteering to do something dangerous? With Elain saying that she cannot be told what to do and that it's up to her whether she wants to do something greater? With her reminding them of her trauma?

So could it be hinting at a Gwynriel book? Sure! But it could EASILY also be hinting at an Elain book if we're really looking for next book clues. I have to say, Elain finally standing up for herself to be seen and heard and to do more does hold more weight for me than the Valkyrie scene considering they just made their debut, they won't be ready for battle training for years (per Casian) whereas Elain has been waiting to finally be "not boring" (according to the characters) for a long time. I just still struggle to see Gwyn getting a POV as a newly introduced character, getting to have her HEA before the last Archeron who has been with this series from the start, a character we've witnessed her trauma on page in real time (in the books), yet she gets pushed aside for someone else though both her sisters were given their healing arcs.

Now, I could absolutely be wrong because I'm not Sarah. But to me, I do think Chapter 21 in the actual book was a pretty badass scene for Elain and the "find me when you wish to begin" would lead us pretty perfectly into her book especially when you consider how Feyre said "let's help one sister before helping the other", and SF ending with Nesta placing Elain's rose on their fathers gravestone. I also think it's interesting that the Bloomsbury setup in Waterstones featured the quote from Papa A about how they needed hope or else they could not endure and Feyre (and Sarah) have mentioned how Elain had seen that cottage with hope, that hope is stronger than hate.

I also think it would be surprising, after all the comments on the next book being Az's book because he was the one in need of the main healing arc, that now the clue would suddenly be telling us it's Gwyn's book with no hint of Az whatsoever. How the clue is hinting at the Valkyries continued saga and nothing regarding Az's arc. And I think when we turned to Chapter 21 in ACOTAR and turned to Chapter 21 in ACOMAF, it would be more likely for us to turn to Chapter 21 in ACOSF rather than us having to turn to Chapter 56 just to look for the words "Chapter 21".

[mattslvrxo]

first series!!

{secret addiction}

part {1 }

꣑ৎ { insta famous user x chris sturniolo } ꣑ৎ

{ ! } contains: sex, stalking, nsfw content, adulatory , only fans, swearing, .. etc

based on the song

╰┈➤ ❝ . ۫ . my strange addiction . ۫ . ❞۫

by billie eilish

{your pov }

a few years ago, i kind of blew up without really meaning to. it started with a few instagram posts — random selfies, outfit pics, nothing groundbreaking — but for some reason, people latched on. called me an “it girl.” an “instagram model.” whatever the fuck that even means.

i didn’t fight it. i leaned into it. posted more, gained more followers, brands started reaching out. next thing i knew, i was verified, making money just for existing online. and when the offers came to start an onlyfans… i didn’t even hesitate. it wasn’t some deep, complicated decision. i had the face. i had the body. people were already staring — might as well make them pay for it.

the money was stupid. the attention was overwhelming. but i couldn’t lie — i loved it. the attention i got from it. the way it made people lose their minds. the thing is, i barely dipped into youtube. maybe a vlog once a month, if i remembered. nothing serious. i wasn’t trying to be an influencer. i was just me. so when i was mindlessly scrolling on tiktok one night and a random edit popped up — my face mashed next to some guy i’d never seen before — i was confused as fuck.

“omg they would be SO tea tg.”

“they match each other’s energy so bad.”

“manifesting this.” the comments were insane. i didn’t even know who the hell this guy was.

curious, i searched his name. “chris sturniolo.” apparently, he was a youtuber. a triplet, which was… weirdly hot. i clicked through his instagram, half-expecting to be unimpressed.

nope.

he was attractive. way too attractive.

the kind of boy you try to convince yourself isn’t your type just so you don’t have to deal with the consequences.

messy brown hair, effortless smirk, not too tall but not too short, great style , kinda broad shoulders but still looked like he didn’t take himself too seriously. only one tattoo — clean skin, sharp jawline, heavy-lidded blue eyes that looked like they could ruin your life without trying.

i hated how quickly i was interested.. i hated how i scrolled back months on his profile without even realizing. seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours.

i told myself it was just curiosity.

just research.

but every time i posted a new story, every time i dropped a new set, i’d wonder would he see it? would he care?

i never followed him, never liked a post, and never commented. i just watched, silent, invisible,like a fucking coward.

and what i didn’t know — what i couldn’t have known — was that he was doing the exact same thing.

{chris’s pov }

saturday night, absolutely nothing to do.

i was half-dead on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through tiktok, thinking about how much i fucking hated social media.

everything felt recycled lately. nothing new. nothing exciting. i was looking at my mentions until something caught my eye, i kept getting tagged in one specific video,

a fan edit.

me… and this.. girl?

the caption was some dumb shit like “soulmates fr.” what the fuck? how the fuck would i be soulmates with a chick that i don’t even know. i almost scrolled past it, almost.

but something about her face — the way she looked at the camera like she already knew how attractive she was, her smile wasnt bright.. her sharp eyes stared into the camera — made me pause.

who the fuck was she? i clicked her account that was tagged in the caption.. next to my @ , and before i could even blink, i was on her instagram page. 2.5 million followers. verified. full-blown star.

she was gorgeous. not just pretty — dangerous. the kind of gorgeous that makes your chest hurt a little. i saw the link in her bio. clicked it without thinking.

onlyfans,of course. because why the fuck would anything ever be simple?

i didn’t subscribe, but it didn’t matter, her posts were enough.

bikinis, short skirts, tight tops, sometimes baggy pants, her style was fire and it was fucking torture. i hated myself for not being able to look away.

i stalked harder than i should have, found her tiktoks. her youtube. even her pinterest.

it was bad.

i knew it was bad.

but i couldn’t stop.

i never followed her. never liked her pictures,

never commented.

i just watched,quiet,obsessed,paralyzed.

it became a sick routine, open instagram. check her page. close the app. pretend i didn’t just waste another twenty minutes memorizing someone i’d never met.

i told myself it was harmless, but deep down, i knew.

written by adeline!

part 2 coming soon..