#have been the reason I have started writing fics

[azzibuckets]

reputation, or, all the ways i’ve loved you

or, love is immature and heady and new and blissful and hard and exhausting and it might kill you but in the end—love endures.

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: paige and azzi in various stages of love, as told through reputation by taylor swift

a/n: as a celebration for 3k followers, here’s my longest fic yet! don’t know if this style is for me so we’ll see if i ever write a long one again lol. nevertheless, i hope you guys enjoy :)

word count: 9k

masterlist | oneshots masterlist

⋆⑅˚₊ i. dancing with our hands tied - i loved you in secret / first sight, yeah, we love without reason

July 2018

Out of all the things Azzi Fudd expected her father to do after telling him the big news, laughing was probably last on the list. Actually, scratch that — it wasn’t even on the list to begin with, because what kind of father takes their child’s health as a joke? Certainly not Tim, who’s forced Azzi to take her daily vitamin gummies for as long as she can remember, the nasty ones that taste too sour to resemble the Trolli eggs they’re supposed to be a dupe of.

But here is Tim Fudd, the man who raised her, lines crinkling around his eyes as he guffaws so loud he starts pounding his own chest. Azzi would be worried for his lack of oxygen if she wasn’t so incredulously offended. “Dad? Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, I heard you.” Tim pauses to take a breath before starting to laugh again, tears slowly beginning to form at the corner of his eyes.

“What’s so funny, then?” Azzi questions snarkily, hands on her hips in the perfect pose of sassy teenage indignance.

“Azzi, honey.” Tim straightens up as his breathing ebbs back to normal. He moves to place a comforting hand on Azzi’s shoulder, but she jerks away, not at all in the mood for his antics. “You’re not sick,” he says gently. “I think you might have something else.”

Azzi wrinkles her nose, running through all the meticulous shelves of research stored in her mind. She’d gone through every possibility on the Internet, taking methodical notes on every potential disorder, anamoly, or illness that could be afflicting her body. She'd been pretty sure she’d scoured them all, but maybe she had missed something in her overzealousness. “You’re saying I didn’t get a hypoglycemic episode?”

“Sweetie, do you even know what hypoglycemic means?”

Azzi opens her mouth to answer, wanting to say that she does, in fact, know that hypoglycemia is an indicator of low glucose levels in the blood, and that if left untreated, her bodily functions will not have enough energy to continue, and her organs will fail, and she will die a long and painful death, and her understanding of the word hypoglycemic makes it all the more astounding as to why her dad won't take her illness seriously, but before she can can even begin her tirade, her dad winces and puts up a palm. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want to hear all about your self diagnosis, as funny as it is.”

“It’s not a self diagnosis if everyone on the Internet says I have all the symptoms of hypoglycemia!” Azzi argues, but even she knows the argument is weak.

Tim massages his forehead, lips twitching with the exertion of holding back a second round of laughter. “And what did you say your symptoms were again, hon?”

“Excessive sweating, even when I’m like, standing still and it’s 60 degrees out. And dizziness. And my fingers start to shake sometimes! Difficulty concentrating, and tingling lips.” Azzi lists them out on her fingers, smiling triumphantly when she’s finished. Take that, Dad.

“Mm.” Tim rubs his chin in thought. “And when exactly do you experience these symptoms?”

“Well, the last time I can remember is when I was hanging out with Paige at Grandma’s on Wednesday.”

Tim coughs into his arm, loud, and it sounds suspiciously like a wheeze. Azzi squints at him, suspicion written across her face. After recovering, he prods, “Do you remember any of the other times this has happened?”

“I don’t know, I can’t think specifically. It happens a lot. Umm…” Azzi thinks back. “Maybe last week, at the fair? I’m trying to remember.” She closes her eyes, trying to prompt memories of that airy feeling in her head, the rollercoaster in her tummy, the buzz in her chest that had started the car ride over to the fair, right around when they’d picked Paige and her brother up.

It had gotten increasingly worse as the day went on, peaking during the afternoon when they’d been on the bumper cars. She’d been squished into the same car as Paige, the car offering only a very small seat to service two basketball players suffering from summer growth spurts, all long limbs and awkward lank. As a result, the sides of their feet and thighs and arms had been touching and overlapping—Paige almost fell into Azzi’s lap when Jose crashed into them especially hard, golden hair spilling across Azzi’s face and pale hands landing on her thighs. She remembers the smell of fruity shampoo and the feeling of feathery strands tickling her cheeks making her even dizzier than bumper car itself, her nerve endings lighting up, every point on her skin ultra sensitive as sweat had started to pool in her armpits and in the palms of her head. And when Paige's palms had rubbed up and down on her thighs — God. She'd almost died.

Azzi shudders at the memory and opens her eyes. “Yeah, definitely at the fair.”

“The fair?” Tim cocks an eyebrow. “You mean, the fair we went to last week?”

“Yes, Dad, that’s what I said,” Azzi responds, growing increasingly frustrated.

“The fair we went to with Paige and Drew?”

“Yeah.” Azzi crosses her arms in defiance. “Is that supposed to be relevant?”

Tim makes an unncommital sound in his throat. “So you’re saying you don’t get any of these symptoms, say, at home?“

“Well…” Azzi purses her lips. “I guess recently I've been having difficulty concentrating all the time. Wherever I’m like, at home or school or whatever.”

“What makes it hard to concentrate?” Tim cocks his head in genuine curiosity. “What’re you thinking about?”

Azzi doesn’t have a ready answer. What does she think about? She tries to draw from her memory again, but gets distracted by the sort of hilarious, muddled irony of trying to think about what’re you usually thinking about. Then she realizes she’s making an expression again, the expression Paige has coined as her “thinky face” whenever she’s trying really hard to work out a homework problem or come up with an outfit to wear. The first time Paige had mentioned it, Azzi had frowned at her. “I don’t have a thinky face,” she’d replied.

“Oh, you totally do,” Paige said, glee written across her face — her typical attitude whenever she gets to argue with Azzi about something and be right.

“No, I don’t,” Azzi argued, but she’s already accepted that it’s a useless fight. It always is with Paige, who's stubborn and hard-headed and so much like Azzi that she looks at her best friend sometimes and think she's found her soulmate. Platonic soulmate, of course.

Paige smirked at her. “Azzi Fudd so has a thinky face.” She leaned in closer, so close that Azzi could see the glimmer in the deep blue of her eyes and the way her long lashes fluttered. “It’s okay, though, I think it’s pretty cute.” Then she’d pulled back and started talking about some stupid NBA game she’d watched recently, a topic Azzi usually tuned out anyways but this time especially didn’t pay any attention to because she was too disarmed by the fact that Paige had just called her cute. It shouldn’t have felt weird; her friends at school and her teammates called her beautiful and cute and adjectives much more crazy all the time, but still. There again went that same dry feeling in her throat.

“Azzi?”

Azzi blinks as she’s pulled back to the present. “Huh?”

“Maybe you are really sick.” Tim sends her a weary look. “But I just asked you what you usually think about, remember? Do you have an answer?”

“No." Azzi shakes her head grimly. "I couldn’t remember.”

Tim is the one to squint in disbelief this time. “Honey, what were you just thinking about? That’s probably it.”

“Oh, Paige? I was thinking about something she told me the other day. But it’s nothing. Before I was trying to remember, but I couldn’t think—" She’s cut off with an uncomfortable realization that’s starting to dawn in her as a very, very large pit balloons in the bottom of her tummy and begins to ache.

And at the same time this horrible understanding is beginning to come to light in the back of Azzi’s brain, Jose stands up from where he’d been sitting on the couch, watching TV. “You’re stupid, Azzi,” he snickers as he walks by them to grab a snack. “I’m only twelve and even I know you’re not sick.”

“Shut up, Jose,” Azzi replies back angrily, still staring at her hands — the very same hands that had held Paige's, and trembled and moistened in sweaty nervousness. No.

Jose, her little twerp of a brother, sticks his tongue out. “Your lips aren’t tingling from hypoguyseema, dummy.”

“Hypoglycemia,” Tim supplies unhelpfully.

“Your lips are tingling because you wanna make out with Paigey.” And the words don’t really register in Azzi’s heads, not right away at least, she honestly only reaches out to slap Jose from her instinctive, older sisterly awareness that he's being an annoying smart ass like usual, but still he runs away, out of her grasp, singing obnoxiously at the top of his lungs, “Paige and Azzi sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-"

“Shut up, Jose!” She picks up a pillow from the couch and chucks it at him, narrowly missing his retreating figure and instead hitting a vase that slowly toddles in places before falling to the ground with a dramatic crash.

“Azzi, you know we don’t throw things in the house for a reason,” Tim reprimands, exasperated at the childish scene in front of him, but when he turns to look at his daughter, her head is in her hands and her shoulders are shaking.

Tim has loved Azzi since he’s met her as a bumbling little toddler who instantly attached to his hip. He knows Azzi is sweet and sensitive and soft, a girl who has the gift of easily picking up on others' emotions but also is vulnerable to having her own shaken up. So he bites his tongue and makes a mental note to resolve the sibling conflict later. Right now, his daughter needs him; without a word, he collects Azzi into his arms and lets her tears fall on his shirt sleeve.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” and he doesn’t have to say anything else for Azzi to understand he’s not just talking about now — that this shocking and indescribable feeling that Azzi has only been able to name now, is okay, that Azzi, for who she is, is okay.

And yes, Azzi is able to name the feeling, but yet she buries it under her skin. Just because she realizes she has a crush on Paige doesn’t mean she has to act like it — and it especially doesn’t mean Paige, who definitely doesn't like her like that, has to know, she reminds herself.

And although the "illness" never goes away, although she never stops being nervous, and her fingers never stop trembling at least a little when Paige kisses her goodbye on the cheek, Azzi becomes really good at acting. Really good. At first, she couldn't sleep at night, overwrought with anxiety because no matter how good she became at pretending, Jose and her family have never been the best at keeping secrets. But she finds a way to control it definitely not by threatening to take away and sell her brother’s gaming console if she ever hears a peep about how much she damningly wants to kiss Paige, and time passes, and Azzi turns 17, and it’s been two years of knowing Paige, and she thinks that she might be a little bit in love at this point.

She knows how her crush started: an infatuation at camp, impressed by the white girl's agility and speed on the court, the ease and practiced experience with which she directed the team on the court, turning them from a group of girls who'd never played together before into one that worked the ball seamlessly to a gold medal. Of course, in the very beginning, she'd always been hyper-aware of the fact that Paige was just so pretty, a mischievous smirk ever present on pretty pink lips that looked too soft, eyes always bright and hair, even when messy, like a halo around her face.

Then Paige had decided to come into Azzi’s life and do things like go with her family to the fair, and the infatuation had turned into something closely resembling love. And it's not like there weren't many other things that made Azzi fall so fast and so dangerously, like how kind Paige was to the JV girls on her high school team even when they could barely shoot free throws, to the way she was so freely open about her adoration for Azzi, always having to saying something about good she thought Azzi looked.

It was safe to say that Paige had wormed her way into her team then her life then her family then her heart, settling in there like it was home and she’d always belonged there. Paige was someone who could make her laugh, but was always up to talk about serious things, and also was just so sweet to Azzi. Azzi had never met someone who had been all of those things, and now she was positively enthralled. So, even at age 15, even at age 16, and 17, Azzi is completely and utterly fucked.

⋆⑅˚₊ ii. dress - all of this silence and patience / pining in anticipation

April 2019

Azzi hadn’t planned on going to prom.

It was only her junior prom, anyways, and it happened to be the same time Paige was coming to visit, which meant she was going to be booked and busy. Her friends had pushed her to go, but how could she tell them she’d rather be with Paige, playing 1v1 in an empty gym where they always guarded a little too close, hands fisting shirts, always with. heavy breaths into the back’s of each other’s necks and fingers skimming palms?

But then James had made her a poster, standing at her front door with a big smile on his face and flowers in one hand. And she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings, and what did she have to lose? James was nice, and cute enough. His hands were soft and Azzi didn’t mind holding them.

Which is how Azzi finds herself at the Lincoln Memorial, walking painstakingly up the steps in her tight heels. Her mom had gotten a makeup artist to come doll her up, and it’s her first time wearing eyeliner, or any eye makeup at all. She thinks she could get used to this smoky look, the way her lashes look full and dark. It’s not often she gets to express her feminine side, with basketball taking almost all of her waking minutes - she hasn’t ever gone to homecoming or any other dance, and sweats and her shirts are typically her go to outfit. So she admits that this wasn’t a terrible idea, to get dressed up and pretty for once. It certainly helped being able to watch Paige’s reaction (all blushes and wide eyes, thank you very much) when she’d stepped out of the bathroom, glimmering and gilded in a shiny dress that slotted open to show the rich brown of her thigh.

Azzi knew that Paige found her attractive. And although she’s spent years wishing such an attraction went beyond a nere appreciation of her body and her face, she’s long accepted the fact that the love Paige has for her is purely platonic. Strong and steady, sure, but heartbreakingly platonic. Still, Azzi, gets a kick out of making Paige nervous.

Azzi winces as she stumbles for the fifth time, the sole of her foot throbbing and screaming to be let out of the confines of her heels.

“I told you you should’ve brought sneakers and carried your heels,” Pige says from behind her, and Azzi fights the urge to turn around and throttle her. Usually, her best friend would usually offer to do that for her, but Azzi can tell she’s using this opportunity to try and test James — and by the shit-eating smirk on Paige's face, Azzi knows that failing would be generous to describe how he's doing.

Azzi glances beside her and places her hand on her mouth to stifle a giggle. Paige sticks out like a sore thumb as she walks casually behind them, hands stuffed into her Nike sweats. She’s wearing her bright pink EYBL sweater, her hair slightly messy from lying around all day, but she still looks confident as ever, totally unperturbed by the long gowns and tuxedos surrounding her.

“Alright, smile!” Tim and Katie hold up five different cameras, capturing about a million different angles of the group of teens. Paige stands next to them, watching as they pose, but it doesn't take long before she begins to grow bored. “Why am I even here?” Azzi hears her complain quietly to her parents.

“Because when you stay with us, you’re part of our family, and being part of the family means coming to support each other in big moments," Katie reminds her, ruffling Paige's hair.

“Big moments, my ass,” Paige says under her breath as to goes to carefully fix her hair. “I’ve never even been to prom. It can’t be that good.”

“Paige.” Katie sends her a warning glare, effectively shutting her up. Paige has a very comfortable relationship with Tim and Katie, they're basically a second set of parents for her, but she knows her limits.

“Be a good sport, kid.” Tim adds, and claps her on the back. With a long and drawn-out sigh, Paige follows begrudgingly as they move from place to place to take more pictures, hands staying in her pockets and face remaining indifferent.

“Alright Paige, get in there!” Katie puts her camera down to encourage Paige with a nod.

“I’m not even dressed nice,” Paige grumbles, but she sidles in anyways, hand hovering hesitantly over Azzi's side before brushing down her back and finally settling firmly on her hip. The dark haired girl finds herself leaning away from James and into Paige’s touch, her hand burning into Azzi's skin even through the layers of her dress.

“One of you two alone?” Tim asks, a teasing smile on his face. Azzi narrows her eyes at him.

“Aw, you don’t want one with me?” Paige grins, her tone light as she starts to leave.

“No, I do, wait,” Azzi stumbles over her words, flustered, as Tim starts to laugh into his hands. She reaches for the blonde’s hand and tugs her back to her side where she belongs. “My dad’s just being annoying.”

James steps out, and Paige immediately relaxes, head naturally tilting towards Azzi's as they both smile for the cameras. “Aight, I think that’s good,” Paige says after another round of photos and cooing by Azzi’s parents. She takes a step back, shoving her hands back into her pocket as her eyes skim Azzi’s body. Azzi meets her eyes once they come back up, and she wills Paige to say something, anything, but the blonde only swallows hard before looking away.

“Az, I’m gonna go with your dad to get the car,” James tells her. “You good going with your mom back home? I’ll be there to pick you up in like, half an hour.”

The car ride back to her house is silent. Paige picks at her cuticles, while Azzi sits ramrod straight in her seat, not wanting to mess up her hair or wrinkle her dress. When her mom pulls into the driveway, she reaches over and pinches Paige’s side. “Can you stay for a sec? I wanna talk.”

Paige, who had been already attempting to get out of the car, sits back down into her seat, eyebrows raised in a question. Azzi doesn’t speak yet, and their breathing is the only sound in the car. Paige crosses then uncrosses her legs, peeking at Azzi before returning her gaze outside the window, clearly impatient for the younger girl to begin talking.

Azzi fingers a strand of her hair. “Do you think I look pretty?”

Paige’s lips quirk at the question. “That was not what I was expecting you to say.”

“What were you expecting me to say?” Azzi asks, slightly defensive.

“Nothing,” Paige replies too quickly, but Azzi senses a tinge of relief in her tone. She shifts in her seat, edging slightly closer as she examines Azzi’s face. Her knee accidentally bumps into Azzi's ribs. Azzi hates when her best friend starts looking at her with her full attention. The heavy weight of blue eyes always causes her heart to flutter, and she begins to squirm self-consciously under her gaze. “Stop that.”

“You asked me if I thought you were pretty,” Paige retorts. “Can’t blame me for looking.”

God, she’s so annoying. Azzi pushes her, but Paige catches her hand, sandwiching it between her own and bringing it captive to her lips. “Of course I think you look pretty, Az,” Paige laughs. She presses a single small kiss to her knuckles. “You know I do.”

“Well, you didn’t compliment me tonight, and you always do.” Azzi ducks her head as she feels the warmth in her cheeks give her away. Damn it.

“Always want my validation, huh,” Paige teases, trying to meet her eyes, but Azzi looks away still, stubborn as always, and her expression sombers. “You look gorgeous, Azzi, seriously. I mean, you’re always gorgeous,” Paige tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, but Azzi’s not sure there was even a flyaway to begin with, so Paige ends up just ghosting her fingers down from her temple to her chin. “But…” her gaze falls down, and her eyes alone say enough words to finish her sentence and a thousand more. Paige leans in, eyes half lidded, and Azzi shuts her eyes, preparing for the usual affectionate kiss on the cheek. She shudders when she feels lips on her neck instead, at the soft spot below her ear, lingering for a few seconds before it’s gone all too soon. Deep, unguarded heat blooms from that spot, spreading from her neck to her chest.

Azzi realizes they’re still holding hands, and she gives Paige's fingers a squeeze for the hell of it. Encouraged, Paige moves in even closer, hands moving to the headrest for support. Azzi is caged in by Paige’s arms, and Azzi sort of likes it, and she sort of wants Paige to start kissing down her neck like in the movies, maybe leaving a mark or two, but she’s met only with a kiss on her cheek, right near the corner of her mouth, so close that if she’d moved to the right just a couple millimeters their lips would’ve touched.

Paige’s lips part just a bit, her tongue poking out to lick her bottom lip. Her breathing whistles out unevenly. “Have fun tonight, Azzi,” she says, eyes flicking down, and Azzi swears they pause at her lips. She pops the door open and slides out, walking slowly back inside all cool and collected, like she didn’t just leave Azzi absolutely ruined from just two kisses.

Azzi bangs her head against the headrest, perfect hair be gone, and groans.

༉‧₊˚✧

When she finally gets back home, hair messy from dancing, calves sore from jumping around, Azzi is just a little tipsy, softened at the edges. Most of the effects from pre-gaming with her friends have worn off by now, and all she feels is the loose warmth in her chest, a warmth that floods down to her toes when she opens her bedroom door and sees a lump on her bed. Blonde hair peeks out from beneath her purple blanket. Azzi giggles when she lifts it and sees Paige with her mouth ajar, snoring away. Her glasses are perched messily on her nose, laptop on her thighs still open. She takes a quick picture for blackmail purposes before grabbing her pajamas to go change.

Azzi blames the alcohol for the way she can’t stop smiling to herself the whole way to the bathroom. It’s been a hectic day, and the thought of being able to curl up in bed with her best friend, being able to soak in the warmth of her body heat and bury her face into her neck and finally relax, gives her more satisfaction than she’d like to admit.

By the time Azzi has finished getting ready for bed, Paige, constantly moving while awake and in her sleep, has sprawled out in the center of the mattress. Azzi climbs in gingerly, but despite her best efforts not to disturb the older girl, she stirs.

“Azzi?” The blonde rolls over and snuggles into a pillow before she seemingly remembers where she is and shoots up in bed, looking as startled as a deer caught in headlights.

Azzi can’t help but snicker. “Yeah?”

Paige blinks groggily at her, clearly needing a moment to get her bearings. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep in here.” She fidgets with the end of her shirt, almost as if she’s embarrassed to have been caught in Azzi’s bed like this, and Azzi gets a sudden surge of cuteness aggression.

Deciding not to turn it into a big deal (she'd never want to scare Paige away from sleeping in her bed, God knows how much she loves it） out of the goodness of her heart, and the sore muscles in her body telling her to just sleep, Azzi says quietly, “You don’t have to go.” She pulls the comforter over her chest as she watches Paige breathe heavily, her shoulders and back flexing in her hunched over position.

A moment of silence passes before Paige responds. “Okay.” Lying back down is an awkward process, actions hesitant as the older girl overthinks where to go. She finds the very edge of the bed, arms pinned to her sides as she stares directly up at the ceiling. And it’s not like Paige and Azzi have never slept in the same bed, but they’ve never intentionally slept together, limbs intertwining only in the dark of night when they pretend to be asleep and ending when one of them wakes up first in the morning and is able to separate themselves before they have to deal with the awkward ordeal of waking up snuggling. Neither of them have ever really considered the fact that it shouldn’t be awkward for people who are really just friends to cuddle—but for them, it always has been, even the slightest of touches meaning too much and too little.

So Azzi waits for Paige to settle into bed and close her eyes before she takes the initiative to scoot closer in. She pauses a little when her best friend stiffens, and starts to regret maybe overstepping. But then Paige reaches out for her. She stares at the ceiling, not looking at Azzi, but her hand tugs Azzi’s wrist, bringing her closer until she’s fully curling into Paige’s chest. Paige's arm falls around her shoulders a little awkwardly. But she's warm, her chest solid, and Azzi thinks it's perfect.

Azzi has almost drifted fully into unconciousness when Paige whispers, “How was prom?” Her lips graze Azzi’s temple as she speaks into her hair, and Azzi shudders at the feeling.

“It was fine.” She presses her forehead sleepily to Paige’s neck, skin against skin, feeling her pulse thrum steadily. The fresh scent of Paige's deodorant and body wash is simple, a thousand times familiar, but still her favorite in the world. “Missed you,” Azzi admits, the tenderness in her own voice making her cringe a little.

Paige squeezes her closer in. “Missed you more." Her thumb caresses the younger girl's jawline, soothing her to sleep. "Maybe next year will be more fun.”

Azzi doesn’t say that prom was only fine because she could only think about Paige the entire time, and that things probably wouldn't change in a year if they hadn't for the past three. She only hums softly in response.

“Good night.” Paige drops a kiss on her hairline, so briefly and so casually that Azzi almost misses it.

“Night.” Azzi snuggles closer in, heart racing, and she sleeps.

⋆⑅˚₊ iii. so it goes - i'm yours to keep and i'm yours to lose

May 2020

Paige knows before it happens.

It was hard not to. Azzi had been acting distant all week, smiles tight and eyes a little less shiny whenever she’d spoken to Paige. The blonde had just assumed it was because she was having a hard time saying goodbye—what she didn't know was that Azzi was saying goodbye in more ways than one.

The morning of, Paige is the last in the house to wake up. She pads downstairs, still in her pajamas, to find her family and Azzi at the table, eating waffles. Drew is babbling about dinosaurs or something, whipped cream all over his nose and chin, while her dad mans the waffle maker and her step-mom packs a bag of snacks. Azzi is sitting next to Drew, cross-legged and domestic while feeding him between bites of her own food, and it strikes a feeling within Paige she can’t quite place yet.

“Good morning to my two favorite people,” she crows, her volume much too loud for 9 in the morning as seen by the winces on everyone’s faces. She throws one arm each around her little brother and best friend, pulling them in for a group hug, and she finds a hint of the old, familiar softness in Azzi’s eyes before it’s quickly replaced by the distant, guarded expression she’s been wearing for too long. Paige’s stomach heaves a little, but then Drew smears some whipped cream on her nose, eliciting a tickle war, and like usual, the feeling gets pushed to the side.

“Paige, there’s a stack of waffles for you on the table. Try to eat pretty quick because we have to leave soon,” her dad motions for her to sit down, and Paige dutifully obeys. Her eyes light up when she sees the bottle of syrup, and she proceeds to grab it eagerly before drizzling a concerning amount onto her breakfast.

“Paige, you’re gonna make yourself sick,” Azzi reprimands, but Paige only kicks her hard under the table before digging in.

“I’m packing some food for your plane ride,” her step-mom says. “Do you want Slim Jims or apple slices as snack?”

“Can I have both?”

“You only have room for one.”

Decisions, decisions. “Slim Jims.”

Azzi wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Hey,” she says quietly when the adults fall back into their own conversation. “I need to talk to you before you leave.”

“Oh yeah, I was gonna talk to you anyways. I needed to tell you something.” Paige was going to give Azzi the letter she wrote a couple weeks ago. She’d written and rewritten it only about a hundred times, then copied the final letter to fancy card stock paper in her best hand-writing, even adding a couple quick sketches of flowers and rainbows and hearts. It looked pretty awesome, if she did say so herself. Anddddd it also said a bunch of things she wasn’t ready to say out loud, so Paige’s current plan was to say her good-bye before shoving the card in Azzi’s hands as the last thing she’d do before jumping in the car and leaving. And then she’d spend the entire plane ride with her dad going batshit crazy thinking about Azzi reading it.

But still, it would be worth it. Paige was so sure Azzi felt the same — how could she not? She felt the way Azzi’s heart rate picked up whenever they touched, knew the way Azzi looked at her when she thought she wasn’t looking wasn’t normal for just best friends, especially since summer, when everything had between them had changed. It had started off with a kiss, and quickly evolved to something messy and tangled between the two of them that they’d labeled as “friends with benefits”, a label that Paige thought did their dynamic injustice. But still, it had been four years of knowing each other and almost a year of being more, and Paige was finally ready to let Azzi know. No more friends with benefits — girlfriends.

But Paige, so caught up in her thoughts, doesn’t see Azzi’s face drop, the younger girl’s tendency to overthink clearly leading her own train of thought. So she continues to eat her waffles in blissful ignorance as Azzi sits back quietly.

༉‧₊˚✧

“I’m just so ready, ya know?” Paige tosses her charger in the backpack. “I think that’s everything on my packing list,” she muses to herself quietly, gaze sweeping around the room with an air of finality. Then she looks up at Azzi and smiles. “The college experience, the whole nine yards.” She takes a seat on her bed and pats the spot next to her, indicating for the dark haired girl to sit with her. “Even though there’s still COVID and I won’t be able to do the really fun stuff—" she imagines playing in front of a sold out crowd at Gampel, and the smile on her face dims just a little at the feeling of missing out, “—still, I’m just so excited. I can’t stop like, bouncing around. You get it, right?” She flops down on the bed, hands folding behind her head as she closes her eyes and imagines it all.

Azzi is silent beside her, still sitting upright. Paige can’t see her face, so she nudges her knee. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Azzi’s voice is unsteady. “I get it.”

Paige opens her eyes and sits back up. “Bro, are you good? I didn't wanna say anything, but you’ve been kinda acting weird lately.”

“Listen,” Azzi says. She’s fiddling with a loose thread on her sweats, and Paige swears her fingers are shaking. “I know we haven’t really talked about it directly, but–" she takes a deep breath to steady her voice, “I want it to be clear between the two of us. Clean cut, you know?”

“Clean cut?” Paige echoes, lost.

“Yeah. No messy stuff and wondering what we are. So that you can go do your own thing at college, without feeling bad or- or like you owe me anything,” her words trail off into a gasp, “and I can do mine.”

Paige is even more lost. “Azzi, what are you talking about?”

Azzi bites her bottom lip, her nervous tic. “I’m saying that we should end this — whatever this is. Friends with benefits, casually sleeping together, whatever you wanna call it." She inhales sharply. "It’s probably the best for both of us.”

Immediately, she hones in on the word casual. Casual? Paige had never thought that whatever they had going on was a casual thing. Maybe unknown, unfamiliar, new—but never casual. She thought it was the most sacred thing in the world. A bitter taste forms at the base of her throat when she realizes that maybe she’s read it wrong all along. But Paige would never want to pressure Azzi into something she doesn't want. “So you’re saying - you’re saying you wanna end this?”

“Yeah." Azzi finally turns her head to her, and her face is marked by tear tracks. "You know, for your college experience. And for me.”

Devastation.

That's the only word Paige can think of that comes even close to what she's feeling right now.

She feels numb, and stupid, and god. How could she ever been so foolish to think that Azzi could like her back? Could want Paige in the same, aching, all-consuming, nonsensical way that she wanted Azzi? She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out but a broken "Okay."

“Okay?” Azzi sounds incredulous before she shakes her head and catches herself. Clearing her throat, she mumbles, “So, um, we good?”

Paige is thrown. Completely, utterly thrown. “Yeah, we’re good. I guess.”

Her dad calls for her downstairs, and when she stands it seems like she’s watching herself move in third person. “Well, thanks for visiting this past week and saying goodbye. I had fun.” Her tone is strangely flat, void of any emotion, unrecognizable even to herself. But when your heart has just gotten broken before it had to chance to even beat, how can self-preservation allow you to be on anything but auto-pilot?

“Yeah, me too.” Azzi sounds defeated, and Paige wonders if it’s because she’d felt trapped this entire week, had hated whenever Paige had pulled her aside for a quick kiss. The mere thought of Azzi feeling uncomfortable around her makes her nauseous with guilt.

So, Paige does the only thing she knows how to do. She shoulders on her backpack, but her suitcase and duffel bags are already in the trunk, so she doesn’t have anywhere to put her hands, and they hang limply by her side. She doesn’t even know if she should give Azzi a hug. “We’re still…we’re still best friends right?”

“Of course.” The smile Azzi flashes is meant to be reassuring, but the way it doesn’t reach her eyes makes it anything but. “I’ll come visit you soon,” she adds as an after-thought, seemingly wanting to remedy the situation, but Paige doesn’t even hear her, already leaving before she can finish her sentence. Having to stay any longer, having to look and let go of the sight of Azzi in her bed, in her room, in her home, would make her break down on the spot.

So Paige leaves without really saying good-bye, and she cries the entire plane ride to Connecticut.

⋆⑅˚₊

Azzi: just said goodbye to paige

Azzi: my flight's in a couple hours

Azzi: see you soon

Azzi finishes texting her parents before shutting her phone off and snuggling deeper into Paige's blankets. Everything had turned out so different than she'd expected a week ago. She'd came to Minnesota eager to spend a few days with her best friend before sending her off to college, with this persistent, nagging hope in the back of her brain that maybe this would be the moment where she could finally tell Paige about her feelings.

Then the moment she'd arrived at the Bueckers' home, Paige had started going on about how excited she was for the college experience. She hadn't said it explicitly — no, Paige was too kind to tell Azzi directly, but Azzi knew everything her best friend couldn't say. That she wanted to end these things, because she wanted other, better things: other girls, other people, other relationships.

And besides, letting go of Paige now is the only way to save herself in the future, Azzi reasons to herself. Being stuck in this weird limbo of being her best friend who also kisses her would only make it so much harder to see and hear about Paige with other girls in Connecticut. It was better to snap it in half now, while she still could, to leave her pride somewhat intact so that she wasn't hanging onto Paige while Paige was trying to shake her off.

Azzi had ended it before Paige could, and that was that.

⋆⑅˚₊ iv. dress - say my name and everything just stops / i don’t want you like a best friend

February 2022

“I’m gonna go hang out with Kiki after this.” The corner of Paige’s mouth twitches when Azzi stiffens in her arms.

“Oh, okay.”

Paige drums her fingers against Azzi's waist. “Just wanted to let you know.”

“Well, now I know.“ Azzi sidles out of her arms harshly. “Gonna go pee.”

The deeply entrenched lingers of doubt becomes to crawl in her mind again when Azzi leaves, but unlike a year ago, when Paige had left her house for the airport in tears, she has experience. Experience in reading people and picking up when they show all the tell-tale signs of a crush: the flush of cheeks, the stuttering whenever Paige flirts a little too hard, the way she subconsciously leans into her touch whenever they’re sitting next to each other. And the signs of jealousy — all the signs she sees in herself whenever Azzi talks to anyone but her. And honestly, even if Paige didn’t know for sure, it’s getting to a point where she can no longer ignore the tension between them. Ever since Azzi has joined her at UConn, even though they haven’t slept together, per se, their relationship has been more than when they were; the press of mouths to cheeks that linger longer than necessary, the grinding at Ted’s that start before either of them are really drunk but pretend to be for the sake of forgetting. And, in all honesty, Paige really can’t see Azzi talking to another asshat. Hence, their current situation.

When Azzi comes back, oversized shirt wet with the stains of washed hands, Paige has finished gathering up her courage again. Azzi makes a point of sitting down far out of reach at the other end of the couch instead of returning to Paige’s arms. Definitely jealous, she thinks to herself.

“Might take her out to a nice dinner or something,” Paige says, picking up right where she left off. Then she decides why not be more of an annoying shit, and asks, “Actually, can I borrow your car?”

Azzi’s eye twitches. “What do you need my car for?” She does a damn good job of forcing her tone into one of disinterest and indifference, but from the way her jaw ticks, Paige knows she’s anything but.

“Mine’s low on gas and the restaurant I wanna go to is far. Wanna give her princess treatment, you know?”

The younger girl is positively scowling now, eyes in slits as she channels all her anger into glaring at the TV. “And why are you telling me all of this?”

Paige scoots next to Azzi and throws an arm around her shoulder. Time to make her move. Tracing circles on her shoulder with a finger, she says slowly, “Because I wanted to see your reaction.”

“My reaction?”

Her laugh comes out breathy. “Azzi, I can tell that you’re jealous.”

Her best friend’s eyes close briefly, and Paige’s heart drops a beat. Reading Azzi has always came naturally to her, pure intuition for someone she’s always in sync with. Not to brag, but she’s perfected knowing exactly how to push Azzi and where her boundaries are, but this time maybe she’d gone too far. Paige is two seconds away from apologizing until the dark haired girl opens her eyes again and says firmly, “I’m not jealous.”

No turning back now. “No?”

“I’m really not.”

“So if I took your car, and went to pick her up, with a bouquet of flowers, maybe even some chocolate, and took her to a fancy restaurant…you wouldn’t mind at all?”

A strangled sound leaves Azzi’s mouth, so quiet Paige almost misses it. “Not at all.”

“And if I took her back to her house-“ Paige’s voice drops a note, all husky and raspy, “and I took her to her bedroom, and I kissed her-“

“Paige-”

“And I touched her-,”

“Paige, stop.” Azzi’s chest heaves. Paige looks away, trying not to get sidetracked by the way her tiny tank top dips on her cleavage and leaves a little too much to the imagination. The younger girl shrugs Paige’s arm off her shoulders and stands up, backing away as if being any closer to her will make her explode. “Fine, you win. You know I’m jealous.”

Paige’s smile is triumphant. “That’s all you all had to say, baby.”

Scoffing, Azzi turns around and marches into her room, but Paige is quick to follow. “I’m not hanging out with Kiki after this,”she says, breathing down Azzi’s neck as she almost steps on her heels, but her best friend speeds up. “I haven’t hung out with Kiki since before you got here.”

“So?”

“So,” Paige emphasizes, and realizing she has only about five seconds before Azzi reaches her room and slams the door in her face for being, she admits, sort of an asshole, she says all in one breath, “I-wanted-to-make-sure-you-felt-the-same-because-I-have-feelings-for-you-and-I’ve-had-them-for-a-while-and-I-really-want-to-take-you-on-a-proper-date-and-hopefully-become-your-girlfriend-because-I-don’t-wan’t-you-like-a-best-friend-and-I-honestly-go-crazy-thinking-about-you-with-anyone-but-me-but-if-you-don’t-feel-ready-for-more-yet-then-it’s-okay.” She’s panting by the time she finishes and doesn’t realize that Azzi has fully stopped in her tracks before she’s stumbling over her feet and crashing into her, sending the both of them falling to the ground.

Somehow they both end up with their backs against the carpet, looking up at the ceiling. Azzi is still breathing hard next to her, from speed walking or falling or from Paige getting on her nerves, Paige isn’t sure which, but she waits patiently for her response, trying to ignore the stupid noise in her head saying maybe your dumbass got it all wrong again.

Finally, finally, after what seems like ten minutes, Azzi opens her mouth. “You’re stupid,” is all she says, then she rolls over and kisses Paige on the mouth.

Not what Paige was expecting after her grand love confession, but the plumpness of Azzi’s bottom lip captured in between hers makes it hard to complain about anything at all.

They kiss for twenty minutes, or maybe forty. Paige loses track of time, and honestly, she could do this forever without getting tired, but she came to Azzi's apartment tonight with a game plan, and she has to stick with it, so she pushes her best friend away a little to end their 10/10 makeout session.

Smoothing the frizz of Azzi’s hair back with her palm, she whispers, “I’m gonna take you on a date, okay?”

Azzi grins and kisses her forehead. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow. Are you free?”

Azzi moves to her cheek, tongue leaving wet trails on her face. “Don’t act like you don’t know my schedule.”

“Okay then. Tomorrow at six.” Paige traces the dimple of Azzi’s smile with the pad of her thumb, memorizing the indentation she loves so much. “That was lowkey easier than I thought it’d be.”

“Making my life hell for the past twenty minutes was easier than you thought?” Azzi bites down hard on Paige bottom lip, teeth scraping into her soft skin, and the blonde winces.

“Sorry,” she replies unapologetically. “Just had to make sure. Plus, you’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Azzi smirks against her mouth. “’I go crazy thinking about you with anyone but me,’” she mimics in a high pitched tone.

“Who you tryna be?” Paige grumbles, but there’s no heat in her voice.

⋆⑅˚₊ v. don’t blame me - i get so high, oh, every time you’re loving me

“It’s too early in the goddamn morning for you to be cheesin like this,” Nika complains as they stretch out on the cold floor of the gym.

Paige grabs her foot and leans toward it, shaking out the stiffness in her hamstrings and calves. “You’re just jealous I got a hot date and you don’t,” she responds, unable to take the grin off her face.

Nika grimaces. “Please never say that ever again.”

“Who’s this hot date?” Azzi plops down next to them, her thigh brushing Paige’s as she extends her knee, and Paige shivers.

Nika mimes putting a finger down her throat, and Paige waves her off. “Only the prettiest girl in the world," she says, not giving a shit about how cheesy the words coming out of her mouth sound.

Azzi wrinkles her nose, but her eyes shine with affection. “Have I told you you’re stupid?” She slides her hand over Paige’s, giving it a quick squeeze before moving it as quickly as it came.

“Only a couple of times.” Paige takes a swift search around for prying eyes before leaning in close to Azzi. “Just to be clear,” she whispers, “you like me? Like, like like me?”

“I feel like we're in middle school again, but to answer your question, last I heard of, yeah,” Azzi says, a smile threatening her lips. “Unless anything has changed since ten hours ago?”

“Nahh, nothin.” Paige gives Azzi’s earlobe a quick nip. “'Cept for the fact that I’m nervous as hell thinking about tonight.”

Azzi giggles at the ticklish feeling before CD steps into the gym, clapping her hands and directing the girls to start warming up. Paige sends her a wink before jogging to the front to take charge.

⋆⑅˚₊

They’re the last ones in the locker room, and Paige waits only a few seconds after the last of their teammates leave before she’s pushing Azzi against the wall and and kissing her. Paige’s cheeks are flushed and rosy from practice, hair coming loose from her bun and wild strands framing her face, and Azzi drinks it all in.

“Look so fuckin good just practicing, it’s unfair,” Paige mumbles in breaths, unable to keep her mouth away from Azzi’s for too long. Her hand wanders down Azzi’s back, fisting up her jersey to stroke the bare softness of her waist before trailing down to cup the swell of her ass. She squeezes hard, and Azzi moans into her mouth, a little breathy sound that drives Paige absolutely feral. It’s only when a door bangs outside that they realize how incriminating they’d look if someone walked in, and they separate, gasping.

“We should probably go,” Azzi breathes out, unable to take her eyes off the swollen wetness of her best friend’s lips.

“Probably,” Paige agrees. Then she takes off her jersey, movements slow and sensual. Her shirt rides up in the process, giving Azzi a glimpse of milky white skin and muscled abs, and Azzi really can’t blame herself for what she does next, not when Paige looks like that.

⋆⑅˚₊ vi. new year’s day - but i stay when you’re lost and i’m scared and you’re turning away

August 2025

Paige wakes up to three missed phone calls. She’s only able to swipe up and see that they’re all from Azzi before her phone immediately dies. She curses. Worst fucking timing in the world. She rushes to plug her charger in, tapping the black screen aggressively as if it’ll make it turn on any after. Her head still pounds from the chaos of the night before, her mouth dry and gross. She’s not sure if she even brushed her teeth after coming home from the club, the way her breath still stinks of alcohol.

She thinks about finally getting up to take or shower or do anything that’ll make her feel less disgusting but then finally, finally, her phone comes back to life. Her hearts starts pounding harder when she’d realized she’d missed not just three calls, but a series of texts.

11:45 PM

Missed call from Azzi

Missed call from Azzi

Azzi: hey u good?

Azzi: lmk if u need a minute

11:58 PM

Azzi: lmao did u forget

12:10 AM

Missed call from Azzi

Azzi: seriously paige

Azzi: at the fucking club again

12:22 AM

Azzi: call me when ur up

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Paige squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t even really remember last night—it’s a blur of hazy smoke, one too many shots, and bassy music thumping so loud she swore her eardrums almost burst. But after the win at home, that much needed win, when the team had started making plans to celebrate, Arike promising that drinks were on her, she’d told Azzi that she needed to cancel their previously scheduled Facetime for that night. Didn’t she?

She scrolls down, heart ricocheting in her chest when she sees the unsent text in her message bar. She must have exited it out or closed her phone before she could’ve pressed send. Cursing under her breath, Paige slides on her glasses and calls Azzi.

The phone rings three times before it’s answered. “Hello?” Azzi’s voice comes out dry and scratchy. She sounds like she’s just woken up, or is sick, or maybe a mixture of both.

“Baby, hey.” Paige runs a hand through her hair but gives up when it gets tangled in a knot. “I’m so sorry about last night. I meant to text you and I forgot to press send and there was a ton of shit happening at once. I should’ve double checked that it sent, and I’m- I’m sorry.” Paige isn’t sure what to do but keep apologizing, but she's only greeted with silence on the other end. After a couple of beats, she says hesitantly, “Azzi?”

Her girlfriend exhales slowly on the other end, the tell-tale sign that she’s trying really hard not to lose her patience. Not a good sign. “Okay.”

“Just...okay?” Paige repeats, slightly confused at the lack of anger or really any emotion at all in her tone.

There’s rustling on the other end of the line before Azzi’s voice comes out clearer and louder. “What do you want me to say?”

“I - I don’t know. Are you mad?” Because Azzi isn’t yelling at her, or saying anything in particular, just sounds resigned, and Paige doesn’t know what to do with that. She’d rather Azzi show any kind of emotion than this. She can't read this. She can't navigate this.

“Christ, Paige, you’re so dense sometimes.”

“You have every right to be mad with me, but I don’t know, you sound—”

“You think I want to be mad at you? You think I wanna spend one of our, what, four phone calls a week arguing with you? Fuck.” There it is.

Paige rubs her temples. “I know.”

“I’m not tryna be your clingy girlfriend from home,” Azzi continues. “Trust me, I’m really fucking not. Ever since you left I’ve been trying to respect your new life, your new schedule, letting you have space to enjoy your rookie year without having to feel suffocated. But please, please tell me I’m not insane for thinking that it’s unreasonable for you to cancel a call not even for basketball, but for shit like partying at a club?” Azzi pauses. “Honestly, I feel like I’m the one initiating our conversations most of the times. It’s like you’re putting in zero effort.”

“I understand that you’re mad but it’s a little ridiculous of you to just say I never put in any effort, Azzi.” Paige has never lashed out like this, never spoken to Azzi in this tone that sounds like anger and bitterness and exasperation fighting over each other to be heard, but Azzi's words strike something deep inside of her that hurts. “You think I like being this busy, this exhausted, having this little free time to talk more than a couple of hours? Throughout everything I’ve been trying to make you feel like a priority because god, Azzi, you are, I love you so much, and it hurts that you think I’m not even trying.” Her voice chokes an embarrasing amount on the last word, and she tosses her phone on her pillow to run her hands over her face in an effort to collect herself.

“Oh, my bad, Paige. Sorry for being such a burden and an inconvenience in your busy life,” Azzi spits out bitterly.

Paige can't help but jump to her own defense. “You didn’t even wanna come down to Dallas last month when you were free. And it's not like I can go up to you. If one of is putting in less effort, Azzi, it's sure as hell not me.”

“We had pre-season workouts, Paige, you know that.”

“I also know that they’re not mandatory and it wouldn’t have killed you to missed one. You could’ve worked out with me down here.” Somewhere deep inside, Paige knows she's being unreasonable, that Azzi has never asked her to skip practice for her and so neither should she, but she remembers the hurt that had coiled in her stomach, dark and tangled, when Azzi had refused to come down for even just a couple of days after not having seen each other in almost three weeks. If it had been her, she would’ve taken the first flight, Paige thinks, and it hadn’t taken much to spiral down the rabbit-hole of doubts—that Azzi didn’t miss her the same way she did, that Azzi was perfectly fine living her life in Storrs while Paige lived hers in Dallas, that Azzi didn’t care enough about Paige to want to visit her again. And when she’d been scrolling on Tiktok, seen videos of her girlfriend with her teammates that weekend, laughing and smiling with them when it could’ve been her—the spiral had turned into something much worse in her mind.

“So you expect me to drop everything for you but when it’s your turn to actually do something, to, I don't know, call me first for once, all of a sudden you’re too busy and tired?” Azzi accuses.

“That’s not even what I said!" Paige argues. "And I don't call first because I know you always call at a set time. Why are we even keeping track of who calls who first? If we're resorting to this, what's even the point?"

“What’s the point?” Azzi’s voice trembles. “What’s the point of this relationship, you mean?”

No, no, no. “Come on, Az, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” Paige pleads.

“You asked me what the point of our relationship was, Paige, don’t scramble now.”

“Because apparently you think it’s all one sided! And you’ve clearly been feeling like this for a while!” Paige swears under her breath. “How long have you been resenting me for this? Thinking that I don’t care about you, that I don’t care about us?”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m not yelling!” Paige pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to get herself to take a couple of deep breaths and calm down. “Az, I’m sorry about last night, okay? I really am. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

“It’s not even about last night!” Azzi explodes. “How are you still not getting that?”

Seeing the time on her watch, Paige grits her teeth. “This conversation isn’t getting anywhere and I have practice. Can we talk later?”

“It’s always later with you.” Azzi’s voice is oddly high pitched, strained as if she’s trying to hide something, and Paige realizes that she’s probably crying. Fuck. She hates this, the distance, the ease of throwing angry accusations over the phone when you can’t see their face crumble from the impact of what you've done. Azzi sniffs. “Whatever. We’ll talk after. Call me when you’re done.”

“Okay.” Paige opens her mouth to say one more thing, but the line ends before she can. Fuck. She throws her phone on the bed, but it slides off the mattress and tumbles to the ground with a smack. Picking it up, she sees two cracks running through the screen. It looks almost as ugly as she feels inside.

Perfect. It’s 7 AM and her day already sucks.

As soon as practice is over, she shoots Azzi a text.

Paige: done for the day, lmk when ur free

Read

She checks her phone for the next couple of hours, waiting for a response, but to no avail.

Paige: are u really ignoring my texts

Paige: lmfao thought we left this petty shit back in high school

Paige: u said u wanted to talk and now u don’t want to?? i really don’t know what u even want from me

Azzi calls her a couple minutes later.

“That’s how I feel,” Azzi says tightly. “That’s how I felt last night, when I stayed up until 12:30 waiting for you to call.”

“Aight, next time tell me if you’re gonna call just to pick a fight, ‘cause then I won’t fuckin pick up,” Paige fires back, and she knows before she says it that it'll just make everything worse, but shit, she's so tired of arguing, for having to walk on eggshells whenever they talk, and she knows Azzi is too. And she's been in a terrifically awful mood all day, going stir crazy at her girlfriend's lack of response to her texts; she wants to resolve it more than anything, to make everything okay again, yet it seems like Azzi is holding onto that anger for her and she doesn’t know why.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, I don’t even know why I miss you," Azzi says scathingly. "Honestly, maybe we should take a break. This clearly isn’t working.” And those words are so sudden, so heavy and unexpected, that Paige can only fall silent in response.

Breathing hard, Paige touches her cheeks. She’s never been a crier, but all of a sudden the sleeve of her sweater is damp and her vision is blurring and her head is spinning.

“Paige?” Azzi says her name softly and regretfully.

“Yeah,” she says numbly into the phone, pretending as if Azzi suggesting a break—Azzi, in effect, wanting to end things—didn't just crush everything inside of her.

A sob comes out over the line. “I - I just miss you and I just said a bunch of shit that I didn’t mean and I feel so horrible. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Paige swipes angrily at her eyes, willing the tears to stop flowing. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Then Azzi whimpers, a small and deadly sound that pierces right through Paige’s heart, and despite everything, she just wants to reach through the phone and hold her. “I don’t wanna take a break. I love you, and I’m not used to fighting with you, and I just want you to be here.”

Paige is quiet for a moment, head swimming. “I’m sorry too. Listen, it’s late. Let’s just sleep on it and talk tomorrow, okay? When we both have clearer heads.” Paige would never call their relationship fragile, she feels like that would be a disservice to their years of fighting for each other, but it’s definitely not in a good place right now. And she's so consumed by her anger she’s not sure what might come out of her mouth if they keep going at it, and she doesn’t want to risk it.

"I love you," Azzi speaks quietly. Paige closes her eyes, turning the words over in her mind as a reminder. She loves you. You love her. That’s all that matters. "More than anything or anyone in this world, I love you."

"I know." Paige’s voice trembles. "I love you too."

The call ends, and Paige has never in her life felt this helpless; the only thing she can do from a million miles away is stare listlessly at the black screen on her phone. The two of them have always had their arguments, but it would always be resolved within a couple of days. Now, the distance makes it so much more complicated, because it had been easy—too easy to say all those things to Azzi that she really didn't mean. She supposes they both took part in it, intentionally calling instead of Facetiming so they could avoid dealing with the fallout or taking accountability by blaming it on the emotional and physical barriers separating them.

Christ. Paige reaches for the jar of melatonin on her bedside table. She's gonna need double the dose tonight.

⋆⑅˚₊

Azzi doesn't know what came over her.

Maybe it had been from the pure exhaustion of the past few months. Living in Storrs is like being surrounded by constant reminders of Paige—in Werth, in Gampel, even in her own fucking dorm. And she's always been stable and secure in their relationship, but it still hurts only being able to hear about Paige's new life without really being a part of it.

Then she'd gone and suggested a break, quite possibly the dumbest thing she's ever said, and for an agonizing second of silence over the phone, she'd been scared that Paige would agree, that Paige would say, maybe this is best for us, and end it all right then and there.

But she hadn't, and Azzi had apologized, but she knew it had done nothing to fix the impact of her words.

Which is why it's 2 AM, but she's still up, looking at flights to Los Angeles on her laptop. Paige has a game against the Sparks, and she can only stay for one day, so she's searching for tickets that will allow her to arrive right before the game and leave the early morning after.

Bingo. A last minute flight that leaves in six hours. Azzi calculates the timing in her head; the plane ride is 8 hours but LA is 3 hours behind, meaning she'll arrive at around 1 pm PST. It'll be too late by then to catch Paige before the game, and she wouldn't want to distract her anyways, so she'll have a few hours to make it to the game, watch, before hopefully having the chance to talk to Paige that night before both of them have to leave for their own cities. Azzi completes the purchase, then starts to pack her backpack.

LA is sunny and warm, and uplifts Azzi's spirits just a little. She takes an Uber to a restaurant to get some food in her stomach before taking another Uber to Crypto Arena. She wasn't able to secure a very good seat, so she pulls her hoodie tight over her head and hopes that the cameras don't see her. With red-rimmed eyes and deep bags under them, she looks worse for wear, and the last thing she wants to do is to be displayed on the big screen for everyone to see.

The first three quarters fly in a flash; Paige has a rocky start before she picks Rickea's pocket late in the second and scores, setting off her momentum for a solid 14 points by the end of the third. Azzi has always loved watching Paige play, but this is only the fourth or fifth time she's gotten to watch her girlfriend play professionally, but she's still in awe of how Paige moves so naturally on the court, already a leader on both ends despite being a rookie.

Azzi is on her phone during the break when the crowd starts to cheer. Looking up at the commotion, she fights the urge to groan when she sees herself on the screen, looking confused as hell. Contorting her face into a smile, she awkwardly waves and flashes a thumbs up before the cameras thankfully pan towards a celebrity across the arena.

Then she sees Paige, who had by some chance saw Azzi on the screen. The blonde is searching the arena, hands on her waist as her eyes sweep the crowds. Her mouth is tight, set into a firm line, body posture rigid, before one of the assistant coaches taps her on the shoulder and redirects her attention to Chris.

As soon as the game is over, Paige is walking around the court, evidently still scanning the arena for her. Knowing that the older girl doesn't have her phone, Azzi makes her way down the stairs, a task made much slower by her compression boot. Finally, she makes it down, but then she's stopped by a security guard who raises a brow at her.

"Hey, Azzi!" A familiar voice rings out, and there's Cameron, eyes bright as she makes her way through the throng of people on the court. She motions for the security guard to let her through the rope, and Azzi slips in. Wrong blonde, but still, Azzi is glad to see her.

"Cam! It's nice to see you," Azzi greets, pulling in the taller girl for a hug. "Looking good back on the court."

"Thank you, thank you." Cameron brushes off her jersey in faux humility. "Still getting used to it but it feels really good."

Azzi knows all too well what returning to the game feels like after an ACL, so she smiles sympathetically at her old friend.

"What brings you to LA?" The older girl leans in conspiratorially. "Here to see your girl?" Cameron is one of few people who'd witnessed the birth of their friendship into something more, and usually Azzi would be laughing with her, but the bleakness of it all makes her only have the strength to offer a weak smile and a "Yeah."

"Azzi." The two of them turn around and see Paige, who still looks slightly confused as she moves quickly towards the two of them. Azzi takes in her girlfriend, her hair falling apart from her bun, sweat beading on her chest and neck. Unsure of what to say or do, they look at each other for a second before Paige reaches out for a hug, both of them stiff before they fall into the familiarity of each other's arms. Azzi nuzzles her head into her girlfriend's neck, not caring that her cheeks come away damp from Paige's sweat. She'd missed Paige, terribly so.

Paige is caught up in staring at Azzi when they separate before she seemingly registers that there's a third person. "Hey, Cam," she says, dapping her up.

"Paige," Cameron pats her on the back. "Gave us hell tonight." Paige chuckles, and the two players pull apart, but Paige's gaze quickly returns to examining Azzi. Cameron looks between the two of them, observant as ever, and raises an eyebrow at the tension she senses hanging in the air. "Oookay. Well, I gotta go now, but it was nice seeing the both of you. Enjoy LA, Azzi. Good game, P."

"Yeah, you too," Paige says distractedly. "It's nice having you back on the court."

Then Paige and Azzi are alone, but not really alone because they're surrounded by athletes and media and fans and more than a couple of cameras pointed at them. Paige seems to pick up on the cameras too, when she reaches for Azzi's hand, then draws back, overthinking her actions. "Let's, uh, go to my car?" she suggests. "We can talk?"

Azzi nods, and they fall into step back to the locker room. They're silent as they walk, neither really knowing what to say, until a familiar curly-headed face intercepts them in the hall. "Paige," Rae Burrell intones, a smirk on her face, "Nice to see you." Azzi immediately tenses up, slowing down in her steps, but Paige's hand moves to the small of her back, a quiet reassurance, as she guides them along, trying to move past the Spark. "Rae," she acknowledges with a mere nod.

"Azzi, fancy seeing you here. How you doing?" Rae asks, all sugar and sweetness as she starts walking beside them.

"Just peachy," Azzi drawls. Her hand lands meaningfully on Paige's bicep, firm and smooth under her hand, and she draws her girlfriend closer. Paige wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her temple without even sparing a glance at Rae, and even though there's a million things they need to work through, though apologies are needed and solutions must be made, Azzi knows that through it all, they are the surest thing in the world.

Finally getting the hint, Rae nods. "Alright, see y'all around," she mutters, an ugly frown on her face as she ducks into a side room.

"She doesn't give up, does she?" Azzi grumbles, hand falling from Paige's arm when she realizes that the older girl is likely still angry from last night. But Paige grabs her hand and brings it back, an apology that's silent and the first of many, and squeezes her closer.

"No, she doesn't," Paige affirms. They've reached the locker room, and Paige lingers for a moment before going inside. She pulls Azzi in by the waist and presses their foreheads together. "I'm really glad you're here."

"Only for today," Azzi says, and disappointment fills Paige's eyes before the events of the night before flash in her mind. "It's good," the older girl responds gently. "You're traveling sixteen hours just to be here for a few, and I appreciate it."

"I'm sorry," Azzi says, the apology tumbling out of her mouth. The need for Paige to know how much she regrets everything is too much to bear, and she starts to continue apologizing, but she's shut up by Paige's mouth suddenly on hers, moving softly, intentionally, urgently, perfectly. Her lips are so, so soft, and Azzi has missed this so bad.

Paige gives her one last kiss, forceful and emphatic, before looking at her, soft and sweet. Azzi exhales. They're gonna be okay.

[paperbodiesamongthestars]

How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dying?

I am having feelings about that episode, so please enjoy 3k words of fic about it. I told myself yesterday I wasn't going to write anything about it because I didn't think I had much to say, and then this hit me like a truck at like midnight. Exceptional timing, brain, no notes.

Title is from You're Losing Me by Taylor Swift. (The other line I considered was "I know my pain is such an imposition," for obvious reasons, but I made a different call. Hopefully this one is pointed enough. 😂)

Tommy thinks about reaching out. Tommy thinks about reaching out a lot, but he doesn’t do it. The footage from the cameras in the tunnel plays on a loop in his mind, but Evan had been red-eyed but composed by the time he and Athena came out of there, and the last thing Tommy was going to do was blurt it out in front of everyone. That he’d seen something no one else had. That he knew, and the knowledge was lodged in his chest like a knife. 

Evan kept it together that night, but Tommy can’t imagine that persisted for long. He was subdued at the funeral—and Tommy was focused on doing his own part as respectfully as possible—but there were times when Evan had seemed…lost. Unmoored somehow. It was understandable given where they were, but it had made Tommy wonder, a little bit, who Evan was leaning on to get through this. He had banished the thought as soon as it had surfaced. The 118 was Evan’s family; of course they were seeing what was going on with him, probably more clearly than Tommy could. No doubt they had it under control. They would never let Evan suffer through a loss like this alone.

So Tommy doesn’t call after the funeral.  

He doesn’t call, and he doesn’t call, and he doesn’t call, and he falls asleep almost every night to a vivid memory of the way Evan’s legs had just given out under him. He doesn’t call and the impulse to hold Evan—just briefly, just because he couldn’t then—is almost overwhelming. But that’s not what they are anymore. He’s not sure if they're anything, honestly, and he’s not going to ask. Evan has more important things to worry about right now, and Tommy’s not going to barge in demanding anything at all. 

And then a building goes down, of course with half the 118 inside, and Tommy’s still on ground ops until Melton forgives him. Evan and Ravi are finally pulled out—dusty and scraped up, but whole—and Tommy sees them making their slow way toward the 118 engine and Gerrard.

Evan brightens a little and waves when he looks up and sees Tommy, and Tommy really hopes he’s got a handle on his expression, because Evan looks awful. His smile is brittle and the hollowness in his eyes is concerning. Tommy almost looks around for the rest of the 118 because what the fuck are they thinking? They wouldn’t let Evan walk around like this, looking like an open wound. Right? They would do something about it.

For the first time, Tommy considers the possibility that he’s made a few too many assumptions about what the 118 would and wouldn’t do. 

He jogs over to where Evan and Ravi have stopped. Ravi is chatting with a firefighter from the 133, but Evan is just…standing. His eyes are blank and unfocused, and Tommy is starting to get a little pissed at all the people who are supposed to have Evan’s back because what are they doing?

“Hey,” he says quietly, but Evan startles anyway.

“Oh! Uh, hey Tommy.” He dredges up a smile that goes nowhere near his eyes. “Ground ops, huh?”

“Yeah, Melton’s still pissed, so…”

Evan frowns. “I’m so—Tommy I’m so sorry.”

Tommy frowns back at him. “For what?”

“I shouldn’t have asked…I didn’t think,” Evan says, his shoulders slumping, and Tommy doesn’t like that reaction at all. 

“Sure you did. You thought ‘The team is in trouble; I wonder if Tommy can help,’ and the answer was yes.” 

Evan gives him a wan smile. “But you love flying.”

“I do,” Tommy says slowly, “and I’ll be doing it again in no time. It’s really not a big deal.” He catches Evan’s eye and says firmly, “Hey, I’m a grown-up. I have a mortgage and everything—I can absolutely deal with the consequences of my own actions.” 

Evan stares for a second and then starts blinking faster. His hand starts to come up, like he’s going to wipe his eyes, but stops halfway. He looks around at the clusters of firefighters around them. 

“I have to—” he says, and gestures vaguely in a direction, and then he’s gone. Tommy frowns after him, wondering where exactly he went wrong. 

He thinks maybe he should call this time. 

He doesn’t get the chance. 

The day after the building collapse, Tommy drives home from his 48—which was a bitch and a half, and not just because a building came down—and finds a very familiar jeep parked in his driveway. He stares at it for a while, failing to make sense of its presence, and then realizes he’s been sitting there for too long. He gets out of his truck and lets himself into his house. He can hear water running in the kitchen, and the house smells like red sauce, similar to the one his mom used to simmer on the stove on Sunday afternoons. It smells like home, and he buries that thought as soon as it surfaces.

Tommy drifts into the kitchen, uncertain what he’ll find there. Evan has his back to the door, rinsing a cutting board in the sink. He looks over his shoulder as Tommy comes in. 

“One sec,” he says, and Tommy nods. He takes the time to go set his bag down in his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and changing into sweatpants. When he makes it back to the kitchen, the board is in the drying rack and Evan is standing at the kitchen island, staring down at his hands on the countertop. 

“Hi,” Tommy says as he comes back in. He skirts carefully around Evan to grab a beer from the fridge and opens it, and then he goes back to the other side of the island. Whatever Evan is doing here, Tommy has no desire to spook him. His kitchen is Evan’s kitchen. Hell, if he’s being really honest with himself, his everything is Evan’s everything, to a probably concerning degree. 

Whatever. Not the point right now. 

“Hey,” Evan says, and takes a swig from the bottle of water in front of him. “Your spare key is still in the same spot.”

“Sure is,” Tommy agrees. There’s a brief silence. “What are you making?” Tommy asks. 

“Meat sauce,” Evan says. “I was going to make fresh pasta, but I wasn’t sure when you’d be home and I didn’t know if I’d have time.” 

Tommy nods. “It smells great,” he says. 

Evan glances at him, and then away. “Sorry for invading your kitchen,” he says, but it sounds likes something he thinks he should say rather than something he really means. Tommy can work with that. 

“Don’t be,” Tommy says. “You’re always welcome here.” His tone is warm and probably too fond, but there’s not much he can do about it. He’s just really happy Evan is in his kitchen, looking tentative, but maybe a little less hollow than he looked yesterday. 

Evan looks up at that, faint surprise and…something else flitting over his face before he smiles. “Yeah?” he asks, like that’s a real question. 

“Of course,” Tommy says, and he’s probably giving himself all the way away, but he’s finding it hard to care. He’s tired. Tired of pretending he didn’t see what he saw, tired of pretending he doesn’t desperately want to hug Evan, just to do it. Because he couldn’t then, but maybe he can now. 

As soon as he has the thought, the words come out without him ever deciding to say them. “Could I—do you mind if I hug you?”

Evan glances over his shoulder at the sauce, and then the kitchen timer. There’s a lot of time left on it, and Tommy briefly wonders what it means that Evan came over and let himself into his house to make a dish that has to simmer for hours. 

Evan turns back to Tommy, his expression a little rueful. He’s twisting his hands together in front of him. “I think, uh. There—there’s a solid chance I’m going to cry all over you if that happens,” he says, eyes downcast. 

“I can live with that,” Tommy says immediately.   

Evan’s head comes up, eyes huge in his face, and he drinks in Tommy’s expression. Tommy doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he seems to find it. He moves, and then Tommy moves, and they crash into each other halfway around the island. Tommy clings because Jesus Christ, he’s been desperate to ever since he watched Evan sink to the ground, face twisted in anguish. He’s so focused on Evan, solid and real in his arms, that it takes a second for him to realize that Evan is clinging just as tightly, his face buried in Tommy’s shoulder. And—yep, there are the tears. 

Tommy feels himself tearing up too, for Bobby, for Evan, for Athena--for all of them. For this awful, overwhelming loss, and the horror of how it happened. 

Evan’s breaths start to hitch, and he slumps further into Tommy’s hold. Suddenly he’s choking out deep, gasping sobs, sorrow pulled up from so deep it sound like it it’s physically painful. Tommy just tightens his grip, trying to ignore the part of his brain that is loudly demanding to know why, exactly, Evan seems to need this so badly. He can pull on that thread later. For now, he can do this. He can stand here and be as solid as possible so Evan has something to hang onto while he falls apart.

Later, they end up on the couch. They each have a glass of that stupid passion-orange-guava juice Tommy just keeps adding to his cart at the grocery store, even though Evan hasn’t been around to drink it for a while now. Tommy keeps nudging the plate of cookies toward Evan. 

“Eddie’s crashing at my—at his—on the couch at the house,” Evan says, and his tone is all wrong. It’s stilted and a little wobbly, and Evan’s eyes stay fixed on his hands. He sighs. “He’s probably wondering where I am.” 

Tommy tries to keep the surprise off his face, but something must get through. 

Evan grimaces. “We had a disagreement the other night. I know he’s trying to make up for it, in his own way, but…I. I just wanted to be somewhere else for a while.”

Tommy’s not sure what to say to that. “Well,” he finally gets out, “like I said, you’re always welcome here.”

Evan nods a little, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere. “Do you—” he starts, and then stops. Tommy cocks an encouraging eyebrow. “Do you think…that is…”

Tommy waits. Evan will decide how he wants to say whatever it is—or decide not to—in his own time. 

Evan looks back down at his hands. “We did everything we could to save Bobby,” he says. It’s a statement, kind of. He looks up at Tommy. “Right?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, and his expression is full of such naked vulnerability that Tommy is tempted to look away. He doesn’t, because Evan Buckley deserves all the courage Tommy can muster, even if he’s never had quite enough. 

Tommy takes a slow breath in, and lets it out, and reminds himself that giving in to the rage igniting in his chest would be neither helpful nor productive. But what the fuck, Eddie?

“Evan,” he says firmly, “of course you did. You all did.”

Evan looks up at that. “We did,”he corrects, and shoots Tommy a tentative little smile. 

“Of course we did,” Tommy agrees, unwilling to quibble about his own minor role when there are much more important things he needs to say. “It was an impossible situation, and everyone did their absolute best.” He starts to reach out for Evan’s hand, and then stops himself, and then Evan reaches out and takes his hand anyway. “Unless there was a secret second vial we didn’t account for—which there wasn’t—there was nothing more anyone could have done.” He pauses and thinks about how he wants to say this. “It was horrible, and tragic, and I know that every single person there would have done absolutely anything to prevent it. Which is how I know no one could have.” He smiles, but it’s small and sad. “If the folks who were there that day couldn’t find a way, then there just wasn’t a way to find,” he finishes. 

Evan slumps a little in his seat. “Yeah, that’s—” he stops and swallows. “That’s what I thought too, but then Eddie said—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. His shoulders are curled in, making him look small. Tommy hates it.

“Hey,” Tommy says, squeezing Evan’s hand, and Evan looks up at him. “I know everyone is hurting”—he was going to be diplomatic about this if it killed him—“but that is some Grade A bullshit.” Evan blinks at him. “That’s a fucked up thing to say, sweetheart, and I’m so sorry someone said it to you.” The endearment just slips out, and he doesn’t overthink it. He kept himself from saying What the fuck is wrong with your best friend? and I don’t think grief is a good enough explanation for that level of cruelty, so he gives himself a little mental high-five for his restraint.  

Evan blinks a little faster and lets go of Tommy’s hand to wipe at his eyes. He laughs a little. “God, I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.”

Tommy’s got a few hunches, but he doesn’t voice any of them. He shrugs. “Grief is a bitch like that.” He smiles at Evan and gestures at the box of Kleenex on the end table. “I buy tissues at Costco, so, you know—cry as much as you need to.” 

Evan laughs again, and relaxes back into the couch. Tears continue to slip down his face, and he periodically wipes them away. They sit there for a while, and the silence is comfortable. Tommy doesn’t take his hand back, and Evan makes no move to let it go.  

After a while, Tommy gets up to take a real shower, and Evan gets up to stir the sauce. He’s asleep on the couch when Tommy comes back, and Tommy pulls the afghan down from the back of the couch and carefully pulls it over him. He checks on the sauce and then settles into the armchair with his book. The house is quiet, and it smells amazing, and something in Tommy’s chest is settled for the first time in weeks. 

Evan wakes up when the kitchen timer goes off. He blinks a few times, and smiles a little when he sees Tommy in the armchair. Tommy smiles back.  

They eat pasta—the meat sauce is fantastic—and then Tommy serves them bowls of ice cream drizzled with caramel sauce. They eat it on the couch while while they watch some nature documentary, and Tommy follows almost none of it because he keeps glancing over at Evan’s profile. He looks soft and relaxed, and that terrible brittleness seems to be gone. He’s still marked by sorrow—he always will be, to some extent—but he doesn’t look empty anymore. 

Eventually the ice cream is gone, and the documentary is over. Evan shifts on the couch and glances at the clock in the kitchen. 

“I should get back,” he says, with visible reluctance, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate. 

“You could stay,” he says. 

“You mean for the night?” Evan asks, tentative again the way he was when Tommy first walked in to find him in his kitchen. 

“Sure,” Tommy says, “that.” He does not sell it, at all, and a slow smile starts to spread on Evan’s face. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and they both know what he’s asking. 

“Of course,” Tommy says, soft and sincere. He straightens a little. “I have a guest room,” he says, and Evan’s smile dims. “Not like that,” he says quickly. “Just—you’ve been through a lot, and if you just need a safe place to be for a while…”

Evan’s nodding as he talks, and he shifts closer to Tommy on the couch, meeting Tommy’s eyes. “I do need that,” he says. “I do need a safe place to be right now. And that’s you, Tommy.”

It sits there for a second because Tommy doesn’t know what to say, and Evan’s smile falters. Tommy reaches out for his hand. 

“Oh,” he says, and it’s soft and a little awed. “I didn’t”—he clears his throat—“I didn’t know that.”

Evan nods gravely. “I’ll do better this time. At making sure you know.”

Tommy grips his hand tighter. “I—me too. I’ll do better.”

Evan smiles at him, sweet and pleased. “We both will. We’ll do it right this time.”

Tommy can’t argue with that. God knows they have a laundry list of stuff to talk about, to figure out, but…

“We will,” he agrees, and for the first time, he lets himself truly believe it. 

[sknyuz]

hi :)) i LOOOOOOVE your writing, you do all the boys so much justice. i was reading the intimacy one and saw you wanted requests for gotak 👀👀

this ideas been festering in my head so walk with me (or don't, that's also fine.)

new student!reader who comes to class and has a small run in with juntae (similar to how he bumped into sieun) and thinks he's adorable so they kinda just naturally becomes really close friends with him. gotak heard news about the new student and also started to hear juntae talk about them so he lowkey tries to swindle juntae into introducing all of them. juntae being the cutie (but also not naive!) he is decided to introduce them and gotak is taken back by how close they are and gets mildly jealous (for what reason 🤔😏).

sorry for the ramble and also that went no where but it's been in my head for sooooo long 😭😭😭

pairing — go hyuntak (gotak) x gn!reader (ft. bff!juntae) genre — fluff, comedy, f2l warnings — mild language, injury (minor sprain), sieun being an instigator, baku being a headass word count — ~2.1k

note: omg this took soooo long to post because of my break !! i finished this actually a week ago lol i just had lots of prior requests to get to so i never got around to posting it. alas, let us all welcome gotak’s debut on my blog !! the people have been waitinggggg and asking for this one !! and finally... !!

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

to put it simply, if you hadn’t turned the corner right at that moment, you don’t know how the rest of this school year would've turned out.

new school, new people, new everything. you had a map in your hand and maybe two brain cells left when someone rounded the hallway a little too fast and bumped straight into you. papers went flying. both of you froze.

“oh no—wait, i’m sorry, that was me,” he said, already crouched down to gather the mess like it was his life that had been scattered across the floor.

you blinked, surprised. he had soft eyes and glasses sliding halfway down his nose and this slightly panicked look like he thought you might cry.

“it’s okay,” you told him. “honestly, you might’ve saved my life. i was about to walk straight into a locked door.”

he smiled, awkward and kind. “my name is juntae. seo juntae. you’re new, right?”

you nodded. and just like that, he offered to walk you to class—it was the easiest decision you’d made all day.

juntae was the type of person who made space for you without ever making you feel like a burden. he brought you snacks during lunch and showed you where to hide out when the hallways got too loud. he also talked a lot about his friends, and one afternoon—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he said, “oh, you should meet sieun. you’d like him.”

you did. he was quiet and careful with his words, but funny in a dry way that caught you off guard. he’d glance at juntae like you really brought them here? but still offered you a spot at the table. he even let you steal a fry. so you counted that as a win.

after that came baku—loud, sunny, fast-talking. he practically tackled you into a high five and said, “juntae’s new bestie? you’re in good hands,” before dragging you into some debate about what counts as a sandwich.

somehow, you ended up kind of... just around. like a ghost that turned real. people knew your name before you introduced yourself. baku waved whenever he saw you. sieun always made room for you on the bench. and juntae, sweet as he was, forgot to formally introduce you to one person.

“yo,” gotak called, wiping sweat from his neck as he tossed the basketball to baku. “who’s that?”

baku looked up from tying his shoelace. “huh?”

“over there,” gotak nodded toward the sidelines, where you were doubled over laughing next to sieun and juntae. “they’ve been hanging around a lot.”

baku blinked, “that’s y/n.” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

gotak simply stared, as baku tilted his head. “you know them. don’t you?”

gotak looked back at you. you were teasing juntae about something, eyes crinkled, whole face lit up. juntae said something back that made you shove his arm, half-laughing, half-gasping.

gotak frowned, “i’ve never met them.”

baku paused. “wait. what? i thought juntae introduced you already—he told everyone else. dude. even sieun knows her.”

gotak narrowed his eyes. “so why didn’t he tell me?”

“damn,” baku grinned. “someone’s feeling left out.” as he threw the ball to his chest, a little too roughly to snap his friend out of it.

“shitty pass,” gotak muttered under his breath, passing the ball back to him.

baku snorted. “you sure you’re mad about the ball and not the fact that your bestie got a new bestie?”

gotak didn’t answer. but later that day, when he caught you waiting for juntae outside the gym, he slowed down.

you waved, and he waved back. maybe a little delayed, a little thoughtful.

maybe a little curious.

he hesitated like he was deciding something, then crossed the space between you with that awkward confidence some people carry when they’re not used to starting conversations but do it anyway.

he scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking down before landing on yours. “hey. uh... y/n,”

you smiled. “hi.”

he nodded, like that helped him keep going. “i’m also juntae’s friend, in the basketball team. with baku.” you tilted your head. “oh yeah—go hyuntak, right?”

he blinked.

you shrugged. “baku mentioned you once. and you were on the court earlier.”

gotak looked a little caught off guard, like he hadn’t expected you to know his name. then his mouth twitched, the smallest upward curve. “...right. that’s me. call me gotak.”

you stood there for a beat, quiet.

“it’s nice to meet you,” you said.

he glanced up, then back down, like he was working through a million thoughts at once. “yeah. you too.”

just then, the gym doors creaked open behind you.

“y/n!” jun-tae called, jogging out with his bag slung over one shoulder. “sorry—got caught up helping the coach—oh, hey gotak!”

gotak stepped back half a pace, nodding. “hey.”

juntae looked between you, confused for half a second. “wait—did i never introduce you guys?”

you and gotak both said, “no.”

juntae blinked. “...oops.”

you laughed. gotak didn’t, but his shoulders relaxed a little as he looked over at you again.

after that, he finally had an excuse.

or maybe it was just that now you were officially introduced—he started showing up more. like how he always just happened to walk by your classroom when it let out. or how he’d offer to carry your stuff from your locker even if it wasn’t heavy. he’d still act casual about it—mumbling something about "heading that way anyway"—but the look in his eyes always lingered a little longer than it used to.

you started showing up to practices more too. usually with a water bottle in hand. eventually, two.

then four.

baku started calling you their "hydration manager" and gotak rolled his eyes every time, but he’d take the bottle from your hands like it meant something, every time you handed him his bottle, your fingers would brush. lightly. deliberately. like a habit you weren’t in a rush to break.

he wasn’t loud about it, but as the days passed, he found himself looking for you more often than he meant to—your voice across the court, your laugh when juntae said something stupid, and the way you stuck around even when no one asked you to.

he didn’t say it out loud, but your presence became something he... liked. something that made the world feel a little softer when you were around.

and sometimes, when you laughed a little too hard at juntae’s jokes, gotak would glance over without meaning to. once, he got so distracted that baku shot the ball clean over his head and it smacked him right in the back.

“yo!” baku shouted, rushing over. “you good?!”

gotak muttered, rubbing the side of his head, “i wasn’t looking.”

“clearly,” baku huffed. “what were you looking at?”

gotak didn’t answer. just glanced back toward the sidelines, where you were sitting, completely unaware.

you weren’t exactly subtle either.

at first, it was just a glance. maybe two. maybe three, if you were feeling brave and he was too focused on the court to notice. there was something about the way he moved—steady, grounded, all quiet strength and furrowed brows. you’d never really watched basketball before, but suddenly it was your favorite part of the afternoon.

whenever he scored, you clapped a little louder. a little quicker. maybe even stood up once, under the excuse of stretching.

juntae caught you once. leaned over and whispered, “you cheer louder for him than for baku.”

you blinked. “no i don’t.”

he grinned. “yes you do.”

you smacked his arm. “shut up.”

but the next time gotak glanced toward the benches after a point, your hands were already mid-clap, eyes already on him.

he met your gaze.

just for a second.

you looked away first.

the more you saw of gotak, the more you saw him. it started with the little things—running into him by the vending machine after class, both of you reaching for the same pack of chips at the same time. you laughed, unsure of who should take it first.

“you can have it,” gotak said, smiling, though you could swear there was a flicker of something in his eyes. something that felt... not exactly like embarrassment, but not entirely casual either.

"no, it’s fine, you take it," you said, holding your hand out. "you reached first."

he paused, just staring for a second, before he gave a small shrug and grabbed it. “you sure?”

“yeah.”

you both took your snacks and stepped aside, awkwardly aware of how close you’d been. as you tried to avoid eye contact, you were almost certain your heart was racing. had he been looking at you like that... or was it just your imagination?

the awkward encounters started happening more often, though. a lot more often.

you’d bump into him in the hallway. near the library. at the school gates. suddenly, you felt like you were always in his orbit—and not just you. everyone noticed.

“you two are weirdly always in the same place at the same time,” juntae pointed out one day while you were grabbing lunch. “it’s like you’re following him around.”

you choked on your drink. “what? no. no, i’m not. i—he just happens to be there. i’m—just minding my business.”

juntae fixes his glasses, shrugging it off with a playful grin, though you could tell he wasn’t completely convinced. “alright, y/n. totally.”

and of course, baku caught on too. one day, while you were standing at the sidelines during practice, watching gotak and baku scrimmage, he glanced over at you, then at gotak, then back at you. then gotak. then you. he raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious.

“hey,” baku said casually, tossing the ball to gotak. “you two are like, besties now, huh?”

gotak froze, looking at him, and then glancing over at gotak to avoid meeting baku’s gaze. “what? no. we’re not—”

“uh-huh,” baku grinned, spinning the ball on his finger. “sure, and i’m top of the class.”

during practice one afternoon, it happened.

gotak went up for a dunk, but his foot slipped awkwardly when he landed, and he crumpled to the ground with a loud thud. your heart dropped as you watched him clutch his ankle, wincing in pain.

“gotak!” you shouted, rushing to his side.

he grimaced, leaning against the floor, clearly in pain.

“dude, what happened?” baku called out, rushing over too. “you good?”

“i’m fine,” gotak muttered, trying to push himself up, but his face twisted in discomfort. “just sprained it, probably.”

sieun was quick to appear by your side, his usually calm demeanor shifting slightly as he assessed the situation. without missing a beat, he turned to you, a rare glint of something in his eyes. “maybe y/n can take him to the infirmary? we still have to clean up here.”

you blinked, unsure how to respond. “huh?”

sieun shot a pointed look toward baku, who was still oblivious to what was going on. his lips curved in the smallest, lopsided smirk. “baku doesn’t need your help right now,” he said, almost too casually, before giving a side glance at you.

you noticed baku didn’t catch the hint, just furrowing his brows at the situation. “wait, what? you seriously want y/n to drag him to the infirmary? you do realize that guy’s gonna crush ‘em under his weight, right? y’know gotak’s been having too much chicken—”

sieun’s eyes flickered with something that might’ve been amusement, though his expression stayed neutral. “go on,” sieun said, motioning to gotak, tone soft but firm. “help him out.”

you looked down at gotak, who was still struggling to stand, and it dawned on you that he was huge—much bigger than you. and the thought of dragging him all the way to the infirmary alone? absurd. awkward.

but you couldn’t exactly say no, not when everyone was watching and not when he was looking at you like he needed your help.

“you okay to walk?” you asked, kneeling down next to him.

“i think i’ll survive,” he grumbled, clearly embarrassed by the situation.

you offered him your hand. “come on, let’s get you there.”

he took your hand, and you tried not to notice how big his hand felt wrapped around yours. you both started walking, and although you tried to make it seem like a casual walk, every step felt like you were carrying the weight of his entire body.

sieun watched you both for a second, his gaze unreadable. the smallest of smirks tugged at the corners of his mouth.

the walk to the infirmary wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, though you were still struggling to act normal when you finally helped gotak sit down on the clinic bed. his ankle was already wrapped up, but he kept fiddling with his fingers, looking down at his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

you sat across from him, the silence stretching for a moment as you both just sat there, waiting.

“uh, thanks for this, y/n,” gotak mumbled, his voice quiet in a way that was almost unlike him. he kept glancing at you, then back at his hands.

you tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “no problem, seriously. i told you, i’m happy to help. anything for you,” you said, maybe a little more casually than you intended, your heart racing just a little.

he met your gaze then, eyes wide and slightly soft, a subtle smile playing at his lips. “anything?” he asked, teasing, but there was a hint of something more in his tone.

“well, yeah,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “you’re my friend. i’ve got your back.”

there was a beat of silence as you both just looked at each other. gotak’s gaze lingered on you, his fingers still fidgeting, though a little more nervously now.

“you’re…you’re a really good person, y/n,” he said softly, his eyes lowering to his hands again, as if he was unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks warm at the sincerity in his voice. “thanks, gotak. that means a lot coming from you.”

the moment stretched longer than it probably should have, but neither of you seemed to want to break it.

finally, he cleared his throat, looking up at you with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “so, uh…if you’re willing to do anything for me…”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah?”

he shifted a little, suddenly a little more serious, though his usual playful grin still tugged at the corners of his lips. “you think you could—i don’t know—not make me fall for you?”

your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you swore you didn’t breathe. his words hung in the air, the playful edge still there, but there was something different about the way he said it. something that made your heart flutter in that puppy-love way that only people in the early stages of affection could understand.

“w-what?” you stammered, unable to hide the rush of warmth that spread across your cheeks. “you’re—you’re falling for me?”

he raised both eyebrows now, the teasing gone from his voice, replaced with something more earnest. “maybe,” he said with a small, sheepish grin, his gaze never leaving you. “maybe it’s too late for that. i think i’m already halfway there.”

you blinked at him, unsure how to respond, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. the air between you was suddenly thick with something you didn’t quite know how to define.

you broke the silence with a nervous laugh, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “well, i guess it’s not so bad to meet you in the middle if you’re already halfway there.”

gotak chuckled, his lips curving into that genuine smile you’d come to look forward to. “yeah, i guess it’s not, huh?”

if u liked this, a reblog would be greatly appreciated to help my work reach other people as well >><< !! thank u thank u

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 @triciawritesstuff @prettywhenicry4 @dripoftheseus @rosieparkk @gacktsa @sopitadearvejas @satorustorm @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @mirwors @sqacewalkr @l5byrinth @vovoloyo @keumbaku @sarcastic-cookie @v3n0m35 @vitaminbtob @armani78 @bbangbies @snowflakemoon3 @kibtsuji @yuuuumii @slovesyouuu @f1-lh44 @hajunz (ask to be tagged or removed)

[ladykailitha]

Shut Up and Drive Part 1

Hello and welcome to the little fic that been stewing in my mind off and on since I joined this fandom and have finally starting writing it.

This story was born out of the rogue thought of 'how did Eddie know Steve could drive the RV fast enough to get them the hell out of Dodge?' and the idea that bored rich kids in a small rural town absolutely would go out street racing on the weekends and you have this.

It's technically canon adjacent as you'll see as we lead up to the RV scene, still drifts (I'm punny ;) ) into AU territory later on.

Summary: Eddie does what he needs to to keep the lights on and that means dealing to stupid rich kids with more money than sense. He prefers parties because it's indoors and he's able to slip out the back. But from March until October is when he makes his best money. Because that's when bored, little rich kids race each other for money. And at the end of the season, pink slips. Eddie hates all the leaders of each of the three fractions, Cruise and her Pink Ladies, Titan and his Drift Dynasty, but the one that really grinds his gears is stupid pretty boy King and his even stupider named Asphalt Assassins.

Or in which Carol, Tommy, and Steve all head a street racer crew without the others knowing and no one knowing Steve=King. They're stupid kids, all right?

~

When you live in the middle Bumfuck Nowhere you have very limited options on what to do for fun on the weekends. There’s a movie at the Hawk, the arcade, or if you’re lucky some rich kid will throw a party and invite you.

Or if you’re among the sacred few, you go out street racing. A couple Saturdays a month during the warm months of the year, a group of kids with more money than sense will pick one of the many backroads and race.

Usually they play for money, make bets, that sort of thing. But the weekend before Halloween, they race for pink slips. For the car themselves.

Eddie is always kept in the know because he provides a service these rich kids need. Drugs. Weed is common as is Speed for obvious reasons. Someone else provides the booze, thank god, but Eddie does really well on these nights. He always comes home with enough to keep the lights on and get real food for a week.

He was at the first drag meet of year and after three years of this, he still didn’t know the real name of the “The King”. The best racer and MC. He was a vision in cropped tops and cut off jeans barely long enough to cover his ass. He wore a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, even at night.

The dude never raced the same car twice; having won so many his first year, they were forced to only have the finale race for pink slips.

He was also the biggest pain in the ass, according to Eddie. He never smoked weed, did any of the harder drugs, nor let anything other than water pass his lips. He had the biggest and deepest pockets but he never bought anything from Eddie. And that stinginess rubbed him the wrong way.

This was going to be the year he made the King fall from his Ivory tower to partake of his goods.

He pulled up to the spot behind the Hess Farm. There was talk that the old man was thinking of selling, so the Dragsters with their three factions, The Asphalt Assassins, The Pink Ladies, and The Drift Dynasty had decided to use it one last time before it was sold to someone with actual fucking hearing.

The King was already there with the rest of the Asphalt Assassins. They had all taken on their King’s disguise of cut off shorts, crop tops, sunglasses and baseball caps. Though their shorts weren’t nearly as short as their leader’s. The King was the only one who wore white, the rest wore black.

Suddenly there was a roar behind him and turned to see the second best team, The Pink Ladies, complete with their pink jackets, high heels, and bandannas over their faces. Their leader Cruise wore a pink tribly with a black band. She looked like Sandy at the end of “Grease” only all in pink.

Then the final faction roared up to the field. The Drift Dynasty. All the members were kids of racers who had raced back in the 50s. Even the two girls. These racers wore red hoodies and black sunglasses. For fuck’s sake they even had their handles printed on the back of the hoodies like sports jerseys. Their leader, Titan was a hard-nosed asshole and Eddie just might hate him more then the King.

Eddie took a brief moment to scan the horizon for cops and then he hopped out of the van. He walked past the other two racing teams as if they didn’t exist. Because as far as he was concerned they would hit him up at any time during the night and he would make bank off of them. No his attention was solely on King.

“Your majesty,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I’ve come to peddle my wares.”

King snorted. He was currently leaning against metallic purple Dodge Charger, cooler than the frigid night air. Not that he looked like he felt it. He was in his signature Daisy Duke’s and crop top. Sure he had leather jacket on, but it was draped so that it was falling off his shoulders. It looked artful and God did it make Eddie’s blood boil.

“Just announcing my arrival,” he said, wagging his eyebrows. He opened the lunch box and presented it to King. “Anything that tantalizes your majesty?”

King shook his head. “Nothing you have will ever pass these lips, so you best take your ‘wares’ elsewhere, man.”

“I’ll find something that will,” Eddie murmured with a knowing smirk. “Just wait.”

“Keep dreamin’, you dork,” King said, shaking his head fondly. “Go on, your real customers are waiting.”

Eddie straightened up and turned to the crowd. “I’ll be at my van and you know the prices. Anything you want. Until I run out.” He lopped back to his van to watch the races.

The first race was always the most exciting. It was a three-way race between the leaders. The King didn’t always win, but Titan always lost. Rumor had that Titan was the son of the best racer in the game twenty years ago and was always throwing money at the best upgrades money could buy.

Not that it did Titan any good.

He had no instinct on when to use the tools available to him. He boost too early and burn out before the finish line or he would drift when he should slide. Shit like that. Unlike the King. Whose instinct was called a second sense. But Cruise was the one who could keep up with him. She had style and something to prove.

She had gone up to Titan asking for a chance to drive but he laughed in her face. He sure as hell wasn’t laughing every time she passed him.

Cruise leaned against her bright pink Camero, waiting for the men to decide to join her. Titan stepped out of his suped up black and grey Mustang and Eddie shook his head. The oversized hoodie looked ridiculous on the dude’s short frame.

The King strolled over to join them and the hunger in Titan and Cruise’s glances could not be covered by their sunglasses.

“You bet get in your ride, King,” Titan sneered. “Don’t want you freezing off those assets, now do we?”

“Like you could get my engine running, Titan,” King bitched back. “Pick a lane and stick to it, asshole.” He shook Cruise’s hand. “I look forward to racing you this year.”

“It’s always a pleasure, King,” Cruise purred. “Maybe this is the year I get you to step into my ride.”

King looked up and down and Eddie wanted to gag. Hetros are the worst.

“Maybe it will be,” King said with a smirk and then pulled her close to her ear and whispered something, Eddie couldn’t hear.

But when Cruise stepped back, her whole posture was awkward and embarrassed. Which really made him wonder what King told her.

King smirked and stepped back, too. He looked over at Titan. “You actually going to put your money where you mouth is this season or are you going to go crying back to Daddy, like you and the rest of the Dynasty do every year.”

Titan bristled and would have launched himself at King if a couple of his cronies hadn’t held him back.

King crossed his arms in front of his chest, popping one hip. “You want to bring it, Titan? Show me in your car, not your fists.”

Titan brushed his cronies off and straightened his clothes. “One day, King, you’ll lose your crown just like that loser Steve Harrington.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say as King grabbed Titan’s shirt and hauled him until their faces were close together. Eddie wasn’t even sure he saw King grab the other guy it was that fast.

“You can’t even insult me without bringing someone else into your shit,” King snarled. “Put up or shut up.” Then he pushed Titan away from him and turned on his heel, striding away from the crowd and to the car he would be racing.

Eddie licked his lips. He wasn’t a car guy, sure he knew his way around an engine but he couldn’t tell you the difference between a Mustang and a Camero. But the car King got into was a sleek black thing that light seemed to bend around. Fuck, Eddie wouldn’t mind taking that baby out for a little spin. It certainly got his engine running.

King rolled up to the starting line, Titan and Cruise pulling along side him. One of the Pink Ladies held a white handkerchief in the air as the rest of the Dragsters made bets on who would win the opening race.

The engines revved as the crowd cheered. The flag went down and they were off the line, muscling for rank.

There was a clear winner, as King edged out ahead and stayed there as Cruise and Titan fought hard for second place.

And in a move that had Eddie cackling so hard he fell out of his van, was Titan coming in second. Cruise got out of her car and cursing threw her hat on the ground, fists clenched in rage.

Whatever King had said to her before the race had gotten into her head and caused her to lose the race. It was glorious to watch. King liked to pull that shit. He’d whisper something in his opponent’s ear and he would get into their head. King always won those races.

The night continued as normal, Eddie doling out the drugs and charging two to three times his normal rates to really rake it in. When someone would complain, Eddie would call it the party tax. It wasn’t his fault they were too stupid to buy during the week, they got what they got and if they kept complaining he would stop selling at these little races and woo-boy wouldn’t that upset the masses.

They would pay the cost and then make sure to pre-buy during the week. Only if they were assholes and skinflints. There weren’t many, but there were a few. Titan was one of these. Eddie had figured out the names of the pre-buyers and their little personas so he could make sure and change them even more when they came crawling to him to get another hit when they blew through the stash they had.

But for Titan, or Tommy Hagan? He would quadruple his prices to at least put a dent in the money Daddy gave him for suping up his car. Because even though Titan never won against King, against almost anyone else, that decked out Mustang of his was not street legal in any sense of the phrase.

Finally he sold his last baggie of weed and forced to close up shop. He checked the crowd and counted numbers, satisfied that everyone was boozing and drugging it up, he stowed the cash in his hiding spot in his steering column and then grabbed a beer.

Eddie raised it to signal that he had closed shop and after this beer he was going home. It was a safety measure to make sure he didn’t get jumped for the cash. If everyone saw him leave then there would be no one to jump him.

He felt a prickling on the back of his neck like someone was watching him. He turned around, but the only person behind him was King sprawled out on the hood of his car and it was hard to tell where his eyes were with those ridiculous shades.

King must have caught him staring because he suddenly smirked and jumped to his feet. Eddie gulped as King made his way over.

“You enjoying the show, Munson?” King asked, licking the top row of his teeth slowly.

“Not much of sports fan of any stripe, Your Majesty,” Eddie said with a dramatic bow, “racing included. I’m here to make money and nothing else. I prefer parties because at least I don’t freeze my ass off, even if the music is better.”

King raised his eyebrow. “It’s too late for your ass, dude. It’s a lost cause.”

“Well not all of us are born your assets,” Eddie said with dimpled smile. “I would rather not lose the rest of mine.”

King burst out laughing. “You’re something else.” He shook his head and walked over to one of the Pink Ladies to flirt with her.

Eddie shook his head and drank his beer, suddenly in a hurry to leave. Because there was no way King was flirting with him, right?

Because there was no world in which any of these rich toffs where interested in him for anything that what he sold them.

Okay, so King never bought from him and as far as he knew, whoever the guy was during the week, didn’t either. So it was possible that whoever he was might be interested in a handjob or a blowjob in the back of his van.

King’s laugh, pulled him out of his thoughts and Eddie looked over. King was leading the girl back to his car. He shook his head. There was no way King was interested in that with him either.

Eddie got into his van and drove off, grateful that the races weren’t every weekend so he wouldn’t have to deal with King more than he had to.

But the fact that King had caught him looking and instead of beating the shit out of him for it, it really felt like he had been flirted with.

Which even if he was interested, there was no way that a have would mix with a have-not. It just didn’t happen outside of movies and books.

But that smirk followed Eddie all the way home.

~

Tag List: TEN SLOTS OPEN

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[monbons]

Stitchy Sunday Musings

Thanks for the tag @thewholelemon. I also don't really have an update, but I did have a bit of a reflection I wanted to share today that I hope will speak to some of you---and selfishly---also keep me motivated on the days that are hard. So, with that, story time...

Exactly a year ago, I started my doll-stitching journey and the very first set of dolls I ever gifted were mermaids. I was inspired by @iamamythologicalcreature's gorgeous mer-May art.

This first set was entirely hand stitched because I did not have a sewing machine, nor did I think making dolls would become something I actively pursued in any real way. It was just something I did for fun---a way to channel my creative energy when the words wouldn't come while also paying tribute to some of my favorite fics and their authors.

Fast-forward to my newest dolls and the growth is almost unbelievable. You can see aspects of my final style in my very first dolls, but everything about this last set has evolved. This particular set represents just over 24 hours of work (a significant chunk of them on that tail that boasts 600+ hand-sewn sequins). I also experimented with new hair textures and colors, and apparently, I embroider eyebrows now. (As if making the eyes symmetrical wasn't hard enough!)

It may sound like I am boasting. I swear I am not. Instead, I wanted to post this because this is just one year of committing to a thing and working really fucking hard at it. It is also the kind of visible "success" that is so hard to get elsewhere.

When I first started contributing to fandom, it was as a writer. If your primary contribution to fandom is writing, it can be really hard to do a side-by-side comparison like this. As a result, we often rely on measures of growth or success that can be compared: kudos, reblogs, and comments obviously, but also word counts, fics published per year, etc. Honestly? None of those are reliable (and dare I say worthy?) measures of how beautiful a piece of work is, let alone a journey of growth and joy. It isn't to say they don't have their place, but "the numbers" aren't everything...and they can often feel disheartening.

Anyway, I've been feeling really down on myself recently for a whole host of reasons, but a huge contributor is that I've been having so much trouble with writing. For weeks, "the numbers" have haunted me. Not just the public numbers (I've wanted to scream into a pillow about kudos and likes more than once this year), but the private ones (I'm "behind" on words from this same point last year).

And then I took this humble doll offering to a book signing this past week and the author cried tears of joy, which made me cry. Several people in the signing line gasped when they held up my little merman and his love. Several others came up and talked to me about my art and wanted to know more. For the first time in months, I felt really proud of something I had made, and I guess this post is about holding on to that feeling. When I made these dolls, I wasn't trying to meet some external metric or creating for audience consumption. I wasn't even sure I would post my dolls anywhere since this isn't SnowBaz. I was simply making for the joy of it, and that night, which cannot be quantified in likes or comments or numbers of any kind, filled me up in a way I desperately needed.

Anyway, if you are still with me after this long ramble, thank you. Like I said, it was mostly for me. I wanted to remember that the beauty of my work actually can't be measured, no matter how much I try to do so. That I may not always be lucky enough to see the impact on others like I did with these dolls, but that doesn't make the effort any less valuable. And most of all, that none of that is the point. I wanted to make these dolls, I enjoyed making these dolls, and I am getting better at it because making dolls makes me happy. I needed to remember that. And if that was the case for me, I figured someone else might need to remember it too.

It feels weird to tag people in this, but hellos and high-fives from the philosophical doll factory anyway. May your creative endeavors bring you joy today and every day.

@alexalexinii, @argumentativeantitheticalg, @aristocratic-otter, @arthurkko, @artsyunderstudy, @bachusekart, @best--dress, @blackberrysummerblog, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @bookish-bogwitch, @confused-bi-queer, @cutestkilla, @drowninginships, @emeryhall, @facewithoutheart, @harrie-leithillustration, @hushed-chorus, @iamamythologicalcreature, @ic3que3n, @ileadacharmedlife, @katatsumuli, @larkral, @letraspal, @mooncello, @noblecorgi, @orange-peony, @prettygoododds, @raenestee, @rbkzz, @roomwithanopenfire, @run-for-chamo-miles, @rimeswithpurple, @shrekgogurt, @skeedelvee, @stitchyqueer, @supercutedinosaurs, @talentpiper11, @the-beard-of-edward-teach, @twinkle-twinkle-up-above, @theimpossibledemon, @thewholelemon, @wellbelesbian, @whatevertheweather, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold, @jyae23, @j-trow-95

[writeriguess]

Umm wow?? So you’re just gonna come out and say you’re ‘tired’ of writing for Katsuki?? Are you serious right now?? Do you even realize how RUDE that sounds to the people who literally followed you BECAUSE of your Katsuki x Reader fics??? Like... no offense but if you’re that tired maybe you shouldn’t have made them so good in the first place 🙄

It’s actually so selfish?? Like we literally hype you up, reblog your stuff, leave comments, ASK for Katsuki and now you’re acting like it’s a burden?? You’re acting like we’re annoying for wanting more?? Girl you’re the one who made him perfect, you’re the reason we’re obsessed and now you’re blaming us for it??? That’s messed up.

You’re acting like you owe us nothing when without us your fics would get like 2 likes. You wouldn’t even be relevant. It’s honestly really disappointing to see you switch up like this. You got popular off Katsuki and now you’re throwing a tantrum and acting like a victim because people want you to keep going?? That’s so fake.

Sorry but if you're tired of Katsuki then maybe we’re tired of YOU.

I really wasn’t going to say anything. I’ve been quietly blocking messages like this for the past two weeks — literally dozens of them, varying in length but all with the same tone: entitled, angry, and genuinely mean. I told myself it would die down if I just let it pass. I didn’t want to engage, I didn’t want to draw attention to it, and I definitely didn’t want to make drama out of something that might just be a handful of people taking things too far.

But then I got this one — and it’s not even the worst, but it’s the perfect example of what I’ve been dealing with behind the scenes. So I’m going to use it to make something clear:

I said I was tired. That’s it. I said I was tired of writing only Katsuki x Reader content because at the time, he made up three-quarters of my inbox. I wanted variety. I wanted to explore other characters I love and stories that haven’t been told a hundred times. I didn’t say I hated him, I didn’t say I was never going to write for him again — I said I wanted balance. I asked for space.

And the answer from parts of this fandom was to send me things like this.

You know what that feels like? It feels like I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a content machine — a vending machine for comfort fic, and if I don’t produce exactly what certain people want, I get spit on. I’m told I’m selfish, rude, irrelevant, ungrateful — for daring to say I’m tired. Not bad at writing. Not done forever. Just tired.

I know this isn’t everyone. I know I have amazing readers who leave kind comments, who enjoy everything I write, Katsuki or not. But the thing is — when this kind of thing floods your inbox every time you log in, it drowns everything else out. It wears you down. It makes you scared to post, scared to speak, scared to say the wrong thing because someone might twist it into a personal betrayal.

One of my close friends warned me before I even started this blog: “MHA is one of the most toxic fandoms out there. Be careful.” I didn’t listen. I loved the characters. I loved the community I thought I saw. But if I had known it would be like this — if I had known that asking for breathing room would be met with hate — I wouldn’t have started writing for this fandom at all. And right now, I don’t know if I want to keep going.

If you’ve ever treated a writer, artist, or creator like this — please know you’re not just giving “honest feedback.” You’re pushing real people to burn out. And when they finally step away, you’re the reason why.

I need to take a step back and decide where I go from here. If I keep writing Katsuki, it’s going to be because I want to, not because people yell at me until I break. If that’s not good enough for you, go find another blog to harass. This isn’t the place.

To those of you who have been kind, patient, and supportive — thank you. You have no idea how much that means right now.

[katyaromanoffpetrova]

Trojan Horse (crime boss AU: part II)

Natasha gets sent on her most dangerous mission yet: go undercover in the drug operation of the biggest crime empress in the world and take her down. But as they grow closer, she starts to forget about the mission more and more...

• Natasha Romanoff x Fem!OC (Katya Petrova) second pov on Ao3 • Wordcount: 3k • Warnings: mentions of crimes, drugs and sex •A/N: if you didn't get it already, this will be a slowburn :) Also, I added this fic to Ao3 written in the second pov. So if you'd rather read 'you' than Katya, click here Masterlist Do not repost my work as your own or translate my work!!

Life at Katya's estate was much calmer than Natasha expected it to be. A serenity enveloped the beautiful property day and night. Birds chirped in the early morning dew, and the evening sun cast an orange glow over the white buildings in the late afternoon. Without the criminal activities, this could have been a holiday destination, hidden away in the gorgeous forest.

Natasha had started to settle into a routine. For the past two weeks, she and the other women who chose to stay—nine in total—had been in training. Getting stronger, handling and firing weapons, learning the ins and outs of the business, and what would be expected of them as one of Katya's Ghosts—the name fondly given to her employees. 

Most days were the same. Natasha would wake up in her single room in one of the outbuildings, eat breakfast in the adjacent dining room slash kitchen, spend a whole day training, have dinner from the live-in cook, and then spend her free evening reading or writing before going to bed. 

There wasn't much she could do yet. In this stage of the mission, it was mostly important to lay low and gain trust. Go with the flow, do nothing that could raise suspicions. So she followed orders, kept her head down, and trained eagerly.

Only when less eyes were watching her around the clock, could she start to reach out. Build relationships, work her way into places that were restricted to her now. She knew that the best place to find the information she was after was the house. And Katya. Getting closer to her was the main objective. 

So far, Natasha hadn't really had the chance to learn a lot about her. Katya only showed herself occasionally. She liked to go on a stroll around the property after dinner, sauntering around alone, chatting up the people she ran into. Sometimes, she stopped by training to see how her new employees were doing. 

Natasha learned that she was very much a hands-on kind of boss. Katya knew all her employees' names, chatted with them like they were her friends, and cared well for them. The bedrooms were clean, the beds comfortable, the food rich. She shared her wealth, because they were the reason she was still alive.

In many ways, it felt like one big family. There was no hostility among the girls. They laughed and joked like sisters, bonded by trauma and fierce loyalty to the one who saved them from it. Because all of them came from human trafficking transports just like the one Natasha was on. 

Some spoke to each other in their native language, but usually, Natasha caught pieces of broken English and thick accents. 

Somehow, it was beautiful. Their pasts didn't matter here. The color of their skin, the culture and traditions they came from… And not a single man in sight. 

Katya had built the strongest army possible. These women would not hesitate to give their own lives for hers. Because she was the reason they still had one.

The sun burned down brightly on the shooting range. Natasha was grateful for the sail canopy above her head, because her pale, freckled skin wasn't made for this weather. Gunshots popped off around her, the "teacher"—which was actually just one of Katya's oldest, most talented employees—pacing behind the row of rookies to give them instructions.

Natasha barely focused on her shooting. She could shoot a moving target in her sleep, let alone a cardboard one that was barely twenty feet away from her. Child's play. 

Instead, she kept a watchful eye on her surroundings. The shooting range was on the far edge of the property, but it didn't mean there was nothing to see. She tried to identify walking patterns of the guards, a building they were particularly protective of, secret passageways... 

It's how she spotted Katya first.

The woman was dressed in a new outfit. Natasha had never seen her wear the same thing twice. This time, she'd traded the darker colors for something more neutral. Sand colored linen pants and a slouchy white tee. Katya made everything look classy.

Natasha's heart skipped an anxious beat as the brunette came closer, her brown loafers crunching the gravel. It was time to be on her A-game. No slouching. 

She straightened her back, and so did the other women down the line, the gunshots halting without anyone telling them to stop.

"Keep going." Katya smiled. An easy smile that meant to settle their nerves. "Pretend I'm not here."

That was easier said than done. Natasha was hyper aware of her presence as she started to walk behind the line of shooters, studying them silently as the shooting resumed, stopping occasionally before walking off with a quiet sound of approval. 

After pacing the line twice, Katya stopped behind her. Natasha stiffened. Katya's steady presence burned against her back as she fired another bullet, pretending not to notice the woman's sharp eye watching over her shoulder and sliding down her body. 

She expected Katya to study her for a moment before moving on, like she'd done with the others, but even after Natasha emptied her magazine and clicked a new one into place, the brunette didn't budge.

With every passing heartbeat, she expected Katya to see right through her act. Not that she doubted her own undercover acting skills, but Katya's entire life and empire depended on her ability to sniff out lies and deception. If even the smallest thing was off, sirens and alarm bells would go off in her head.

Natasha could not underestimate her. And never assume she was safe.

When she fired the last bullet in her magazine and reached for a new one, Katya's hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Leave the gun, walk with me."

Natasha's stomach twisted fearfully, but she nodded as calmly as she could. 

She clicked the safety on and handed the gun back to the teacher, taking one last look at her cardboard target. All the holes were situated around the center. She could hit the red dot in the middle every time if she wanted to. It was actually harder to miss it.

The gunshots faded away as they left the shooting range behind, Katya's steps in stride with Natasha's. They took a turn down an unfamiliar path, hugging the treeline at the back of the property. It was secluded, a perfect place to tell an undercover spy that you knew who she was. Natasha fought to keep her nerves in place.

Katya was unreadable. She stared ahead as she walked, calmly and confidently. Natasha caught whiffs of her perfume. Drifting up her nose and swirling in her chest. Sunscreen, and something very rich—amber. Slightly spicy and musky but not overpowering. Strong. Sensual.

Being next to her was confusing. Natasha expected to feel small, but Katya had a natural gift of making people feel comfortable around her if she wanted to. Instead of hunching forward, Natasha's shoulders pulled back, and she had to actively remind herself not to get lured into the honey trap. Katya was not going to succeed in soothing her into a slip-up.

"You're good with a gun," she spoke eventually, side-eyeing Natasha's expression for a reaction.

Natasha nodded respectfully. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Katya is fine." She smiled. It was a reserved smile. This was her moment of evaluating her rookie, if she could trust Natasha or not. "You've shot a gun before."

Again, Natasha nodded. "I used to hunt with my father." She'd studied the background story of her undercover character Nadia so deeply, that she could make herself believe the lies she told. 

"So you're used to taking lives," Katya concluded, pleased. "Deer?"

"And foxes. Rabbits."

"And men." 

Natasha didn't miss a beat. She looked away, feigning shame to keep up her act. She was Nadia right now. Not Natasha.

Katya smiled, shaking her long hair over her shoulder. Now that she was closer, Natasha concluded that it was, in fact, dark brown. So dark it looked black. 

"I read your file, Nadia. You intrigue me. Revenged the murder of your sister by killing the man who did it. Not many have the guts to do that."

Respect laced through her words, and Natasha cautiously looked back at her. 

It was to be expected that Katya got her hands on "official" background information, received through channels that shouldn't be accessible to her. The tech guys at SHIELD did an amazing job at making Nadia look legit. They chose every detail of her life carefully, trying to appeal to the kind of person Katya was without making it too obvious. 

"He didn't deserve to walk around free after he took her from me," Natasha answered softly, mixing her grief with anger. Katya's eyes lit up curiously.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Natasha hesitated, pretending to think about it. Her type of answer was really important here. It had to keep Katya intrigued. "For a second," she admitted shamefully, avoiding the brunette's bright blue eyes. "Then I realized that his death didn't make the pain any less."

Katya nodded to herself, as if agreeing. "Anger is so powerful. It hides the true emotions that you feel once it's gone." 

For a moment, Natasha thought she saw something flicker in her eyes. Something raw. A memory? But it was gone as soon as it came, replaced with that piercing look that reminded her that she was talking to one of the most dangerous crime bosses in the world.

"Would you do it again? Kill for someone you care about?"

Natasha didn't miss the real question: 'would you kill for me?' 

"Yes."

"Why?"

"There's no better way to show someone you love them." Her character Nadia was a bit twisted, not as pure of soul, wounded by her trauma. But not crazy, and Katya saw that too.

Her expression softened, and something twinged within Natasha's chest. "I think you and I are alike. If we care, we care deeply, and we will stop at nothing to protect and avenge the people we care about." 

The words crashed into Natasha like a reality check. She was playing mind games with a real person, and she was slowly starting to realize that Katya was in no way the cruel, evil woman the world made her out to be. 

Sure, she tortured her enemies, but there was a huge heart in her chest that cared immensely for the few people she did trust. Not only were they loyal to her, she was loyal to them, willing to run through fire. It was admirable.

"Since you are part of us now, we will do the same for you."

Natasha didn't know what to answer, so she just gave her a brief, careful smile. It felt nice, to be wanted. Even though Katya welcomed Nadia, not Natasha.

"Why did you choose to stay?" Katya continued, but it sounded more like genuine curiosity than suspicion now.

"The people of the man I killed are after me, so I can't go home. And I have nowhere else to go." Natasha bit her lip, glancing down at her shoes. More desperation, more ass-kissing. She needed Katya to believe that she saved her. "I guess I just wanted a place where I belong. Where I'm safe."

Katya stopped, and so did Natasha, watching her curiously as a soft smile spread across her lips. "You are. You never have to be afraid again." Katya's hand landed on her arm, squeezing her bicep comfortingly. Warmth bloomed and spread through Natasha's body, starting at the spot where their skin met.

For a second, she was lost, staring into Katya's blue eyes in a trance. This wasn't the sweet honey trap from before, meant to catch out liars. This was genuine care. 

She'd underestimated Katya's character. Knew she had a soft heart for the women she rescued, but didn't realize her care ran this deep. It affected Natasha more than she realized.

She wanted to ask more, but undercover work came with patience, and knowing when to take the victory and walk away. This conversation went so well, she didn't want to risk ruining whatever little trust she'd managed to build with Katya.

Her hand still lay on her arm. They were near the sleeping quarters now. Natasha could almost see her room from here.

"I never said thank you, for rescuing me."

"You don't have to." Katya's hand slipped down her arm, her fingers grazing the inside of her elbow. Natasha's skin tingled. "I'm happy you found a home here. You seem to fit right in."

Standing so close, the sun illuminating Katya's pale skin, Natasha suddenly noticed there were faint, little scars all over her face. Shrapnel? Glass splinters? They were just a tad lighter than the rest of her skin.

"How can I ever repay you?"

"By working hard. And keeping your word." She looked at Natasha pointedly, and the redhead understood what she meant. 

She would kill to protect Katya. Not only to keep her cover alive, but the government couldn't prosecute a dead woman. 

"Katya!" 

They both turned to look at a woman a short distance away, a worried expression on her face as she held up a phone. Something was wrong.

Reality crashed over their bubble like a bucket of ice. Katya straightened up, the softness disappearing from her stance in favor of the businesswoman with an empire to run. Natasha tensed up herself, only realizing how close they were until she took a step back.

Katya looked at her one last time, ready to walk away. "I'm keeping my eye on you." Then she was off, leaving Natasha to celebrate on her own. 

Her boss's words weren't a threat. They were letting her know that her hard work and potential was seen and appreciated, and that she could hope for good things—promotions—in the future if she kept it up.

The things she was doing, the angles she played, were good. She was going down the right path. Hopefully soon, she was allowed into Katya's inner circle and know what crises were going on. 

With a sigh, she returned to her training.

Natasha sat on top of one of the many decorative stone walls of the estate, pretending to read as she watched the back of the main house from the corner of her eye.

Evening had come, the last streaks of orange lacing the dark blue sky. It was getting harder to see the words on the pages of her book, but she wasn't here to read anyway. 

Katya had not shown herself since the crisis earlier on. In fact, she'd called more of her employees into the house and only started letting them go about half an hour ago, when the first ones started to come out the front door. 

They didn't speak a word. Not to each other, and not to the girls who weren't invited to Katya's meeting. Natasha wouldn't get anything out of them. 

So, she relocated to the back of the house, where the pool glistened in the twilight, in the hopes that Katya would come out to make a phone call or speak in private with someone. So far, nothing. 

She told herself she'd sit here until reading became impossible. It would become suspicious if she stayed longer than that. The guards walking their regular rounds around the compound were already eyeing her weirdly.

Movement in the corner of her eye made her head snap up. There, in one of the windows on the top floor—or rather, a door leading out to a balcony—a light flicked on. She saw a part of the ceiling, white, and the edges of a beige curtain. It could be any room, but something told her it was a bedroom.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, something crashed into the glass.

Or rather—someone. 

Natasha's eyes widened. A woman, half bare, only her bra and a pair of jeans on, was pressed with her back against the glass. 

Natasha knew that dragon tattoo on her back, that impossibly long dark hair that reached her butt. She was one of Katya's Ghosts, seen circling around in her proximity quite often. Ana, Natasha believed her name was.

Firm hands held her in place against the door, another body morphing against hers. 

Katya.

Entranced, Natasha watched the scene unfold. Katya didn't seem to care that the curtains were open. Her lips sucked at Ana's neck, her hands sliding over her bare torso until her fingers hooked into the clasp of her bra.

Natasha tore her eyes away, her pulse racing. She saw what she needed to see.

Katya hooked up with her employees. She was into women. 

This was the type of intel she would have loved to have beforehand. It changed everything. She was trained to be a master of seduction. Closer to Katya than in her bed, she couldn't get.

Euphoric with this new information, she slid off the stone wall. The scene replayed in her head as she walked back to her room and got ready for bed. 

Sleeping with a target was nothing new, but this was on another level. Natasha couldn't ignore that Katya was a very attractive woman. Exactly her type. It wouldn't be torture to eat her out for a few hours. She bet Katya was amazing in bed.

Natasha's stomach clenched, and she scolded herself strictly. If Clint was here, he would be laughing and telling her that she needed to get laid more often. It was sad that she fantasized about having sex with a target like this. Especially when it was a means to an end.

That didn't mean it couldn't be enjoyable, though…

Natasha groaned, splashing her face with ice cold water until the sinful thoughts left her head. 

Yes, she was an undercover agent on a mission, but she was also just a woman with needs. And something in Katya brought out her weakness.

[absifofhws]

— NOTES ESPRESSO¡READER X LATTE¡MATT STURNIOLO

warnings: none, just a fluffy fic, slow-burn, split pov. wc: 399 (intended lowercase)

latte¡matt's pov:

i had just woken up gotten ready for work, made sure to look somewhat presentable for work today, hoping maybe today was the day i'd finally get her, arden, out of her shell. i have worked for her for a whole year now, and we had just shook on being friends. i go to the coffee shop just by the office, and get her usual espresso and pain au chocolat.

i walk up to her office, and notice she wasn't there, so i grab a post-it note and decide to leave it on her coffee, i write, 'hey, have a great day', with a small heart underneath, "fuck, is the heart too forward? ugh, it's too late to think about that now i guess," i say in my head as i stick the note to the small little takeaway espresso cup.

i walk over to my little office that was across the hall from hers and sit down and start answering emails.

espresso¡reader's pov:

it had been a couple of weeks since i had said yes to being latte's friend. not much had changed since, other than the fact we were closer, we spoke more often with one another, he would linger for a while after dropping off my daily espresso, not that i minded. i actually quite appreciated the attention. i usually get sick of the 4 walls of my office. so i enjoyed the change.

i was a little late to my office today, for no other reason than the fact i wanted to sleep in for once in my life, and walk to the office rather than drive in.

when i walk in, i see my espresso, still piping hot, on my desk. i instantly realise that latte was already here at the office. i sit down and notice a small note, 'hey, have a great day,' with a small heart underneath written in a blue sharpie.

i try not to look a little giddy, as i open my laptop and start working, sending him an email that lists all his duties for the day, at the bottom making sure to write, "also, by the way, cute drawing skills." at the bottom of the email.

"fuck, why am i acting like a school girl," i say in my head, as i attempt to get back to work, before trying to shake the slight butterflies out of my system.

similar au's: personalassistant¡chris and busyceo¡reader by @theyluvivi and employee matt and boss reader by chrattho1. a/n: also my latte¡matt bot was based on the 'matt's pov' section of this piece of writing. i swear there is more of this au coming soon.

au masterlist: latte¡matt sturniolo x espresso¡reader

taglist: - @courta13, @michele-sturns <33

©ABSIFOFHWS 2025

[festivating]

do you have any headcanons around galinda's mothers in silk chiffon (aka the best mothers ever) that you could share? (also how do galinda and elphaba celebrate mothers day w them, pretending that it exists in oz) (wish i had moms like that thx for writing them 💛)

Great questions omg. Some headcanons of my beloved old women yuri:

Probably not surprising to hear they are both huge social butterflies and very extroverted women, and that's part of the reason why they got along so well and fell in love so quickly

They met in their late twenties! And have been married for 30 years by the time the story starts, so they had Galinda about 10ish years into their marriage

They were hugeeee workaholics during those 10 years and though they always wanted to have a baby they wanted their business to be prosperous before they did!

Revealing how much they are based on chenzel w this one but Kalena is 3 years older

I still cannot decide how Galinda was conceived so this is subject to change but what I'm rocking rn is that she's some sort of baby made via magical spells so she is the bio kid of both of them. Kalena carried her tho

We didn't see any of this in the fic but both of them have pretty big families so Galinda actually has a ton of aunts and uncles and cousins

They're like. Micro celebrities in Frottica everyone knows and loves the Uplands

They like to throw parties and organize events <3 and they're all so lavish and cool and insanely organized. I know their birthday parties are legendary

They still love working a lot but their schedules became a lot healthier once they had Galinda because she became their top priority the moment she arrived (also she was a high maintenance baby I know this for a fact)

I get so 🥺🥺🥺 whenever I think about them with a young Galinda because that baby was so wanted and adored and pampered. They're both such good moms and always encouraged her to be exactly who she is. They showed up to all of Galinda's school events without fail and were so supportive of her. That's why Galinda is the way she is in the story, and why I wrote her pursuing architecture and having a wide range of interests—because her moms always told her to chase her passions <3

They both think the other one is the spoiling parent. They are both the spoiling parent

They also both think of themselves as the strict parent. They are both the strict parent (when they need to <3)

HUGE gossips tho Iliana pretends not to be. They know everything about everyone all the time

I want to say during Galinda's bouts of serial dating they were a little concerned about her. I touched upon this with Galinda telling Elphaba nothing felt right because she always felt she was looking for something more, and often felt she had to act a certain way around her gfs, and I think a part of her was trying to find something as genuine as what her moms had. She had a pretty solid baseline of what real love actually looks like.

As for mother's day! Galinda genuinely gets a little unhinged about it because she loves her moms so much, and she's always getting them little presents here and there but for Big Days she has to go all out. She's been planning Mother's Day outings since she was old enough to plan stuff, and she's been writing them very sweet and heartfelt cards since she learned to write lol. She gets them flowers and tries to chase down rare gifts they would enjoy, like vintage clothes or the first edition of some sort of accessory, old magic books, things they can use to decorate the house or the shop, so on and so forth. Yes she pays for all of that with her mothers' money but shhh <3

Elphie probablyyyyy did small, nice things for Dulcibear every year but she is wholly unprepared for all of Galinda's antics and extravagance, but she rolls with it and helps a ton because now those are her moms too and she loves participating and, obviously, they also want Elphie to participate :)

[abigailovesz]

LARISSA GENRETTE & JJ GENRETTE HEADCANNONS/THOUGHTS

cw: angst n fluff, kook!jj, might make this into something bigger?? GUYS ive been waiting to post this for weeks. reason im doing this - i was immediately interested in the lore behind larissa and jjs family, but then i literally crashed out when they barely gave ANY info about this beautiful woman(larissa) soo..

jj's the kind of boy who literally worships his mom.

jj would idolize larissa. she’s elegant, clever, probably had a tough edge but a warm heart-everything jj naturally gravitates toward for comfort and guidance y'know??

emotional regulation? way better

jj probably learns to regulate his emotions better. not perfectly-he’s still got that wild streak-but she would’ve taught him how to name his feelings instead of toying with them. his anger wouldn’t come from a place of neglect but from fierce loyalty and passion.

jj still surfs and gets in trouble like no matter what, but he comes home to her

jj would still be a kook, but he doesn't look down on pogues if anything, he's friends with them. he still mischievous, still beach loving, still fucking crazy but the difference is: he has a soft place to land. he comes home bruised from a fight, and instead of hiding it or brushing it off, he lets his mom clean him up. and she lectures him with love in her voice.

larissa is the only person who can get through to him

when he spirals, when he’s yelling or being too wild, she’s the one who can calm him down with just a look. not even john b has that kind of power. her voice is like a balm to him-just one “jj, baby-breathe.” and he listens.

he calls her “mama”, duh.

not “mom.” not “ma.” “mama.” And he says it a little quieter when he’s hurt. “mama… can you come here?” when he’s pretending he’s fine but really just needs her.

she knows when he’s lying

and he hates it because she’s the only one who can still call him on it. “jj, your eyes twitch when you lie. you always forget.” and he groans and throws himself on the couch like -“you know me just too well, mama.”

he learns how to treat women through her

jj becomes that guy who treats any women like queens-not because someone taught him through shame, but because he grew up watching how his mom should be treated. and he refuses to be less than that standard.

he’s for sure the one who braids her hair like everyday

when larissa wakes up in the morning, jj sits behind her on the couch and does her hair. he learned how from watching some youtube video or from her teaching him when he was little. his fingers are usually clumsy but careful.

he tells her everything (eventually)

he’s stubborn, and he hides things when he’s upset. but she always knows. he might storm into his room and slam the door-but two hours later, he’s leaning against the doorframe going, “mama, can we talk?” shy n all ya know?

OTHER.. (kinda made up my mind, i'm making a fic bout this cause what? after dust n fire though !)

hes paired with...lavender!reader

kinda just hints of the fic :)

when it starts...

you were hired by larissa to help out with the garden on weekends-nothing big, just planting, pruning, keeping things beautiful. you showed up with dirt under your nails, soft eyes, and a quiet “hi, I’m y/n” jj walks out of the house to grab a drink, sees you crouched over a row of lavender, and forgets what day it is.

your kind to larissa- that’s his first weak spot.

you speak gently to larissa, you ask her how her day is going, brings her an extra pair of gloves when it’s hot. jj watches you through the kitchen window and feels something he doesn’t have words for - like you already belong here, like his mom’s voice sounds a bit more relaxed around you.

larissa notices before either of you do

she sees the way jj’s face changes when your around. larissa doesn’t say anything- she just lets it bloom. she tells jj one night, “she’s not like the rest of em, baby. you’ll have to be gentle.” jj just swallows hard. “I know.”

a/n: write your thoughts cause i wanna see what you think !

[nice-and-accurate-fictions]

Season 3 and post season 2

So I am very, very picky about season 3 fics. The main feature I’m picky about is Aziraphale’s characterisation, said the girl who had bored everyone to death with her thoughts about why Aziraphale did what he did. You won’t find any fic in here where Aziraphale is the villain or needs to apologize for his choice. You will find some fictions that differ to my headcanon of Aziraphale knowing what he was doing (or at least having a good reason for doing it), rather than being tricked and naively flattered into accepting the position. Which means that those fictions are really incredibly good, if I enjoyed them in spite of that. But definitely no fics where Aziraphale is a villain, or an egoist, or doesn’t love Crowley enough. 

In general, when it comes to season 3, I generally prefer plotty stories, where I can find the vibes and humour that we have in canon, the implication that it is, after all, a comedy. But I won’t say no to some excellent post season 2 fix-its with all the right vibes!

Season 3:

The Beginning Of The End (Again), by AddledMongoose, rated M, 78k.

One of my all time favourite season 3 fics. Amazing plot, perfect characterisation and chemistry between Crowley and Aziraphale, great humour, and a colourful array of side characters. Low angst and a happy ending. I can't begin to tell you how much I loved this story, and yet I really, really can’t stop telling you how much I love this story!

What Are You Doing Here, by Nebz_AlphaCentauri. Rated E, 68k. P. Feb 24.

Truly amazing season 3 fiction where our heroes have to stop the second coming. Plotty and sexy in equal measure. I will forever be grateful to the writer for not making God good.

My own  And I Did, rated E, 85k. P. Dec 24.

In my not-a-summary I say that this is a story about faith, about love, and about choices. Which is true. But I have come to think of it also as my apology dance to Crowley. My headcanon about Aziraphale has always been clear, but at first I wasn't sure about what Crowley would do after the final 15. I didn't see Crowley drinking himself oblivious or taking a road of self destruction. But I didn't know what he would do. Then it hit me, and that was when I started writing this fic. I knew what Crowley would do. Crowley would do what Crowley does. And what does Crowley do best? This is a story about faith, about love, and about choices. Aziraphale is Supreme Archangel, Crowley is Grand Duke Of Hell, and they have to bring about the Second Coming. And of course they're not talking.

Time Marches Forward by Bellisima_writes. Rated M, 129k. P. Feb 24.

Post season two story with an incredible plot! This story has multiple POVs, including Adam's, who's one of the main characters, and rightly so! Aziraphale is in heaven as supreme archangel, while on earth Adam and Crowley form a very strong bond. We follow their journey in the two years between the end of season two and the second coming. Lots of angst with a very happy ending!

Post season 2 and fix-its:

Multichapters:

My own  Second Chances And Second Choices. Rated T, 25K. P. Mar 24.

Not half as good as any of the others I'm recommending but it's my baby, so... Set after a failed second coming. Aziraphale is hoping this is the beginning of his life with Crowley, but Crowley seems to be of a different opinion. Until old enemies turn up at Aziraphale's door. Low angst, happy ending. I wish it had better humour, I wish some bits didn't feel as much of a stretch as they do but fair enough. Rated: Teen and up.

After The End (part one of Nice And Ominous: A Reluctant Eschatology Of The Second Attempt) by beardo. Rated T, 26k. P. Feb 24.

Crowley learns to cope after Aziraphale goes to heaven, with a little help.from his friends. And from the Bentley. I love the writer’s humour and the conversations between Crowley and the Bentley are hilarious.

Among The Stacks, by MeinirRhos. Not Rated, 65k. P. Nov 23.

This fiction made me feel things. Sometimes uncomfortable things. Which is what great writing should do, really, isn’t it? I’m so glad I stuck to it because the story is amazing, clever, and deep. A year after Aziraphale goes to heaven, Crowley feels that Aziraphale is no more and starts mourning him. Until he finds a human that looks and behave exactly like Aziraphale. This story has a happy ending and skippable explicit scenes. I highly recommend it.

One-shots:

Trial & Error, by fellshish. Rated E, 15k. P. Nov 23.

Fellshish’s unmatchable style and humour are at their best in this fix-it fic! Crowley is taken to heaven to face a trial for tempting the Supreme Archangel. The judge is, yes, you guessed it, the Supreme Archangel. Laughter and deep feelings all mixed up in this wonderful story.

We Only Said Goodbye With Words, I Died a Hundred Times, by ras_elased. Rated E, 9k. P. Sep 23.

Beautiful, incredibly angsty fix-it fic. It has a happy ending and it’s a short story, so know that the angst doesn’t last long. The feelings are so deep and visceral. I loved it.

Jesus, Etc. by fellshish. Rated G, 7k. P. Aug 23.

Funny and lighthearted fix-it fic. Aziraphale and Crowley show Jesus around on earth while Aziraphale tries to delay the second coming. Of course they are mad at each other. Someone might pick up on the reason why.

Series:

Bad Communication by Nebz_AlphaCentauri. Rated T. Total series words 14k. P. Sep 23.

This series has three season 3 works: Bad Advice (Up There With A Suggestion Box); Bad Management (Up There With Not Allowing Questions); Bad Communication (Almost Ineffably Bad But Not Quite).

The stories are set a week after Aziraphale goes to heaven. One is from Crowley's POV, one from Aziraphale's POV and in the third one they finally talk. Funny and Heartwarming.

[writingmyheartsout]

Castle of Glass

(Chapter 1)

_______________

Hi, hello <3

So this is my contribution to the Congressman Bucky fic trope. Kinda same, kinda different, as I wanted to focus on his campaign, or rather, all that comes before he is elected.

My train of thought was simple.

How did he get there? Did he have a whole campaign behind him? Who were these people, and how can I write it as a fanfic? Basically, I wanted to imagine this whole scenario.

Also, yes, Nobody's Soldier and Church are still ongoing, just my brain decided to focus on this one now (ADHD at its best)

_______________

As always, this is cross-posted to Ao3 and Wattpad

CW: Anger, anger issues, arguments, fighting, smoking, curse words, Bucky Barnes is a warning himself, enemies to lovers trope, angst with happy ending, female reader, politics, congress run, lots of talking and thinking, no major warning in this one apart from arguments and curse words.

(chapter is 2k long, wanted to keep it short)

_______________

Chapter - 01

It was right in the middle of the election season for Congress that Bucky came up with the idea, or rather, was pressured into running for the position. 

It wasn't exactly a safe scenario for him, as it could either go terribly wrong or, on the contrary, spectacularly right.

He wasn't known to be a very positive person per se, so in the run for the seat he was in dire need of help.

A lot of it. He wouldn't let this go, he had made a promise after all. A promise to himself, first and foremost, a promise to do it right with what he had at hand.

That's where he decided, with the connections he already had, to hire a whole team. It should have been an easy task, right? It was indeed not.

It was actually the worst thing he had ever done in his life, and he had done a lot of things, very bad things.

On top of that, he had a reputation, something that didn't help with what he was trying to achieve.

That's when you came in, a field expert, someone who had already managed multiple campaigns and won quite a few.

You had been assigned to him, he didn't choose you directly, and it was obvious he didn't want you there, barely speaking to you even though he was required to do so. 

It was the worst part of it all, even if his anger issues were doing much better than in the past, he despised you there. Your confidence, the way you ordered him around and telling him what to do, it was triggering to him in a way, bringing back memories he wanted to put behind him. And he hated every second of it.

And yet that's where you were now, on the building floor you had rented to use as headquarters for the duration of the campaign, in his office, while trying to reason with him yet again.

"Mr. Barnes, we need more interns to hand out flyers, then there's another meeting this week, even though you repeatedly stated that you didn't want to attend any" you said, your tone firmer now with a slight authoritative edge to it, as you read out of the list in your hand.

But as you were about to add more, you heard him mumbling under his breath, causing you to glance up at him with an exasperated look.

He was sitting behind his desk, a few books and files around him, clearly annoyed. His fingers massaging his temple as if he would rather be anywhere else but here.

“Can you stop talking for a moment?” he said, his blue eyes fixed on you with a slightly irritated expression.

'‘There's no need for more for this goddam campaign,’ he then stated with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest as he now leaned back in his chair, avoiding your gaze.

At that, you sighed, rolling your eyes in annoyance as you tried not to start another argument. Not right now, at least.

"Trust me, I'd prefer to be anywhere else than here.." you replied, your tone dry as you now straightened your back, your own arms crossing over your chest as you held your clipboard tighter.

"But I can't just stop asking, believe it or not, your approval is needed with every move I make.." you bit back. 

"You told me to help you, and that's what I'm doing, James. It’s your campaign, after all, " You added, calling him by his name. It wasn't the first time, you were the only one allowed to do so, or at least the only one he seemed to accept it from.

When he looked back at you, a slightly intimidating gaze crossed his eyes as you continued your bickering. He was tired, annoyed and slightly in need of nicotine, even if he wasn't allowed to, as you told him it would be bad for his public image and his health. 

It was clear in every small detail, from his slightly furrowed brows to the hint of tension on his entire face, that he was tense, irritated even. 

"Then help me the way I want " he snapped back at you, his tone harsh as he leaned a bit forward.

"I could have gotten any other person on board, there’s plenty out there, “ he added, his tone slightly mocking, “but no, I’ve been told you were the best, that you knew what you were doing,” he added almost sarcastically. But his tone and mannerism were far from being amused as he nervously looked around, then down at the folders on his desk, before his eyes were back on you.

“But all I hear are complaints and useless requests, do your fucking job...” he grumbled as he ran a hand through his hair “...do what I’m paying you for”

"In case you didn't notice, that's exactly what I'm doing since this nightmare of a campaign started" you reacted, both your arms now along your sides, as your voice raised a bit while your hands clenched tight, still holding that damn clipboard.

"Have you ever wondered why you never had to give an interview or why journalists avoided you? No? That's because I took care of it," you added, taking a deep breath to calm yourself down as you closed your eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of your nose in the process.

You waited a few moments more after that, just to be sure to set your mind straight and not overreact, not this time.

It was an everyday occurrence by now, whenever you had to refer to him, for anything really, you both ended up in a fight.

But especially today, you already had enough as there was still so much to do and you didn’t want to spend another minute being made fun of.

"Alright, alright... never mind…I'll do it myself then.." you then stated, opening your eyes and glancing up at him before exiting his office.

"But start answering your phone, I won't accept another missed call from you"

With that, you closed the door behind you, slamming it hard, walking back to your own office to make some more calls as sponsors waited for no one. 

He didn't move from where he was, his gaze fixed on the door to his office now closed, his jaw slowly relaxing as he slowly let out a breath.

He knew he was being difficult, making your and everyone else's job hell, harder than it needed to be. 

He also knew you were trying your damn best to maintain the campaign afloat while dealing with his stubborn ass. He knew that if it wasn't for you, everything would have collapsed around him sooner rather than later.

But he couldn’t help himself sometimes, he trusted very few people, despite everything, and right now he didn’t trust you.

"Shit..." he muttered, his fingers running through his hair again, tugging at it in his frustration.

He knew that he couldn't just snap back at you as much as he wanted, not after you did so much already. 

The last thing he needed was you walking out on him, he had made that mistake before, you already quit once when he started questioning your work, at the very start of this whole shitshow and he wasn't going to repeat that.

He stayed like that for a few more minutes, until he decided that he needed some fresh air.

Slowly, he got himself to stand up from his chair and exited the room, walking over to where he knew was the way outside.

On the other hand, when you were once safe in your own office, you let out a loud sigh, stopping for a moment against the door before walking over to your desk, not really looking at the chaos that you left on it between documents and half-written statements that you needed to finish..

You were angry, mad, even as this man was probably the most annoying and stubborn you had ever met in your whole career.

To be fair you met a lot of different and weird people, from serial cheaters to straight-up assholes. You've met almost anything that existed on the face of the earth..

In comparison, he was a really good person, and apart from his past, which he was pardoned for, he had an impeccable life.

A lonely one that is, but still, he literally had no dirty secrets that you didn't know of.

And you always knew everything about the people you worked with and for.

Even when you sat down, you kept rethinking about the whole argument while you started busying yourself again, a stack of documents still needing signing, and there was already a list of people you had to call before the day was over.

You sighed at that, looking around for a moment, figuring it out what to do first before starting with the long list of calls.

But then when you looked up, after a minute or so after the first two calls, you noticed him walking down the corridor and out of the building, but you didn't think much of it, as it was a regular occurrence when he was nervous. 

Bucky inhaled deeply, the cool air filling his lungs as he took a look around. 

He wasn't a fan of city life, he couldn't say that New York was his favorite place, or even one that he appreciated. It used to be his home once, but now he felt trapped, to the point he couldn’t breathe sometimes, reminding him of the time he lost in captivity.

Still, it was good to get some air, to try and clear his mind, even if he knew that his thoughts would stay occupied by the same thing that was bothering him.

Bucky leaned against the wall next to the entrance and pulled out a folded cigarette from the pockets of his jacket.

And while he was lost in his own thoughts he lit the cigarette, taking a slow drag as he looked up towards the evening sky.

He had to deal with the campaign - that was something he promised and he was going to do it, but the part he was loathing was you.

You were a constant on and off thing, either he wanted you around or he didn't want to see you anywhere near him. It was honestly frustrating.

Everything really was right now. He couldn’t choose, he couldn’t run away or hide, and he couldn’t fight it. He just had to learn to deal with it, and he didn’t know where to start. 

Bucky took another drag from the cigarette, keeping the smoke in his lungs for a few moments before letting it out, his gaze dropping to the ground as he closed his eyes. 

He was frustrated as hell, and even the cigarette alone couldn't relax him.

He was getting himself worked out over this whole thing, over you, and that made him even more tired. 

He wasn't used to being the one who snapped and couldn't get things done, but here he was, in a damn campaign that he initiated for a promise he made long ago.

Meanwhile, as you were still in your office, you started to feel the heavy weight of the day on your shoulders, your eyes started to hurt the more you looked between the file you were reading and your computer.

You didn't want to go home yet, even if you knew almost too well you had an early rise the next morning, mostly to contact the major news channels.

Then you had a fundraiser to program, and new interns to hire.

This was getting even more complicated than usual, your actual boss not helping you in any way, as he was mostly uninterested in the whole thing and the ex-assassin allegations you had to fight off in order to make it look good in front of the people.

There was a lot in your head, too much to spend another night here.

So you just decided to go home, taking a few documents with you.

_______________

Hello again <3 If you're reading this, thank you.

Kept this one short as i wanted to test it out if people like it or not. so if you like it, feel free to comment or give any advice.

Next chapter will be up soon.

[nebrasska-alasska]

How do you make your writing flow? Its soo good and interesting!! (I lowkey have been struggling on it and ur fics are acc amazing)

Hello there! That is so kind of you to say, thank you! I feel like above all else, when I write, I just type out my inner monologue and how I talk in my head. As in, if I were to read my fics out loud, it would follow the natural cadence and pattern of how I speak. And it is because of this reason that I have been considering making some of my stories into podfics, just because they read so naturally in my voice haha.

As an aside, it's funny you submitted this... I've been busy packing up my apartment the past few days (hence why there haven't been any new chapter uploads) and I actually came across an old notebook of a story I wrote from before I started writing fanfiction. Summer of 2019, 6 years ago. And boy oh boy, was the writing in that notebook rough! Super awkward and stilted, and it certainly had the ghost of what you could call my "voice" is now, but it was way underdeveloped. Since then, I have written so much, and I went and counted how many words of fanfiction I've written, and across all three of my ao3 accounts, the total is around 765,000 words over the course of five years (and more than half of those words have been for Sonadow written over the past four months LMFAO)

So I suppose, and this answer sucks, but practice? The more you write, the more you will develop your flow and voice. Things I wrote on my previous two accounts barely resemble what I'm writing here on Nebrasska. Best of luck to you, and I hope you have a lot of fun writing!!! :D

[cece693]

Okay okay so silly idea okay so male reader x Hannibal and they are basically the same right and they been married for 20 years but recently the reader started to be less elegant and more reckless he made a man cave in their nice furnished house started to eat hot cheetos even leaving crumbs in their bed. And the worst part is he got a ps5 at his big age (the reader and Hannibal around same age )

Write about how Hannibal would react seeing the most elegant smartest man he knows turn into a man child please 🙏

Okay, so this might seem like an AU because (let's be real) Hannibal would rather kill you than allow you to become something akin to those 'pigs' he detests. So, the only logical reason for your change in attitude has to be a midlife crisis. So, I hope you enjoy this small, yet fluffy fic.

Midlife Crisis

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: established relationship, just you having a midlife crisis, hannibal being considerate and accommodating, fluff

You have always matched Hannibal—measure for measure, refinement for refinement. For twenty years, the two of you have been twin blades honed on one another: matching Tom Ford suits in the cloakroom, antique opera glasses resting side by side, twin signatures in the guestbook at La Fenice.

Then, six weeks ago, the first crack: a neon beer sign arrived, incongruously aglow in the cellar that once housed your burgundy collection. Man Cave, it proclaimed in lurid cobalt. Hannibal descended the stairs with a bottle of Château d’Yquem and stopped, transfixed, as if he were observing graffiti on a Botticelli.

It has only grown worse.

He wakes before dawn—habitual—stretching an arm across 1,200‑thread‑count Egyptian cotton only to encounter volcanic orange grit. He lifts his hand to the dim light and watches powdered spice cling to the whorls of his fingerprints like evidence at a crime scene. You snore gently beside him, slack‑jawed, an open bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos wilting on the duvet like a wounded animal.

Hannibal’s nostrils flare. He rises without sound, carries the bag to the ensuite sink, and pours the remaining curls down the disposal. Their hiss as they vanish feels symbolic, a small exorcism.

He discovers the PS5 two evenings later, set up in what was once the music room. Your Bösendorfer grand now shoulders aside an ultrawide monitor; game cases litter the piano bench where Rachmaninoff once thundered beneath your hands.

You lounge in an oversized gaming chair—headset crooked, controller flashing—guiding a garishly armored soldier through digital carnage. Hannibal stands in the doorway, immaculate in charcoal silk, listening to the rapid‑fire clicks.

“Darling,” he says, voice smooth as port. “You are wearing...sweatpants.”

You pause the game, swivel toward him with a grin too boyish for the lines at your eyes. “Comfy, aren’t they? Grab a controller; Co‑Op mode just dropped.”

For an instant, Hannibal imagines flinging the console out the window, discarding it like so many bones. Instead he exhales through his nose, steps forward, and lays a hand atop the piano. It is dusty. He feels the dust as betrayal.

“Do you recall,” Hannibal asks softly, “how you played the Adagio of the ‘Hammerklavier’ the night I confessed my feelings?”

Your smile falters. “Of course I do, Hanni.”

“It seems your soldier has taken Beethoven’s place.” You stare, caught between amusement and guilt, and Hannibal sees it clearly: beneath the reckless veneer is a man grappling with an itch of mortality—the sudden terror that excellence might calcify into stagnation.

The following Sunday, Hannibal prepares dinner alone. You are busy “raiding,” whatever that is, and decline his invitation with distracted half‑sentences shouted through a microphone. He braises venison in red wine for hours, layering juniper, bitter chocolate, and a whisper of long pepper. The kitchen fills with fragrant steam, but the seat across from him stays empty, controller clicks echoing from the hall.

Hannibal eats in silence, knife and fork precise, imagining you inhaling takeout straight from the carton. When he clears the dishes, he feels a flicker of something rare and dangerous: resentment. It is midnight when Hannibal finally strides into the man cave. Screens glow like infernal portals; half‑drunk sodas sweat on polished mahogany. You are mid‑match, eyes wild with focus.

Hannibal reaches out and, with clinical calm, unplugs the console.

“Hannibal!” You yank off the headset. “We were about to beat the boss!”

“Then the boss must wait.” He sets the power cord neatly on the desk. “We need to speak.”

You cross your arms, posture defensive. “If this is about the crumbs—”

“It is about everything.” Hannibal's voice does not rise; it descends, dropping like a scalpel into tissue. “You have traded discipline for indulgence, clarity for noise. It is as though I woke beside someone wearing your skin.”

A flash of hurt crosses your face, sharpened by anger. “So I’m not allowed hobbies that aren’t Michelin‑starred?”

“It isn’t the hobbies. It is the abandon with which you pursue them. You used to savor life; now you devour it like junk food—quick, thoughtless, forgettable. And you leave crumbs.”

You open your mouth—then shut it. Silence stretches. Finally, you sink back in the chair, rubbing your brow. “I feel old,” you admit. “Stripped of novelty. Everyone expects perfection from us—every dinner flawless, every gesture curated. I wanted something…simple. Something where excellence didn’t matter.”

Hannibal kneels—not supplicant, but equal—resting elegant hands on your thighs. “Perfection never mattered to me, Y/N. Only authenticity. If you crave new experiences, we shall find them—together. But do not cast aside the artistry that defines you. It is the marrow of our bond.”

You swallow, eyes shining. “Even the Cheetos?”

He allows the faintest smile. “There are superior ways to explore capsaicin.”

A week later, the man cave remains, but the neon sign is gone. The PS5 is relocated to a custom cabinet of dark walnut, its cables sheathed in crimson silk. On Friday nights you invite Hannibal to play; he accepts, fingers surprisingly deft on the controller. Between matches he teaches you to compose a snack of tempura‑fried shishito peppers dusted with smoked paprika—crunchy, fiery, but stain‑free.

The Bösendorfer is tuned. After gaming, you close the cabinet and settle at the keys while Hannibal drapes across the chaise, eyes closed, sipping Sauternes. Beethoven returns to the house—now accompanied by distant victory fanfares echoing from memory rather than speaker.

In bed, you still slip sometimes, sneaking a contraband chip beneath the sheets. Hannibal catches your wrist, brings the guilty fingertip to his lips, and licks away the spice with deliberate slowness.

“Reckless,” he murmurs against your skin, “yet salvageable.”

And you laugh—because in twenty years you have learned that nothing delights him more than transforming chaos into cuisine, disorder into art. Even, it seems, a midlife crisis can be plated elegantly.

[kawhh]

To anyone who complains about dark fics, tagging (I'm not talking about people asking for specific tags from people, that's different. I personally read all of those and make a decision now and then a decision later for how I feel about it and whether I think I've already covered it.), content, anything in the same area:

It's not our problem if you can't read warning labels and tags. It never has been. It has never and will never be anyone's responsibility to hold your hand online and personally protect you.

Everyone here and everyone I'm friends with and people who write similar content DO tag everything.

We have warning labels for content that might be triggering and read mores so you aren't exposed to the writing even if you don't read the very clear bold, red warning tags that we all add - that we add at the top of the writing before it even starts.

If you avoid all of those warnings tags and even if you continue reading whatever we post - that is on you and only on you.

Before you even get a few lines down, you'll have been prewarned. Many times. If you're on our accounts you'll also know what we post.

You are purely in charge of using all the information given to you to avoid words, block tags, block people.

If one of us misses something, then let us know. We're all only human and it happens, but that's not an excuse to attack people.

If you get a few words in and realise it's not for you? Scroll. If you keep reading for a reason to attack - that's extra on you.

It's not anyone's problem if you can't separate fiction from reality. If you can't do that, you're going to struggle in life in general. Things you read online, books, posts, drabbles, anything. It's not our responsibility to teach you how to separate the two.

@ruinix is a fucking sweetheart for one. She agonises over every tag, making sure they're all clearly thought out and thorough. She warns you to read the warnings before you even get to the warnings.

She takes every ask about tags seriously and if she does miss something or can do something for someone, she will.

She would do anything she can to make things safer and easier for people, she does it daily.

@softsunnyy is also a fucking gem of a person who deeply cares about tagging all the work and content. Constant red, bold warning labels at the top of every post.

@zzbubblegumbitchzz is another sunshine baby. Constant tags about everything, clear warnings.

We do everything we can. It's on you to do the rest - none of us deserve to be lashed out at because you jump off a cliff even if there's 50 signs about not jumping off the cliff around you.

[persephoneflouwers]

Hi Angie, i hope it is alright that im calling you Angie, this is C.

Sorry for not replying earlier, I hope you are doing good. I’m also sorry to see that you lost someone so important to you, hope you are feeling better now.

I kinda screenshotted your answer to get back to you at a more suitable time (I see that I have the best timing now that the circus is back in town like talk about that wasted time eh Harry, anyway..)

I’m sorry that the fandom evolved into a place where you (and me and I’m sure many others) are feeling bad for voicing opinions that are essentially the fundamentals of being a larrie. The way this has been happening is particularly disheartening when people accuse us of apparently not respecting their closet or blaming them for their closets, like that is some level of gaslighting and guilt tripping.

I guess the fandom became this way now because louder voices are more occupied with following the biggest popstar (their words definitely not mine) of recent years than two closeted musicians that they can see past all the bs H and his team pull to the point where them voicing all the praise and how this fuck-boy persona is a must to make it big are drowning out the reasonable judgments of many levelheaded fans that can still manage to be here.

It really makes me wonder how it would be now with H and L if the fandom could have been more open with our criticism towards their recent way of handling fame, business etc, like im not trying to attribute more importance than we deserve to us as a fandom in their lives or saying we know better than them but we experienced firsthand how they were attuned to the chatter of larry fandom, maybe some tough love is what they need to hear instead of all the coddling (especially H) they are oddly receiving mostly from this part of fandom.

Also, im not trying to sound insensitive but it feels like they are missing Jay-like figure in their lives who im firmly believing was the voice of reason for them (I dont wanna get into this too much out of respect for Jay)

I have so much respect for you (and other blogs like you) bc you guys refuse to give into pressure of following whats come to be “the truth” and still speak your truths, there is nothing off putting about that believe me, it is admirable.

Im sorry if this ask feels incoherent, if it is so, you are gonna understand why in my following ask which would be just for you.

Hello, C 🦋 it’s so comforting to read your messages every now and then. I hope life is treating you well.

I know I made myself a reputation of an hater, but I’m not. I’m just constantly pushing back whatever stupid move they make. I don’t care if it’s good for their business, it’s not worthy on a human level and I fear the day people will start prioritising job and money and commercial success.

I also understand ignoring whatever thing you don’t like is a way to cope and go through this and curate your experience, but still it won’t make it go away. It’s hard at times, especially here - I’m not particularly close to anyone here so it feels like my experience is just me speaking into the void, you know? - and in this isolation sometimes I feel like the evil character but I don’t think I am. I’m a fan like everyone else, except I am very opinionated and more often than not I don’t agree with what I see/read here and there.

But thank you for coming back. I will not post the other part II because I like that little secret between us 😌 you’ll find me here when you decide to share more of your thoughts of course <3