#ted again with the truth

[julikobold]

Brian: We all have our way of celebrating. Some people take it to the streets …

Ted: Other people take it to the sheets.

[jeanmoreaue]

jean moreau is nico coded.. jeremy/jean are will/nico. jean and elodie are nico and bianca

[anonimea1y]

since we're in 2025 now and the most popular crk ship rn is toxic yaoi and one of the newest cookies is from the st. pastry order can we pleaaaase talk about pastryvelvet now?

[relaxedstyles]

Need some unique political tees? Stop by to look around .. browsing is always free ✌️

[callixton]

god this whole ‘depth’ conceit would be so good if it was used on a doctor who refused to be open about his feelings but like. fifteen distracts from his problems by being painfully upfront about them. so ironically there is literally no depth to this segment

[lunar-years]

Actually though his little "oh" when the morning show plays the clip of Man City's Director of Football stating he won't be coming back makes me so sad :( he really thought he could just go back which is like. oh boy. but then he found out he couldn't on LIVE TV. and he still went out afterward and signed that kids football.

[theorist-fox]

Un-evil

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

This is filthy. Short and downright filthy.

Crossposted on AO3.

>> Next

Word count: 2k

Summary: Simon f*cks you stupid. He's not sorry, and neither are you.

18+ (Can't stress this enough)

CW: smut. that's it. that's the plot. it's just PWP. it's got a little fluff at the end, but it's smut.

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

Pain should be something evil, shouldn’t it? Yet you’re mostly positive that Simon’s hands aren’t evil – at least, not when they land on you.

But it's hard to prove your words right when he has his fingers curled into a tight fist around a handful of your hair. It's difficult, if anyone were to see, to convince them that he isn't trying to split you in half, by the way he has you curve your back in an impossible angle.

However, you’d gladly give a Ted talk about how un-evil he is being.

Naturally, the image might not seem the most innocent, so you’d have to work tirelessly to sound convincing. On all fours on the mattress of his own bedroom, with your feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Curled toes and stiff calves. Head so thrown back that your eyes are locked to the ceiling – or, well, they would be.

If they hadn’t been rolling back for the past – what? Night? What time is it, exactly?

In truth, the only thing you’re seeing is the back of your eyelids. Luckily the ceiling ain’t all that to look at.

Your throat is so tight and coiled that your breaths come out ragged and – bloody fucking hell – almost pained. And again, there is a bit of pain. A pinch of it. 

It would be a lot, with your hair being pulled and your back forced into an arch, but the pleasure is just so overwhelming you feel nothing else. The sting of your scalp and the ache of your spine only enhance what’s happening at the other end of you. 

How good he’s fucking you.

It’s deranged, honestly. 

Someone must be thinking a bleeding homicide is occurring in the Ghost’s quarters. You'd love to have more privacy, currently you’re forced to act like a prude even if he's pounding his cock right into you something fierce. 

But your neck is so thrown back that the groans coming out of you are mostly punched out by the man himself each time he thrusts in and simultaneously pulls back at your hair to slam you against himself.

On the other hand, his grunts are muffled by the fabric of his stupid balaclava. 

Before the whole ordeal started, you told him you wouldn’t fuck him if he wore that thing.

“Not even sure you wash it, L.T.” You’d said, smirking and sounding so proud of having something to mock him for – because he's always so bloody perfect on the field, isn't he.

But he’d shut your mouth spare minutes later, when he’d throw you on your back on his bed, making you feel like you weighed a pound and few spare coins. Lifted his mask up to his nose. Snatched your khakis and knickers off all at once.

And ate you out with such fervor and insistence you were almost positive you’d stopped breathing for a while during the whole meal.

Then, he’d taken off the mask, wiped his mouth with it after you’d soaked it with your orgasm, and put it back on.

“Washed it now.”

Smug cunt.

But now pride and ego and whatnot feel like fickle things, much like your aching back, burning throat, and the impending cramps in your calves.

Now, as your mind melts in a puddle of itself, almost disassociating, Simon must notice it. And oh, he doesn’t like that in the slightest. Where are you going, with your pretty little head, when all your blood should be pumping down to where he needs you warm and wet.

“Come back ‘ere,” he grunts, bending forward and pulling your head further back at the same time. He hooks one arm around your front so that he can keep you up when he notices you're all loose and flaccid.

Palm flat to your chest, he presses you flush against his own.

His eyes are hooded and heavy as they lock with yours. Your face is so flushed and sweaty you must look on the brink of collapse, and he can’t deny it has him a little worried.

“Good?” He asks gruffly, and although concerned, his onslaught on your pussy is relentless.

You smile, all teeth. Your lips have drool smeared all over. Your eyes are glossy and heavy. He's been pounding into you for the past hour, you came into his mouth once and on his cock at least twice. The sounds he's punching out of your lips are raunchy and downright pornographic.

It makes something weird and warm swim in his chest.

Fucking hell.

“Words, love.” It’s a demand, but it’s not said unkindly. He’s more than alright with the idea of fucking you stupid, but not so much with the thought of fucking you into a blackout.

And when you don’t respond and get lost in your body again, eyes rolling back once more, he harshly tugs at your hair. “Sergeant.”

Tears are prickling the corners of your eyes when you open them. However, the contrast is striking, with the wheezing moan that concomitantly leaves your lips. 

You fucking like it, don’t you? Dirty slag.

A discovery, you are. Truly.

He loves it. 

“Solid,” you stutter. Your voice is raspy and wet. "Sir."

He loves that too. 

And admittedly finds it almost humorous, how he can make you unravel like that. You came to his door that night, all commanding as if you had any right over him, saying the two of you should stop dancing around each other and get it over with. That you’re adults and that if he was going to use the regulations excuse you were going to blow a gasket because everything you lot do on the field is against the so-called rules, hence a shagwould be the least of you two’s problems.

He hadn’t even had time to rebut. You were so right it hurt his pride. So, he fucked all that arrogance out of you.

And God, did it feel good. You felt good.

You were right, after all. He won't tell you, though. Doesn't need to chub up your ego any further, it's already fighting for space with his own.

He hums at your response. Leaves the hold around your torso and you flop forward like a wet rag, face first in the sheets.

Simon grabs your hair to lift you up, delighted to hear your ecstatic laugh as your head is yanked back once again. 

He growls, “Good fuckin' girl."

And he rams into you again, using the grip on your hair as leverage. Your groans are guttural and fierce, so loud that even he is a little worried someone might eavesdrop on some of them. 

Of course, this is no time for worries and concerns, all sublimated by the scorching heat between your legs. Warmest fucking place he’s ever been in. 

‘S a lot to say, he thinks, since he’s been through hell and back already.

However, he does feel a little merciful. Sure, you’re heavenly in this position, completely at his service, but it’s been a while and you must be aching. You're going to wake up, later, with the worst back pain of your life and a few cracking joints. 

Right, not that he cares. But you’re already a pain to deal with when you’re all healthy and cracking jokes and smiling like you give two shits about him, he can’t imagine how whiny you must be when you’re knackered and it's because of him.

He bends forward, then, chest to your back, and curls his free arm around your belly. Fingers sneakily reach down and trace your pussy. Palm cupping your mons while his ring and middle finger outline your lips. For just a second, he settles at the base of his cock, feeling how the shaft plunges so easily right inside of you. The stretch of your hole sucking him in. How wet you are –��Christ.

Like this, he has his mouth next to your ear, but he’s not pounding into you with the same fierceness he’s used until now. And your voice has dulled, probably because he’s relented the grip in your hair, letting your head loll forward.

He looks at you through the haze of sex, trying to push through the mist of bliss you’ve shrouded him in. And your face is different. Your eyes are wide, staring blankly ahead, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. 

He panics for a moment, but it quickly melts away when he pushes in a little deeper and you keel over with a groan. He must be hitting something new, something different. 

Something good.

Which is why he hits it again. And again. And you keen and moan, fisting the sheets and punching the mattress. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, look at ya.” He rumbles with a chuckle you can feel rippling in his chest against your back.

In the meantime, because he is so un-evil, the hand he had on your pussy finally finds purchase on your clit. He can feel how raw it must be. How stiff and puffy it is under the rough pads of his fingers.

Your breath hitches the moment he starts rubbing it. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it, because he’s found out you like it when he barks and bites. 

He’s proven right because the tears that were prickling your eyes before are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Your lips tug at the corners and you wheeze, one hand of yours grasping at the forearm of the same hand giving you bliss. Cheek to the mattress.

You dig your nails into his flesh – scar-thickened skin covered in black ink. 

You’re squirming under his weight, with your arse up and back in a pretty arch, as he works you inside and out with hands and cock all the same.

The groan you let out now truly sounds as if you're in pain. Your free hand lifts to grip the fabric of his balaclava on top of his head, as if you were trying to find purchase on his hair but found cotton instead.

“Oi,” he grunts, sounding uncharacteristically worried, but doesn’t stop until you say so.

And thank Christ he doesn’t, because mere seconds later your cunt clenches so tight around him it threatens to chop his dick off. You go ramrod stiff under him. Throat tight and allowing only the passage of mewls that pitch upward. 

Three fingers swipe side to side over your clit. He pounds into you once, twice – again, again, again, until he’s pushed out of you.

“Jesus –“ 

You’re splashing on his cock, a thick stream spraying directly on his sheets. Muffled sounds of water hitting fabric. You’re so fucking silent he bets you’ve stopped breathing as you came, because not even a second later you’re catching your breath with a guttural groan that goes straight to his dick.

He’s dumbfounded and burning, but thankfully has still enough brainpower to realize he has to fuck you through it – and so he does just that. Puts it back in and lays fully above you, flattening your front to the bed. Your thighs are quivering, and your pussy is still clenching rhythmically around him. He thrusts in more and feels tinier splashes gushing out of you each time he pulls out.

Fuck, you’re so wet he barely feels any friction. 

A whine escapes you at the intrusion, but you obediently lay your cheek on the mattress, exhausted, and catch your breath, looking over your shoulder up to him. 

You’re flushed and so pretty. Looking like an angel and not like the devil that you are, who’s just squirted over his bedsheets.

You deserve a little reward for the show you put on for him because he's surely not going to forget how your cunt fluttered around nothing when it gushed on his bed. It's going to stay imprinted in his forebrain and he's going to relive it whenever his hand won't feel like enough.

He snatches the balaclava off his head and tosses it on the floor. He sees your eyes soften at the sight of the disfigured man underneath, but he won’t have any of that – this is just sex. Just fucking sex.

Before he can have his head wander to unwanted (kinder) places, he roughly grabs your jaw and keeps fucking you raw. His lips slam onto yours in a kiss that sizzles with lust and resentment – because you can’t bring feelings into this, and he will forever hate you if you dare.

“Fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts in your face, as he ruts into you, now propped on his forearms. “Think you can do tha’ again?”

You huff. Probably not.

“Depends how – fuck – good y’ are.” As if he didn’t just wring you dry. 

He chuckles darkly, and bites down your shoulder, making you hiss. “Smartarse. Don’t you dare, now.”

“Dare what, L.T.” 

Oh, you little devil. 

“Stop with the lieutenant shite.” He chides.

You snake a hand in his palm and intertwine your fingers with his. He clenches his fist to tighten the hold because he's a weak, weak man.

“What should I call you, then?” You ask through heaving breaths, “Ain’t calling you Ghost, surely.”

He leans down and kisses your cheek.

You know my name, bird.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He grunts, and surrenders. “Simon will do.”

He feels your cheek lift under the pressure of your smile, right against his lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Simon will do.”

[crazziforazzi]

Fighting for the love (of the game) - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The trade

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Trope: Second chance

A/N: Thank you for all the support with the first chapter. While proofreading this one I realized it wasn’t ripping my heart out the way it should, so I quickly took care of that. Enjoy, and see you next weekend! ;)

Word Count: 6.9k words

Masterlist

Paige POV:

Since draft night, everything had moved at a crazy speed.

After the call with her manager about the Sparks, he did what she paid him for, he got to work. That night had barely ended before the next morning kicked off a chain reaction that would change the course of her life.

By the time she blinked awake the next morning, barely untangled from a restless sleep, there was already a new calendar invite in her inbox:

Trade Discussion – 9:00 AM CST.

Attendees:

Ted Young, agent at Wasserman

Lindsey Kollard-Coy, agent at Wasserman

Curt Miller, Executive VP at Dallas Wings

Chris Koclanes, Head Coach at Dallas Wings

She stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. Her coffee sat untouched.

This was real. They were actually talking about it.

The meeting was short, tense in places, polite in others, the kind of conversation where everyone pretended there were no hard feelings while every sentence landed like a game of emotional chess.

Curt was calm but hesitant. He leaned into the numbers, the possibilities in Dallas, the potential of keeping Paige as a cornerstone of the team. He spoke about growth, about future assets, about the cost of letting a number one pick go after only one season. You could tell this wasn’t the move he wanted to make.

Paige respected him for that, at least. He’d never lied to her about what they were hoping to build in Dallas. But that didn’t mean they saw the future the same way.

Chris, on the other hand, couldn’t have looked more detached if he tried. Paige watched him lean back in his chair. He didn't say much. When he did speak, it was vague. Like a man who had already moved on in his mind. No fight, no challenge. No protest. It didn’t surprise her, not after the way he had coached her last season.

And that was what stung the most.

She wanted to belong somewhere. Wanted a team to feel like a team, not just a stopgap. And in that moment, it became clearer than ever: this wasn’t it. Dallas had never felt like home. Not really. Not like it was supposed to.

Still, Paige stayed respectful. She was polite, like she always was. She thanked them for taking a chance on her, thanked Curt for being transparent from day one. But she didn’t sugarcoat the truth either.

"I appreciate everything this organization has given me," she said, meaning it. "But it just seems like... maybe this isn’t the right fit. Dallas is building toward something specific, and I’m not sure I fit into that system the way either of us hoped. That’s not a criticism, it’s just a mismatch. I’m not going to grow the way I need to if I’m constantly adjusting to a style that doesn’t let me be who I am."

Curt sighed. It wasn’t angry. Just tired. Thoughtful. Chris just checked his watch.

"We’ll talk to LA." he said finally.

That was it. Paige signed off the call with a quiet goodbye, closed her laptop, and let her head fall into her hands. Her heart was pounding. Not because she was nervous, but because she finally felt something again. Clarity, maybe. Fire. Definitely purpose.

She wasn’t running from a team. She was running toward something now.

And with that, things were set into motion. By that evening, her agent called with the offer.

"The Sparks wants you,” he said, voice tight with excitement. "And they are not messing around. They are offering a crazy package tonight. You will have a Zoom with their president and coaching staff tomorrow morning.”

Paige barely registered the rest of the details. Her head was already buzzing.

LA. The Sparks. Her. Azzi.

The Zoom was set for 10:00 a.m. CST the next morning, but Paige had been up since six. She couldn’t sit still. She had already gone for a run, showered, changed clothes twice. By the time the call started, she was borderline vibrating. 

Her laptop screen came alive with the faces of Christine Monjer, Sparks President, and Lynne Roberts, their head coach, a woman Paige had watched coach Utah to hell and back over the past few seasons. They both looked serious, curious, but calm.

Christine started things off, and Paige liked her immediately. Confident, no-nonsense, clearly someone who knew how to run a franchise.

"Paige,” she said with a calm smile after a few minutes of casual small talk. "Let’s get one thing clear right now. We are not in this meeting because of hype. We are not here for jersey sales or clicks. We are here because of how you play. Because of what we have seen in you since you were fifteen. And because we believe, truly, that there is more in you than what Dallas gave you the space to show.”

She was so direct that Paige almost didn’t know how to respond. Her throat felt tight for a second. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, not by an executive, not by someone who wasn’t trying to control her narrative but actually believed in her game.

Coach Roberts cut in next and while her voice was warm, her eyes were sharp. Paige respected her the moment she leaned forward.

 "But we are not in the business of quick fixes. This team is in a rebuilding phase. It won't always be easy. It won’t be perfect. There will be months where it’s hard to show up. There will be days where we lose more than we win. So the question is… are you really ready for that?”

"We are not asking you to come in and be a saviour,” Christine added. "We are asking you to commit. To build. To stay. Even when the lights aren’t pretty.”

The challenge in their voices wasn’t cruel. It was careful. It was real. Paige had heard enough fluff in the past year to last a lifetime, from branding execs, media people, even coaches who saw her more as a headline than a human. But this? This was two women saying, Show us who you are, and we’ll meet you there.

She inhaled slowly and met their gaze.

"I don’t want easy,” she said. "I’ve never wanted easy.” Her voice was low, but steady now. Honest. "I want to be part of something that matters. I want to lead a team, not just wear the jersey. I want to help build a foundation, a culture, that can survive the hard months together as a team. I have tried molding myself into roles I was never meant to fit, but I know what I am good at and where I need to develop. I want to play basketball the way I know how. I want to lead with heart, with intelligence, with all the parts of my game that don’t always show up on stat sheets.”

The screen was silent for a second, and Paige kept going.

"I know it’s not going to be easy, and I know it’s going to take time. But I’ve spent the last year watching people give up on their teams instead of trying to fix things. And maybe it sounds hypocritical, sitting here now talking about a trade. But the truth is, I’m not running from anything. I want to be the one who stays, the one who fights to make it work. I just need a team that’s willing to fight with me, not just sell my name.”

She hesitated, but only for a breath. Her next words came quieter. Not shy, just private. Meant for a different part of her.

"And I really want to do that with Azzi Fudd by my side. I want that team to be the Sparks." 

There. Out in the air.

No dramatic buildup. No rehearsed monologue. Just the truth she had carried since the trade became a possibility.

That she wanted to do this with her. That she wanted to build something beside her again, even if it hurt. Even if it took time.

Christine didn’t flinch. "You know that would bring a different kind of spotlight."

"I know," Paige said. "And I’m not here for the spotlight. I’m here to play basketball. Everything else is just noise."

Coach Roberts tilted her head slightly, considering her. Her voice softened just a touch.

"You think you are ready to be the face of this? Not just the jersey, Paige. The losses. The scrimmages no one watches. The days we rebuild from the ground up and you have to be the one who shows up early and leaves late, not because it’s glamorous, but because that’s what leaders do. Are you sure you are ready for that?”

Paige didn’t hesitate.

"I am already that player. I have been that player. I just need a place where it’s allowed to matter.”

There was a pause on the other end. Not awkward, just thoughtful.

Finally, Christine smiled slowly and exchanged a look with Roberts.

"Alright then. Thank you for your time, Paige. We’ll finalize things with Dallas.”

By 1 p.m. on Monday, it was done. Finalized.

A trade that would go down in WNBA history. The first time a No. 1 overall pick had been traded after a single season. The logistics came fast and heavy: legal reviews, medical clearances, jersey fittings, photo shoots, media briefings. Paige didn’t sleep.

It was like watching her life shift in real time, from muted greys back into colour.

By the 48-hour mark, she was sitting in a sleek conference room in downtown LA, her agents on one side, her publicist on the other, counting down the seconds to the press release. She could see the team’s social media manager in the hallway, pacing like a storm was coming.

And then her phone buzzed. One notification. Then another. Then a hundred.

🚨 BREAKING: Paige Bueckers traded to the Los Angeles Sparks 🚨

All hell broke loose.

At first, she tried to keep up. A flood of text messages, Instagram tags, Twitter mentions, ESPN notifications, reporters sliding into her DMs with carefully worded inquiries disguised as congratulations. Her name was trending. Her face was everywhere. Paige Bueckers. Los Angeles Sparks. The biggest trade in WNBA history — and it was hers.

She tried to absorb the weight of it, to sit in the high of it all. Her chest still buzzed with the residue of adrenaline. You did this. You made this happen. And she had. Fought for it. She hadn’t just fallen into a trade, she had asked for it, stood her ground for it. She’d walked into rooms with seasoned executives and calmly said, This is where I want to be. This is what I’m willing to give up. This is who I want to become.

But the noise got overwhelming quickly. She had people for that now, a media manager, a publicist, a social lead. All ready to filter the chaos. So after about another twenty minutes of trying to respond to the right messages, she flipped her notification settings into "Focus" mode.

Only her closest circle could reach her now.

Which is why, when the phone buzzed again, a different kind of buzz, the subtle one she assigned to her favourites, she glanced at it instinctively. 

Kate Fudd 2.23 p.m. Paige! Just wanted to say congrats! What a move!! We are so excited to see what you and Azzi are going to do together in LA.

Also, I know you’re busy, but we’re long overdue for a call. Let’s catch up soon, okay? Love you.

Paige didn’t hesitate. She opened it instantly, thumb frozen for a second as her eyes scanned the words, read them again, then again. Her lips curved into a soft, genuine smile, the kind that didn’t feel like PR or posturing, just real. Something warm pressed into her chest. 

The Fudds. God, she had missed them.

Azzi’s parents had welcomed her into their lives like it was the most natural thing in the world. Since she was fifteen, they’d been her second family. Kate had always had the exact right advice at the exact right moment. Tim had been equal parts goofy and grounding, ready with the worst dad jokes. They’d seen her at her lowest, at her cockiest, at her most in-between. And they’d loved her anyway.

Losing Azzi had felt like losing all of them.

She hadn’t known if it was okay to stay in touch at first. She hadn’t wanted to put them in the middle, or make anything harder than it already was. But weeks after the breakup, Tim texted her, a simple check-in, nothing heavy. And then Kate called a few days after that. Her voice had been warm. She hadn’t tried to dig for details, hadn’t asked for explanations. She’d just said the one thing Paige hadn’t known how much she needed to hear.

"We still love you, Paigey. We always will.”

It had cracked something open in Paige. Something small and quiet and scared. She’d clung to that voice like a lifeline, even as she kept most of her distance.

She typed a reply quickly, almost on instinct:

PAIGE

2.27 p.m.

Thank you, seriously. I’m so excited. Gonna bring a championship home, promise.

She paused. The little blinking cursor stared back at her, as if waiting. She could’ve left it there. Should’ve. But she didn’t. She added:

PAIGE

2.28 p.m.

How is she doing with everything?

It took a few minutes before the typing dots appeared, then vanished, then came back.

Kate Fudd

3.38 p.m.

She is giving herself space to feel it all. Not rushing it. But she’ll be okay. You know her. I am taking care of her, always.

Paige swallowed, her mouth dry. Her fingers tingled slightly as she leaned her head back against the chair cushion, staring up at the ceiling like it held the answers. She could hear Azzi’s laugh echoing somewhere in her mind, from a video in the UConn locker room, from a beach trip two summers ago, from a FaceTime at 2 a.m. when everything still felt right.

God, she missed her.

And not in the vague, wistful kind of way. Not in the abstract.

She missed the way Azzi would squeeze her wrist when she wanted to say something but couldn’t in a crowd. The way she tucked her legs underneath herself on long flights and always, always stole Paige’s sweatshirt, even if she was already wearing her own. The way she could read Paige’s silences better than most people could read her words.

Paige took a breath. Then typed slowly, deliberately.

PAIGE

3.45 p.m.

You and Tim should know… I’m not expecting her to forgive me. I am not holding my breath for some fairytale. But I’m going to fight for what I broke. For the love I still have for her. For the game. And whatever space she’s willing to make for me, I’ll show up and earn it. That is a promise.

She hit send before she could talk herself out of it. Then set the phone down face down, palms flat on her thighs.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip below the LA skyline. The first pinkish brushstrokes of twilight smeared across the tall buildings and dusty hills. The kind of view you couldn’t get in Connecticut. The kind of view that whispered new beginning without even trying.

And it was. God, it was.

She was in LA. In the WNBA. A Los Angeles Sparks.

She had her own team, her own future unfolding in real time. She should’ve been flying, electric with possibility, buzzing with joy. And she was. The excitement was there, undeniable. It pulsed through her skin, made her want to wake up at 5 a.m. and train until her lungs burned. Made her hungry. Focused. Alive.

But none of it muted the steady ache sitting just beneath her ribs.

Because no matter how many people texted her congratulations, no matter how many edits got posted or reposted, she kept circling back to one absence.

Azzi.

Three days later, her draft night message still sat there at the top of the thread, unread or maybe just unacknowledged. A pinned memory of who they’d once been. Paige had sent it with shaking hands, knowing it was a risk, knowing she had no claim anymore to Azzi’s first reaction. But she’d hoped for something. Anything.

Instead: nothing. Not a like. Not a word. Not a sign.

But she didn’t blame her. How could she?

She understood. She’d messed it up. She’d broken something. Not just the relationship. The timing, the trust, all the moments she should’ve said the things she was only now learning how to articulate. Her silence had built a wall she didn’t know how to take down again. And maybe Azzi was better off without her.

Still… that didn’t make her want her any less.

She stared out the glass wall of the office. She wondered where Azzi was when the news dropped. If she saw it in real time. If she felt ambushed. If she already knew. Her stomach twisted at the thought that this reunion might feel like a trap to Azzi.

But now it was too late, they were on the same team. The same city. The same practice facility. Contractually bound to each other for at least the next three seasons.

That alone would have made Paige spiral if it were a few months ago, back when she was still trying to pretend she didn’t miss Azzi every day. But now? Now it felt like a second chance. A shot at something that mattered more than points or rings or Twitter hype.

She didn’t want to just fix it. She wanted to earn it.

Not just win her back, but prove, to Azzi, to herself, to everyone, that she could be the person who didn’t run. Who showed up. Who stayed.

Even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard.

The vibrating of her phone startled her. Another message, this one from Cameron Brink, tagging her in a new TikTok someone had made of the trade announcement, set to some dramatic pop remix. Paige grinned and shook her head.

It was kind of iconic.

She picked up her phone again and thumbed through her texts, watching her own message to Kate sit quietly at the bottom of the screen. Sent. Read. No reply yet. It was fine.

The real reply, the one that mattered, wasn’t going to come through a screen anyway.

It was going to come on the court. In the locker room. In moments of effort and vulnerability and time. In eye contact that held just a little too long. In laughs that started cautiously and then softened into something familiar. In showing up, again and again, until Azzi believed her.

She was ready for that.

For the first time in ages, she didn’t feel like she was performing her life. She felt like she was living it.

Paige set the phone down and let her head fall back against the chair. Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, breathing in the cool, sterile hum of the office’s air conditioning. Somewhere in another room, someone was still talking about the trade — about her.

But for the first time in months, none of that noise mattered.

She didn’t feel lost anymore. Not like she had in Dallas, trying to fit into a system that never made room for her, trying to dim parts of herself to match someone else’s design. She didn’t feel like she was constantly behind, constantly scrambling to prove she belonged.

She felt… whole.

Not fixed. Not forgiven. But focused. Anchored. She was here. In L.A. In the W. 

Fighting for her place, for the love of the game that had carried her through everything. Fighting for something bigger than the next stat sheet or highlight reel.

Fighting for herself. And if she was lucky… maybe fighting for Azzi, too.

Because some things, no matter how complicated, were always worth the risk.

BLOCKBUSTER TRADE:

Paige Bueckers heads to Sparks in unprecedented deal, reunites with

Azzi Fudd in Los Angeles

By Erin Heath, ESPN Sport Journalist

LOS ANGELES — In a league-shifting move that’s already being dubbed the biggest WNBA trade in recent memory, the Los Angeles Sparks have acquired guard Paige Bueckers from the Dallas Wings in exchange for veteran Odyssey Sims, the Sparks' 2026 first-round pick (projected No. 2), and their 2026 second-round pick, both teams announced Monday.

The deal marks the first time in WNBA history that a No. 1 overall draft pick has been traded after just a single season, sending shockwaves through the league and setting a bold precedent for how franchises may approach talent development and roster strategy in the new era of WNBA free agency and movement.

"This was not an easy decision,” said Wings General Manager, Curt Miller. "We are incredibly grateful to Paige for her effort and professionalism. But ultimately, we had to make a move that aligned with our long-term goals. This deal gives us both veteran leadership and future draft capital.”

For the Sparks, this is more than a high-profile acquisition. It is a foundational step toward building a new era of competitive basketball in Los Angeles. And it reunites Bueckers with her longtime friend and former UConn teammate Azzi Fudd, who was selected No. 1 overall in this year’s draft and is seen as a future face of the W league.

"We believe Paige is a generational talent,” said Sparks team president, Christine Monjer. "Pairing Paige with Azzi gives us two of the most promising young guards in the game. They are players with not just elite skill, but a deep connection and shared history. We are excited about what they can build together for Los Angeles.”

The reunion storyline is already capturing attention. Though Bueckers and Fudd entered college with enormous hype as a duo, injuries limited their time on the court together at UConn. Still, their chemistry, both on and off the floor, was undeniable and many fans hoped they’d find their way back to each other in the pros.

Bueckers, who averaged 18.7 points, 8.7 assists and 3.4 rebounds in her rookie season, released a statement shortly after the trade became official:

"I will always be grateful to the Dallas Wings organisation for taking a chance on me and for the fans who supported me from day one. Sometimes you realize you don’t fit into a system in a way that helps either side thrive and that is okay.

I still want to fight for the love I have for this game. I want to fight for the player I believe I can still become. And I hope to do that with the people who’ve always seen me, even when I didn’t see myself.”

Sources say Bueckers initially turned down interest from Los Angeles last summer after one of their starting guards suffered a season-ending injury. But following a challenging rookie season in Dallas that saw the Wings narrowly miss the playoffs, conversations quietly resumed. This time with a different result.

The Sparks, currently in the early stages of a rebuild, are clearly looking to the future. With Fudd and Bueckers now sharing the backcourt, and a front office intent on returning to title contention, expectations are already building.

"We are not just collecting talent,” Christine Monjer added. "We are building a strong basketball culture. These two players know what it means to lead, to fight, to come back from setbacks. That is the kind of core you want to bet on.”

The trade sent ripples through the league and sparked strong reactions online from players and analysts. But if the Sparks' vision pans out, this could be remembered not just as a bold trade, but as the beginning of a new chapter in WNBA history.

And for Bueckers and Fudd, it’s a long-awaited chance to write it together.

Comments: 

@HoopsHeretic

Paige Bueckers traded after ONE year?? Never bought the hype. Can’t carry a team, can’t stay healthy, now she’s Hollywood-bound? Makes sense. 🤡

@WNBA_Nerds

This is an absolute WIN for the league. Paige + Azzi = box office. The Sparks are building something serious. This is how you make the WNBA must-watch TV.

@DallasFan_23

I’m actually sick. Letting go of a 24-year-old star guard with the best court vision in the league?? FOR ODYSSEY SIMS??? Management should be arrested.

@PazziTruthers

YOU’RE TELLING ME AZZI AND PAIGE ARE IN THE SAME CITY AGAIN. SAME TEAM. SAME LOCKER ROOM. I’ve waited my whole gay little life for this. #PazziEndgame 🌈

@FuddFanatic

Azzi finally gets to cook with Paige again. Y’all forgot how nasty they were even in limited games together. Trust, trust, truuuust. 🍿🔥

@RespectTheGame

From a basketball perspective, this is smart all around. LA is building a young core with chemistry. Dallas gets picks + vet leadership. Paige needed a fresh start. Win-win.

@BasketballDyke420

me watching Paige and Azzi warm up together in Sparks jerseys: 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

#Pazzi #wnba #theyreSOmarried

@BitterExFan99

I give it half a season before Bueckers fakes an injury again and Fudd and Plum has to carry the whole team. #overrated

@FuddBueckers_Updates

They really went from rehab buddies to backcourt dreams. UConn fans, we ate. WNBA fans, we feast. #PazziNation

Azzi POV:

Azzi couldn’t breathe.

She sat curled up in the corner of her childhood bed, knees hugged tight to her chest, phone gripped between trembling fingers like it might vanish if she let go. The soft thrum of her parents’ voices floated up from downstairs. Warm, familiar, impossibly distant. None of it could reach her here, not through the haze of disbelief thickening in her chest.

At the top of her lock screen, the ESPN banner glared like a siren:

🚨BLOCKBUSTER TRADE: Paige Bueckers heads to Sparks in unprecedented deal, reunites with Azzi Fudd in Los Angeles 🚨

Her breath hitched the first time she read it.

The words stared back at her, steady and impossible. She’d read the article three times by now. No, six. She could hear the panelists on Get Up in the background, their excited chatter: "The chemistry between Fudd and Bueckers goes way back.” "They’ve always been more than teammates.” "This is the kind of backcourt that could define a generation.”

And they weren’t wrong. Just not in the way they meant it.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Azzi and Paige. In the same jersey. In the same city. On the same team.

God.

It should have been a dream. Any other version of her life, any version where things hadn’t fallen apart, would have had her screaming and sprinting down the stairs. She would have thrown herself into her mom’s arms, laughed too loud on FaceTime with Paige, already picturing the tunnels, the pregame walks, the way her and Paige’s names would be announced together like they were meant to be.

But this?

This felt like getting punched in the stomach and kissed on the forehead at the same time.

Her mind kept spiralling, and not into game strategy or lineups or training camp. It spiralled backward. Into the soft stuff. The real stuff. The parts she hadn’t let herself touch in months.

Azzi swallowed hard and let her eyes fall shut. But it only made it worse. Because with the world spinning around her, her body chose betrayal. It remembered.

It remembered everything.

It remembered Paige’s laugh first. Not the public one, the wide-open cackle that made highlight reels, but the private one, hushed and muffled into Azzi’s neck at 2 a.m. after a road game, when they were tangled in a twin-sized hotel bed and whispering about nothing. It remembered Paige’s breath catching when Azzi rubbed her thumb just under the hem of her hoodie. It remembered her favourite lotion, the lavender one Paige always used post-therapy. It remembered the specific way Paige’s face looked when she was faking a smile for a trainer versus when she was trying not to cry in front of the team.

Azzi blinked, and she was sixteen again, sitting next to Paige on a long bus ride, knees knocking, her head slumped onto Azzi’s shoulder. No one questioned it. They were "best friends,” after all. But they’d always been more than that, hadn’t they? Since the beginning. Since the first time their hands brushed at Team USA camp when they were fourteen and fifteen and too scared to call what they had anything but friendship. Since they started those dumb little competitions, who could shoot more threes in a row, who could hold a plank longer, who could make the other break into laughter first at practice. Their entire foundation had been built on closeness. Competition, yes, but also intimacy. Also love.

Azzi could feel it now, the ache of it settling into her ribs. The nights they’d both been benched with injuries, their bodies half-broken but pressed close on the training room table, whispering encouragements, holding each other's hands while trainers adjusted ice packs and taped ankles. The sound of Paige gritting her teeth through pain and still asking if Azzi was okay. The taste of cherry Gatorade and shared painkillers and a kind of desperate, silent loyalty that no one else ever really understood.

They held each other up like that. In every way. Every damn day.

She remembered the Monday night ice cream date tradition they started after away games. Paige’s idea. Win or lose, they'd find a corner shop and split a cup. Always cookie chip, always with sprinkles.

She remembered Paige rubbing the tension from her calves after a double overtime, her hands firm, her mouth soft against Azzi’s knee when no one was looking. She remembered being nineteen and thinking: This is what forever feels like.

They wore each other's merch like armour. Paige in Azzi's player edition hoodie, Azzi in Paige's throwback tee. An unspoken message that everyone around them seemed to catch eventually. I’m hers. She’s mine.

People always asked about their chemistry, their friendship, their "sisterhood,” and Azzi smiled through it, but they’d always been more than best friends. Since the beginning. Azzi had known — somewhere deep in her ribcage — that Paige was it for her. Long before they kissed. Long before they even admitted they were anything more than best friend. 

And when they finally said it out loud, they swore it didn’t change anything, that they’d still be best friends first.

And when that’s taken from you, when the person you built your whole world around suddenly isn’t there, you don’t just relearn how to survive.

You have to relearn how to wake up without reaching for them. How to walk into a room that used to be filled with their laugh. How to exist without the only person who ever truly felt like home.

And no one tells you that the hardest part isn’t the heartbreak. It’s the remembering, every day, in a thousand small ways, that they are still out there. Just not yours.

God. How the hell was she supposed to be on a team with her again?

To share a locker room with her? To lace up next to her before games, sit beside her on planes, high-five her after every bucket, all while pretending she didn’t still love her like she was made of all the things Azzi has ever craved?

Azzi opened her eyes and stared at her phone. Paige’s last message sat there, pinned to the top like a dare:

PAIGE

April 11, 0.22 a.m.

Congrats, Azz. I’m so damn proud of you. Go make them remember your name. They have no idea what’s coming.

She hadn’t replied. She hadn’t known how. Not when her heart still clenched every time she saw Paige’s name. Not when she could still feel the ghost of her touch like it had only been days, not months, since they'd last kissed. Since they'd last laid in the dark pretending this thing between them was not slowly cracking under pressure.

And now Paige was coming to LA.

Los Angeles. The city that already carried their shared history like a second skin. The few weeks they spent there two years ago, just the two of them, playing one-on-one in pickup gyms, staying up till 3 a.m. watching film and eating cereal on the floor of their Airbnb. The way Paige looked at her that July night from the rooftop courts, all sweaty and soft and sure. Azzi had kissed her there, half out of breath, wholly in love, with the skyline behind them and the rest of their lives ahead.

And now LA was her team. Their team.

How was she supposed to see Paige in the locker room every day and not reach for her? How was she supposed to dribble past her in practice and not remember how it felt to have her whisper I love you against her jaw after a win? How was she supposed to play alongside Paige Bueckers and not look at her like she’d planned to live her whole life holding her hand?

Her heart thudded painfully.

Because here was the thing: Paige had always felt inevitable. Through every high and every heartbreak, every team, every injury, every mile apart, Azzi had still seen her in the imagined shape of her future. Still pictured her at thirty-five and forty and fifty, standing courtside at kids’ games, curled into each other on Sunday mornings, arguing over who made better pancakes. Paige had been home before either of them knew what that word even meant.

And now they were going to wear the same jersey again. Walk into the same tunnel. Be introduced side by side.

And Azzi didn’t know how to not love her.

Did Paige know what she was doing? Had she asked for the trade? Had she known what this would do to her?

Or was it fate? The universe, cruel and persistent, folding them back into the same space after everything they'd done to keep things neat and finished and over?

She didn’t know what terrified her more, that this was a second chance, or that it wasn’t.

All she knew was that whatever came next, she had no idea how to protect herself from it.

The knock was soft. So soft it could’ve been the wind, but Azzi knew better. It was the kind of knock that came from someone who already understood the storm behind the silence. She didn’t move. Just blinked down at the text still sitting unread at the top of her screen, willing it to vanish or explain itself, anything but continue to haunt her. The door creaked open anyway, slowly, like even it was holding its breath, and her mom’s face appeared, eyes already full of knowing.

Azzi’s gaze barely flicked upward before it fell again, but her mom had seen enough. She always did. Always had.

Azzi gave the smallest nod, more of a surrender than an invitation. Her mom slipped into the room without a word, closing the door with the kind of care that made the air feel gentler. The scent of her mom’s lotion, flowery and something warm and clean, wrapped around her like a blanket from childhood. The floorboard under her feet groaned in that familiar way, the one that had always meant home. She perched on the edge of the bed, knees angled toward Azzi, reaching out like a ritual, her fingers brushing the shoulder of Azzi’s hoodie.

"How are you feeling?” she asked softly, her voice a gentle hum more than a question.

Azzi shrugged. Even okay felt like a betrayal of how hollow she was inside. So she didn’t say anything. Just let herself sit there, holding herself upright like her bones were scaffolding barely holding back the collapse.

Her mom didn’t ask again. She didn’t need to. She just kept rubbing circles into Azzi’s hoodie, the fabric soft from wear, one of Paige’s old ones, actually. From high school, Azzi realized with a pang. The blue embroidery at the hem, still faintly intact, read "Hopkins.” She used to steal it just to see Paige roll her eyes and say, keep it, it looks better on you anyway. Paige had always liked when Azzi wore her things. Same way Azzi liked seeing Paige in her old St. John’s warm-up tee. Their version of a love language. Not hidden, but unspoken. Loud to anyone paying attention.

And her mom had always paid attention.

She’d been there for all of it. The camps. The summer holidays. The first time Paige made Azzi laugh so hard she snorted milk out of her nose. The first sleepover where they’d stayed up playing stupid card games with the other girls but curled around each other under the covers after everyone else had knocked out. They hadn’t kissed then, not yet, but the current had been there, humming just beneath the skin. And her mom had seen it. Long before Azzi could name it, long before she felt brave enough to want it out loud.

Her mom was the one who welcomed Paige into their home when COVID locked the world down. No hesitation, no question. "She can stay as long as she wants.” As if Paige hadn’t already claimed a piece of their lives. As if she hadn’t already crawled into every corner of Azzi’s heart and made a home there.

She’d come to family vacations. Holidays. Random weekends. Her mom always said the same thing: There’s room for her. Even when suitcases were overflowing and couches were already claimed, Paige was part of the equation. Her laugh filled the kitchen. Her socks ended up in the laundry. She said thank you every night after dinner, hugged Azzi’s mom tight like it was second nature. Like she belonged. Because she did.

It was her mom who had pulled her aside one night, years ago, when they were walking the dog and Azzi thought she was being subtle, thought her feelings were still private and unsaid.

"Honey,” her mom had murmured, gently, "it’s okay. I know. And it’s okay that you’re in love with her.”

And Azzi had cried, right there on the sidewalk, cheeks burning and chest breaking open. Not from fear, but from the uncontainable relief of being seen. Of being loved anyway.

Her mom had always seen her. And she had seen Paige, too. She wasn’t just Azzi’s person. She was theirs.

Which was why, when Azzi called months ago, sobbing into the receiver with a voice that sounded cracked and unrecognizable, "We broke up", her mom didn’t ask questions. She just whispered, "I’m coming,” and was there within hours. A suitcase in one hand, a wrapped-up hoodie in the other, like she already knew Azzi wouldn’t have the strength to get out of bed.

They didn’t talk that night. Azzi just cried. Her mom just held her. That was enough.

Now, she wasn’t holding her with arms, she didn’t need to. Her presence was enough. Her silence was full of understanding.

"I didn’t answer her,” Azzi said finally, voice barely above breath. "She texted me after the draft. I didn’t… I didn’t know what to say.”

Her mom’s hand stilled for a moment.

"I don’t think she knew,” Azzi whispered, eyes fixed on the message still pinned at the top of her screen. "Like, I don’t think she asked for this. It feels like… like it just happened. Like she got traded and had no choice. Like now she’s stuck with me. Again.”

That last word hurt to say. Like it betrayed how deep this ache went.

Her mom turned, meeting her eyes, not with pity, but with that same fierce, maternal ache Azzi had always known. The kind that would step in front of trains for her if it meant easing the hurt even a fraction.

"You don’t know that,” she said gently.

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek. "But I don’t not know it.”

Her throat thickened again. She glanced down at the message still there, silent and waiting.

They have no idea what’s coming.

Neither did she.

"Maybe,” her mom murmured, her voice like the brushing of a breeze through a window, "you should call her. Just… talk to her.”

Azzi’s head whipped up like she’d just been slapped. "Are you serious?”

She looked at her mom in disbelief, like she hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes pouring every drop of fear onto the floor between them. And now she was supposed to just call Paige?

But her mom didn’t waver. She just smiled, not wide, but soft. Sad, maybe. Steady, always. Her hand reached up, brushing a stray curl away from Azzi’s cheek, thumb resting with a weight that anchored.

"Baby… she’s still Paige,” she said, like that explained everything. And maybe it did.  "She’s still the same girl who hopped on a plane during her freshman year because you had a fight and you decided to ignore her calls and texts. Who showed up here without telling anyone, just so she could sit outside your door until you stopped pretending you weren’t home.”

Azzi’s chest twisted. God, she remembered.

"She didn’t even bring clothes,” her mom added with a soft chuckle. "Just that baggy hoodie and all that stubborn love.”

Azzi almost laughed. Almost. But the ache wouldn’t let her. "That was different.”

Her mom’s thumb brushed lightly against her jaw. "Not as different as you think. You’re older now, yeah. Maybe hurt. But the part of her, the part that always shows up, I don’t think that ever left.”

Azzi let her eyes fall closed for a second, head dipping into her mom’s palm like she could borrow the strength she’d lost.

"When is the last time you talked to her?” she asked quietly.

Her mom didn’t miss a beat. "Just now. Messaged her a few minutes ago.”

Azzi’s eyes flew open. "Wait... what?”

Her mom’s expression was unbothered. "Wanted to say congratulations. She answered right away.”

"You are just texting Paige now?” Azzi said, scandalized.

"She’ll always be family,” her mom replied, calm and sure. "She still thinks of us that way too. No matter how messy things are with you two that doesn’t vanish overnight.”

Azzi let herself fall backward onto the bed, breath leaving her in a long, tangled exhale. The guilt. The longing. The confusion. It all collided at once, leaving her in pieces.

"You really think she’d want to hear from me?”

Her mom’s hand found hers and squeezed. "I know she would.”

Azzi looked down again at her phone. That unread message glowed like a lighthouse in a storm. A dare. A hope. 

She didn’t answer. 

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

is it too taboo to request the bad sanses helping the reader during their period?

Nope it isn't traveler ;) plus I'm writing this on my period 😭

Featuring: Killer, Dust, Ted, Nightmare, Cross, Error.

Masterlist

Killer

Whatever you do, DO NOT ask him to buy you tampons or pads.

Why you wonder? Well because he's gonna call you asking what's your pussy size. No saying what brand, color and aisle it's in won't avoid it.

On the bright side, at least he's trying to help you! I mean, if you consider nibbling all over you and rubbing your tummy helping.

And he won't leave. He's there chilling and eating most of the chocolate he brought you, oh well, guess you're not getting much goods from him..

Dust

Just lays with you on the couch in silence, heat pad around you and hot chocolate milk on the table.

Let's say the truth, Dust has 0 idea what he's supposed to do, he's been a murder longer than he's been your boyfriend so you can't blame him!

Asks what you want him to do. I mean, he's not doing something for you when you don't want to, it makes no sense.

Ted

Oh. He has seen humans like this before...

Kidding he just smelled blood and knew you were on your period because of your sudden change of mood.

"So.. uhh... May I... Lick it..?"

Don't get him wrong! Orgasms do relax the female body and helps with the pain! Plus, he just may have a blood thing because of his past.. so.. a win-win!

Please? It's not anyone doing this, it's him! And Ted won't ever tell anyone about it, he has brought you everything you wanted and needed, so pretty please?

Nightmare

Mm.. yeah you aren't going anywhere that isn't your bed.. sorry darling.

He's seeing you in pain just curled like a ball, so of course he isn't letting you do anything! Rest until it passes that he'll bring anything you wish for.

Nightmare isn't kidding, fuck his brother and the rest of the peasants around, you're clearly more important than them and you clearly need his full attention!

Those heat bags? Already placed at your tummy. Want chocolate or any type of candy? Have all you want right next to you. Do you want him? Oh darling he's already playing with your hair and kissing your forehead.

"shh... Everything for my dear queen.."

Cross

Oh! It's that time of the month again?? Well, here we go again.

Cross doesn't waste time and is already laying next to you, massaging your pelvis gently while watching your favorite show on the TV.

He's asking how you're feeling from time to time, making sure you aren't uncomfortable when you both move.

Have I said he's baking a whole cake of your favorite flavors while you're sleeping to surprise you when you wake up? Yeah that's why the kitchen's a mess and he's covered in sugar.

Error

Nah he's not doing this. If you're going to suffer, suffer alone.

Leaves you in the antivoid. In pain. Bleeding. What an asshole.

Yes he prefers destroying AUs and spreading chaos around the multiverse over having to hear you complain about pain.

But! He comes back a few hours after with painkillers, tampons/pads and your favorite candy! So... A kinda win? Not really cause he goes away shortly after but at least he gave you something...??

[gayofthefae]

Mike is queer because the whole thing of the Wheelers is the very known about and understood (saying this because people pretend to forget super known tropes the second they wanna argue) theme that a perfect looking nuclear family actually has cracks behind the scenes that run deep. They are not what they seem and would not be approved of in truth like the image they present is. A lot of that trope is based in secrets.

Not only do they not have secrets - the things they're bullied for are out in the open and they are still considered a perfect nuclear family for the most part. Oh no your white straight son with his white girlfriend is kind of a nerd, how oppressed you are. That definitely thematically matches the racism, ableism, and homophobia the other characters are shown to experience /s.

Like no, it is meant to have impact which means it is meant to match. And more importantly, it is supposed to be a secret. Nancy is reserved about some of her feminism like her fighting abilities, but in terms of sexism, she's a badass but people know she's a woman, you know? That oppression is real but it is not a secret. (And I've said before "fugitive girlfriend" doesn't count as a secret both because secret by proxy is invalid and more importantly it doesn't represent any irl relatable oppression to the audience).

And "deep cracks in this crumbling performance" cannot mean "one member of this five person family wants rights as an identity everyone knows she is". That is good and representation against sexism and everything but again, not a secret, and as 1/5 of her family - not enough to represent her family's reputation crumbling.

Housewife unhappy in her marriage as a standalone to the other women would be like "girl, ain't we all, anyways", but it does contribute when added up to the others. Unhappy housewife and career driven women isn't enough though, and only one is even a secret.

But let's take a look at the least oppressed person there. Because THAT'S where the LIES would best hide thematically. Let's take a look at the white straight boy. "Oh no he has hobbies we disapprove that he could grow out of anyways", doesn't count. He's the most bullied of them but in identity, he is also the most privileged (omitting Ted).

But queerness is a SECRET. And queerness puts the TARGET ON YOUR BACK. Queerness TARNISHES YOUR FAMILY'S REPUTATION. Let alone add to the list a mother dreaming of - god forbid - divorce and a gun slinging *gasp* feminist daughter! Now we're talking. Ted and Holly are normal but now we've got 3/5 with something off, and we've got a big one.

We've got Mike. He's bullied, but they also made him the pinnacle of normalcy. He is the only one bullied for flexible reasons, not prejudiced ones. Nancy is a goodie two shoes to start but she is a woman and she will always be that. Think of him as an adult. He can grow up and grow out of the things he's bullied for now or even just exit the spaces with his bullies. And without those things, all the reasons for his bullying - unlike Nancy or any his friends - are escapable.

You have a family you wrote to at its core represent how conformity falls apart. All the other families - Byers, Hendersons, Sinclairs - have their oppressed traits unhidable.

Even Will. Even the queerness we've COVERED was bullied in him and tarnished his reputation and his family's reputation even before he knew about it himself.

But then there's the Wheelers. The Wheelers are perfect. White family of married parents, 3 kids, house at the end of the cul de sac, straight A students, straight students, going to college and making their family proud, mom is a housewife who knows her place and dad brings home the bacon. And if you zoom in a little there are 3 women in that family, and we all know we hate women here but we'll let it slide for now, thank god they had a son, we all dream of having a son. And he's a straight boy and he has some odd interests but he's a white straight boy thank god which means he's innocent, which means those cultists probably converted him and if anything he needs saving. He's bullied, but in that family, in identity, if you looked at it as just figures of what they are, just from the outside, which is what The Wheelers and every performative conformist family are asking you to do, he's the best of them.

HE needs to have a SECRET. HE needs to have a secret that DESTROYS THEM. HE needs to have a secret that destroys them because it matches the weight of every unreputable family around him - black, gay, disabled, poor, what have you. There is only one secret, one hideable identity at all that does.

HE needs to be QUEER.

He is the perfect of the perfect. And the theme of the show and purpose of The Wheelers' existence is that perfect is unsustainable and collapses in on itself. HE needs to be the one to break them.

"My girlfriend was secretly cool this whole time" doesn't destroy the worldview of an entire town.

[slimepuparibaba]

hi me again what's new anyway here's another crazed rambling

calebmc dynamic of mc being just as obsessive as caleb (let me explain)

so mc (you) has this wonderful ability where she can die but then come back without any memory of anything like a blank slate, and unfortunately Caleb did witness this multiple times when they were younger so he had to remind her of who she was

T H E R E F O R E I PROPOSE:

MC being just as obsessive and attached as Caleb DUE TO SOMETHING VERY MUCH AKIN TO IMPRINTING

BECAUSE

Caleb would likely try to get to her first before anyone else

Caleb would tell her everything about who he is, who she is, what everything in the world is

Caleb would likely not let her out of her sight so she can regain her memories / he could potentially rewrite bad ones to conceal any terrible truths (yknow, like her being killed, saying she just 'got sick')

Caleb being the first thing she sees and is exposed to and relearning everything from him = imprinting

Caleb's 1st myth shows this from how it may play it in Caleb's perspective. when he forgot who he was, we as MC concealed bad truths and still tried to remind him of who he was, and he believed everything up until he remembered everything. he must have gone through this process dozens of times, and we must have reacted the same way, because each time we (MC) die, we come back a "blank slate"

however the affinity for him does not fade, because we likely can still "remember how he made us feel", evident in both of Caleb's Myths where we can cling onto something despite death (in Lucid Dreams, Caleb remembered how we made him feel despite forgetting. in X-02, we held onto the name 'Caleb' and how it made us feel warm, despite forgetting the major details).

SO.

EACH TIME. THAT WE, YOU, MC DIES. AND HE REMINDS US WHO WE ARE!!!

THE MEMORY OF HOW HE MADE US FEEL DOES NOT FADE. AND THE ATTACHMENT ONLY GETS STRONGER EACH TIME!

SUBCONSCIOUSLY, HE STILL REMAINS IMPRINTED ON US, NO MATTER HOW LITTLE WE REMEMBER. AND THAT? WILL PILE UP.

we let things slide with caleb because of that attachment that kept piling subconsciously. we still trust him because he is the one thing that we saw each time we came back, and he held our hand and said "I know who you are, you can trust me, I am right here with you", and we remember that despite everything, Caleb is Caleb, he is warmth, he is familiarity, no matter what, BECAUSE HE HAS IMPRINTED ON US SINCE FOREVER AGO!

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO THIS TED TALK

[theficnextdoor]

It Was Just One Night

Brother's Best Friend!Ghost x F!reader

All you wanted was to get out of the apartment, breathe something other than testosterone and pine scented laundry detergent, and try not to trip over military boots in the hallway. So when your brother invites you out with a few of his friends for drinks, you say yes without hesitation. You don’t know who’s more surprised—his friends for actually inviting you, or Ghost when he looks up and realizes you’re coming too.

1.4k words tw: implied possessiveness, passive intimidation, minor confrontation in public setting Part I Part III heheh part II...! I might write these as a 'one shot' style series if ppl are interested in reading it

Originally, it was just supposed to be one night that you stayed with your brother and his roommate, but, as luck would have it, your dorm hall was still under repairs. You groan a little as you read the email from your college notifying you that your dorm hall was still currently being worked on and that students needed to avoid the area for a little while longer. It wasn’t lost on you that they conveniently left out what exactly ‘a little longer’ meant.

You slide your phone back into your back jeans pocket and finish up your makeup, figuring you’d just inform your brother when you are done and ready to go out for drinks with him and some of his friends. 

You did a final check in the bathroom mirror. Your hair was done, light makeup. You decided on a white crop top and blue jeans for your outfit. Cute, sure to have double-takes, but casual. Satisfied with the end results, you spray a spritz of your favorite perfume and open the bathroom door to go meet your brother and Ghost to leave.

Your brother and Ghost were waiting in the hallway for you. Your brother rolls his eyes, “About time, can you take any longer?” he chides, he doesn’t even blink at your appearance, “Let’s go, we’ll never get a table if we don’t hurry the hell up.” 

Ghost, however, notices. 

He doesn’t say anything when he sees you, while your brother grabs his keys from the hallway ‘catch-all’ table. 

His eyes skim over you once. Then again.

Your brother leads the way out the front door. Ghost follows him out, walking past like you’re nothing but background noise, except his silence feels louder than it should.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

The bar is dimly lit, crowded with noise and sweat and off-key karaoke in the back corner. You tag along with your brother and a couple of his friends, already halfway into a second whiskey and talking with his hands like he’s hosting a TED Talk. He’s regaling the group with tales of his bootcamp days with Ghost, to which Ghost interjects and tells the true version of events on the parts your brother embellishes. You smile and chuckle along with the group as your brother swears his version of a bootcamp incident is the God’s honest truth, to which Ghost grunts in disagreement, shaking his head.

“I’m going to get another drink, does anyone else want another round?” You offer the group, since you technically haven’t had to pay for your drinks yet. Your brother covered the first round, and then one of his other friends volunteered for the second. “Get me another beer, yeah?” One of your brother’s friends asks, and you nod, getting no other requests from the group and head for the bar to order.

Scrolling on your phone while you wait for the bartender to be available, you remember to send your brother a text to tell him you need to stay for the night again. He sends a thumbs up emoji accompanied with a drunkenly written text about how it’s a bummer to hear about your dorm, but you’re more than welcome to crash at his place again.

You feel someone bump into you, and you look over to see a stranger. Tall. Decent smile. Definitely not military—his sleeves are rolled, his posture relaxed. You catch the faint whiff of cologne and beer as he leans a little too close.

“You here alone?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “Nope.” 

“Let me guess. Girls’ night?” He grins, easy and confident.

You gesture towards your brother across the room. “Just hanging out with family.”

He pauses. “Oh, you’re his sister? Good to know.” he winks at you, leaning onto the bar counter casually. “I’m James.” He says, unashamedly checking you out as his eyes look you over. 

You smile and decide to tell him your name, he doesn’t seem too bad, roughly looks to be around the same age as yourself and hell; you’re single, so what’s the harm? A little teasing and flirting never hurt anyone.

The conversation is light. Flirty. Nothing over the top. James is a good conversationalist, and makes a few jokes as you both indulge in some small talk.

But you feel it—that prickling awareness that starts between your shoulder blades.

You glance towards your brother’s table, assuming it’s just him being a typical older brother and watching out for you. Probably wondering what’s taking you so long to get a drink and return to their table. 

Instead, you lock eyes with Ghost. Watching. Not moving. Just watching, beer bottle in his hand while the group chatters around him. Ghost takes a slow swig from his beer bottle, eyes not leaving you. You remember the way he looked at you earlier in the day, something similar in his eyes. You look away, back to James, away from the intensity of Ghost’s watchdog stare. 

Your conversation keeps drifting. James asks about school. Your major. Mentions a club night next week. His voice is warm and smooth, and if you didn’t feel like you were under surveillance, maybe you’d flirt back a little more.

You briefly look back over to your brother’s table. Ghost is gone from his spot, and your brother isn’t paying attention as he plays a round of cards with his friends. You wonder where he went, but stop yourself from lingering too long on the thought.

James cuts through your thoughts. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You open your mouth to answer—and a shadow crosses behind you.

Ghost’s voice cuts in low behind you. Calm. Controlled. But sharp.

“Something wrong?”

You turn.

He’s there. Just behind your shoulder. Close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—pine, leather, clean soap. His hands are in his pockets and his stance is relaxed.

His eyes are not. They’re locked on the guy beside you. Cold. Dissecting. Like he’s looking through him.

Your conversation partner straightens a bit. Still casual, but the vibe shift is almost palpable.

“Nah,” James says, “We were just talking.”

“She’s with us,” Ghost replies evenly. “Her drinks are taken care of.”

James’s smile twitches, his eyes flicking between you and Ghost like he’s trying to decide if this is a fight worth picking.  

“I didn’t realize she was taken,” he says, voice still smooth. “She didn’t mention anyone.”

“She doesn’t have to.” Ghost says. He doesn’t correct the assumption, however.

You glance between them—two very different kinds of stillness. James has that frat-boy charm, the confident lean, and the assumption that he’s in control. Ghost has none of that. Just...Still. Solid. Like a loaded weapon resting on a table.

You should be annoyed, right? Say something sharp. Witty. But instead, you feel your heartbeat pick up a little. You’ve been in this situation before; talking to someone when another shows up to try and butt into the conversation, to steal your attention away. Why is this different?

James scoffs under his breath. “Didn’t know I had to get permission to buy someone a drink.”

Ghost tilts his head slightly. The balaclava adding to the sense of danger radiating off him—like a warning sign that doesn’t blink. “You don’t,” he says. Voice even. Low. “But you’re not buying her one.” 

You feel it then. The change. The way James’s grin finally slips, replaced with something sharper—irritated. Challenged.

He takes one more look at Ghost—really looks—and decides it must not be worth the fight because he backs off with a muttered “Whatever,” rolling his eyes, giving a forced smile to you that doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time, and disappears into the crowded bar.

Silence settles between you and Ghost.

Not awkward. 

Just full. Pressurized.

You exhale. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares at the space James vacated, his jaw tight.

“Didn’t like how he was looking at you.”

You turn a little more towards him, arms crossed loosely, giving him a skeptical look. “And how were you looking at me?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, under his breath—quiet enough that no one else could hear:

“Careful.”

You tip your head up, meeting his eyes and facing him fully. “That a warning?”

His gaze shifts to you finally. Steady. Dark. Held for just a beat too long.

“Yeah.” It shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does.

He turns and walks away before you can respond. You’re left standing at the bar, skin warm, thoughts louder than they should be. Heart pounding a little—for something that wasn’t quite a confrontation. 

And wasn’t quite nothing, either.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *

Taglist: @scaleniusrm, @rafaelacallinybbay, @hadassery, @archy25

[ellitx]

Hot take: i will never, ever, like friends with benefit and/or one night stand trope. And i hated this trope since entering the fanfic world. Like why tf would you have sex with someone you dont even like at all or someone you just met?

Honestly venti’s not the type to offer or accept such things. He takes relationship and commitments seriously and ffs mondstadt is a romantic nation. But that doesnt mean he’ll pave such path just for the “fun” of it. It will be a big turn off for him if someone just randomly approaches him one night at a tavern while drinking and invites him if they wanna hook up or what.

And dont get me started with those fanarts of venti surrendering his body to drunken patrons because he’s broke. Okay, yes, it’s just porn art and it’s fictional but don’t reduce venti’s character to such filthy convenience.

And the friends with benefits? If he’s going to be friends with someone, then just be friends. If he likes someone romantically, then he’ll confess. He’s not going to take advantage of his friendship and have it reduce to a casual fling that’ll ruin their friendship.

That’s not how he loves. That’s not how he treats people he cares about.

You dont just tiptoe around under the guise of "no strings attached." Ffs if i read or hear that again, i will not hesitate to throw a glass at you and venti will do the same to his dear mondstadter children.

Venti values honesty, clarity, and intention. If there’s affection, he’ll voice it. If there’s desire, he’ll be honest about what it means.

He believes the people he loves deserve sincerity, not half truths behind closed doors.

Because no matter what fwb situations there are in the world, it will never end well.

Venti’s not a vending machine for pleasure nor some desperate pitiful bard who trades his dignity for coin or company. That completely erases who he is at his core. He’s free spirited, yes, but not careless. Loving, but never shallow.

Venti is the archon of freedom, NOT abandonment of self-respect.

If he ever gives his body to someone, it’s because he trusts his partner. He’s willing to show his vulnerable self to them. He sees sex as an intimate act in a relationship— he’s showing how much he loves them, how he seriously takes this relationship, and how deeply he's willing to commit!!!!!

To venti, intimacy isn’t something you just do—it’s something you share.

So to offer that to just anyone? To treat it like a some sort of distraction or a meaningless exchange? That would cheapen everything he believes in. That’s not love.

Venven deserves better. Hell, he demands better. If you can’t see that, then maybe you never truly understood him in the first place.

Alright thank you for coming to my ted talk

[amys-personal-eclipse]

so after literally spending two hours reading all the comics for the fix a beast au... I present more tears!! [Aka the "mistake" au]

So eventually gingerbrave and the children are oing to die. We all know that. In OTHER words, they are going to return to flour. Yknow, what Mystic Flour was predicting from the very beginning. So instead of grieving like a normal mother, whenever someone talks to her about it, she just "turns off." Shell just say her old lines, "it was inevitable. Emotions won't get you anywhere" that kind of talk.

And then theres Burning Spice.. which is like. A little worse. He's going to outlive the kingdom, he knows he will and has always known that. Yet, when he finally does? And when he gets to witness the making of a new kingdom grow again? He gets that familiar feeling of hopelessness. He knows it will happen again and again and again... so he starts reverting like Mystic Flour.

And then there's the grand finale, Shadow Milk. Ouuuuuhhhh, SHADOW MILK. He gets tired all over again. He gets tired of people not believing him, even after a new generation starts. He gets tired of people choosing believing tasty lies over hard truths. He starts reverting as well.

And, before anyone even gets the chance to stop them, all hell breaks loose.

No one can find the ex-beasts in crispia- and the statistics of cookies dying in beast yeast keeps going up. The ivory pagoda is foggy with flour, dark blue eyes are lingering everywhere in the vanilla kingdom, and the only sign Burning Spice left behind was his old cloak in Golden Cheese's bedroom.

The light of knowledge is just PISSED- blaming pure vanilla (which totally won't end in another spiral...!), white lily is saying a bunch of i-told-you-so, golden cheese is scared for her husband, dark cacao refuses to talk to anyone, and hollyberry is just devastated.

Was it inevitable? Yes.

Did they regret anything? No.

--

okayay I'm done thx 4 coming 2 my ted yalk

[rafeysbangs]

lachesism , rafe cameron ( series ) 09

pairing ; brother's!bsf!rafe x kook!female!reader

content ; mdni !! outerbanks au, eventual smut, angst, violence, underage drinking, family issues, substance abuse, s/a.

summary ; rafe cameron is everything you can’t stand; reckless, infuriating, and too self-assured for his own good. as your brother’s best friend, he’s always been a constant presence, one you’ve done your best to ignore. but the tension between you has always simmered just beneath the surface, sharp and impossible to ignore. you’ve spent years resisting his pull, refusing to give him the satisfaction. but in a world where lines blur and control slips away, you’re forced to face the truth: rafe cameron isn’t so easy to hate after all.

status ; ongoing .ᐟ

✺ navigation ; 008. 009. 010.

NINE, carrying the chaos.

RAFE HAD FINALLY LEFT FOR TANNEYHILL,

and the night ted and amanda returned, you couldn't shake the weight pressing down on you. laying in bed, the ceiling above you blurred by the shadows of restless thoughts. your stomach churned with unease, the memory of rafe's hands on your skin as fresh and unwelcome as the guilt that followed. you hated him. hated the way he consumed your thoughts, the way he invaded every quiet moment like a splinter lodged too deep to reach.

rafe cameron was a mistake. one you couldn't stop yourself from making again.

when your phone buzzed with a text, you half-hoped it wouldn't be him. but of course, it was.

rafe: stop staring at the ceiling and text me back.

you: go to hell.

rafe: only if you're coming.

you cursed under your breath, tossing your phone onto the bed as if it might burn you. but you couldn't stop yourself from picking it back up.

you: lose my number.

rafe: you didn't seem so eager to lose me the other night.

your jaw clenched, heat flooding your face. he was infuriating. smug and insufferable. you wanted to throw your phone out the window. instead, you ignored him, shoving the device under your pillow and turning over. sleep wouldn't come, but at least you wouldn't have to see his name glowing on the screen.

the next day, when your mom mentioned dinner at tanneyhill, your stomach sank. the idea of sitting across from rafe, pretending everything was normal, made your skin crawl. or maybe it was the memory of his hands gripping your waist, his voice low and venomous in your ear.

"do i have to go?" you asked, feigning disinterest as you flipped through a book you weren't pretending to read anymore.

her mother frowned. "of course, you do. it's polite. and you know how rose loves hosting."

polite. that word sat bitterly in your mouth. you wanted to laugh at the irony. there was nothing polite about rafe cameron.

the evening came too quickly. standing in front of your mirror, you smoothed down the hem of your dress—a white sundress that felt too innocent for what you'd become. you scowled at your reflection, fixing a stray strand of hair before heading downstairs.

the drive to tanneyhill was unbearable. carter yammered on about football and some girl he'd met, but you barely heard him. your thoughts too loud, drowning out everything but the dread pooling in your chest.

when you arrived, the first thing you saw was rafe. he stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable until his eyes landed on you. then came the smirk—the one that always made your blood boil.

"y/n," he said, dragging your name out like it was a private joke. "nice of you to grace us with your presence."

"rafe," you replied, your voice cold as ice. "i see you're still trying to act like you own the place."

"i do, don't i?" he shot back, his grin widening as he stepped aside to let her pass. his gaze lingered a beat too long, and you hated the way it made you feel exposed.

dinner was a strained affair. the table buzzed with polite conversation, but you could feel rafe's presence like a brand. every time you glanced up, his eyes were on you, sharp and unyielding. his foot brushed against yours once, then again, and when you kicked him under the table, he just chuckled softly.

"problem?" he murmured, leaning closer.

"you're the problem," you hissed, your tone low enough that only he could hear.

"and yet, here we are." his voice dripped with mockery, his smirk daring her to react.

after dinner, the parents retreated to the patio, and you found yourself alone in the living room, the tension finally catching up with you. you pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to will away the headache building behind your eyes.

"you look tense," rafe said from behind you, his voice smug and far too close.

you didn't turn around. "what do you want?"

he stepped around the couch, leaning casually against the armrest. his presence loomed, filling the room with an unbearable heat. "just wanted to check on you. you seemed... distracted at dinner."

"go bother someone else, rafe."

he tilted his head, studying you with that infuriating smirk. "you're cute when you're angry."

your patience snapped. "god, i hate you."

"funny," he said, leaning closer, "because you didn't hate me when i had you—"

your hand shot out before he could finish, shoving him back with more force than you intended. his laugh was sharp, almost predatory, as he steadied himself.

"feisty," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "you know, you can keep pretending you hate me, but we both know the truth."

you glared at him, your chest heaving with anger. "the truth is, i can't stand you."

"is that why you let me—"

"stop," you snapped, cutting him off. your voice wavered, but you refused to let him see how much he got to you.

rafe's smirk softened, but only slightly. "whatever helps you sleep at night, baby."

and just like that, he was gone, leaving you alone with the storm raging in your chest.

you finally left tanneyhill, and you couldn't help the faint smirk tugging at your lips as they drove home. the evening had been a tense balancing act, but you'd survived it without any cracks showing. the hum of the car engine filled the silence, carter too engrossed in his phone to notice your jittery hands or the way you bit at the inside of your cheek. relief curled through you—he hadn't caught on.

back at home, you moved quickly. upstairs, you shed the day's pretence like a heavy coat, trading your pristine sundress for panties and a loose t-shirt that barely hung off one shoulder. your hair fell in disarray, strands mussed from the humid night. you crossed the room and unlocked your window, pushing it open just enough to let in the cool night air. crickets chirped in the stillness, their song a steady, rhythmic backdrop as you hit play on a playlist, the low hum of music filling the room.

you climbed into bed, knees tucked close to your chest, trying to ignore the sharp tug of restlessness in your gut. you hated this feeling—this anticipation that set you on edge. it was ridiculous. infuriating. you despised him, loathed every arrogant smirk and cutting remark. and yet...

your eyes flicked to the window. you cursed under her breath, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him, annoyed at the way her pulse quickened at the thought of his shadow slipping through the frame.

minutes passed. then, the unmistakable scrape of sneakers against the lattice. your heart stumbled. you clenched your fists beneath the blanket, willing herself to stay calm. to stay unaffected.

the window creaked open further, and rafe slipped inside, his movements smooth, deliberate, as though he belonged there. he landed silently, his sharp blue eyes locking on yours in the dim glow of your bedside lamp.

"thought you might've changed your mind," he said, his voice low, cutting through the quiet. he leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, his broad shoulders filling the small space with ease.

"wishful thinking," you shot back, your voice colder than you felt. you sat up, folding your arms as if to create a barrier between them. "what do you want, rafe?"

"same thing you do," he said, his mouth curving into that infuriating smirk. "you left the window open."

your cheeks burned. you hated how easily he read you, how he could peel back your carefully crafted exterior without even trying. "doesn't mean i wanted you to show up."

"sure," he drawled, stepping further into the room. his gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, making your skin prickle. "is that why you're all dressed up for me?"

you scoffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you. "you're delusional."

"maybe," he said, inching closer, "but you didn't stop me from climbing in, did you?"

"maybe i didn't hear you," you snapped, though your voice faltered slightly. his presence was suffocating, the air between you thick with something you refused to name.

he tilted his head, watching you with that same maddening intensity. "you're a terrible liar."

"and you're a terrible person," you shot back, your tone sharper now. you needed to regain control, to push him back, even if it was only verbal. "what, did you get bored tormenting someone else? or is this just another game to you?"

his smirk faltered for the briefest moment, replaced by something darker, something that made your stomach twist. he stepped closer, towering over you now, and you hated how small you felt under his gaze.

"you think i'm here to play games?" his voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. "trust me, if this were a game, i would've gotten bored a long time ago."

your breath hitched, your resolve wavering under the weight of his words. you hated him. hated the way he made you feel—off balance, exposed, vulnerable.

"then why are you here?" you asked, your voice softer, but no less biting.

he didn't answer, not right away. instead, he leaned in, his hands bracing against the bed on either side of you, caging you in. his face was so close now, his breath warm against your cheek.

"because you can't stop thinking about me," he said finally, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine. "just like i can't stop thinking about you."

your pulse roared in your ears, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous. "you're full of yourself."

"maybe," he admitted, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. "but i'm not wrong."

your hands itched to shove him away, to push him out the window and slam it shut forever. but instead, you grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him down as if to make a point.

"shut up," you muttered against his lips before kissing him, hard and unforgiving, your frustration spilling out in every movement.

he didn't resist. he never did. his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, each touch igniting a fire that burned away your better judgment.

you hated him. and you hated yourself for wanting him. but in this moment, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, the lines between hatred and desire blurred beyond recognition.

with your thighs exposed, rafe looked down at the sensitive skin, wanting nothing more than to bury his face there. you propped yourself up on your elbows, your eyebrows cinched together. 

rafe kicked his shoes off before his fingers hooked though the soft material of your panties. you watched has he slid the garment down your legs, your head falling back as he then pinned your thighs to the tops of his shoulders. "rafe.." you breathed, reaching down your fingernails lightly dragged across his skin. he hummed, cupping your soaked pussy as you gasped. 

"mmm, use your words baby," he traced your folds, losing his mind internally, he couldn't wait to taste you. you blinked hazily when you felt his thumb tease your sensitive clit.

rafe's tongue lapped against your clit, your back arching off the bed as he splayed a hand across your stomach. letting out a whine, rafe ate you like a man starved. 

you fought the urge to shut your thighs around his head when two of his fingers poked at your entrance, you could feel him smirking into your pussy proudly. he groaned when he thrusted them into you, the pretty sounds you were making driving him up the wall. 

the coil in your stomach only grew tighter until rafe had your thighs trembling. you cried out, your first orgasm of the night ripping through your lungs. rafe grinned as your hips stuttered in a poor attempt to chase the feeling of his tongue. 

you stared at the ceiling for a moment then looked at him as the tips of your fingers tugged at his shirt. he tore it off, his toned body highlighted by only the salt lamp shining. he flipped you over and grinded his erection into your ass. he shamelessly rut against you while leaning down, kissing you sloppily, both of them moaning. 

taking himself out of his pants, he wrapped a large hand around your throat, his arm flexing, thrusting into you harshly. "oh my- fuck rafe!" you wailed, your walls immediately clenching around him. rafe shut his eyes, his mouth ghosting over yours as he fucked into you hard and slow.

"you miss me?" he breathed, going deeper with each thrust, yanking at your top to pull you against him. your walls stretched deliciously around his length as you whined, "yes- god. i missed your dick." 

rafe smirked proudly as he rolled you over and slot himself between your thighs before picking up the pace again. 

you looked up at him, already completely fucked out as he pawed at your tits through your top before tearing it off. you began moving your hips in sync with his, meeting his thrusts as he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

wrapping your legs around his waist tightly, his toned stomach slapped against your clit as you both rolled your hips in desperation to feel each other finish. "ah fuck," rafe rasped as your nails tore into his back. it wasn't long before you both started shuddering with pleasure, the waves of your orgasms rushing over your bodies. 

"shiit." rafe drawled, pressing a kiss to your temple before pulling out. you whined at the empty feeling, clarity setting in again as you looked up at the boy once more with a satisfied but exhausted sigh. 

he rolled off of you, catching his breath but taking a moment to smirk as he gazed down at your body. "christ delilah," he rasped, adjusting his pants before he handed you the top you were wearing. your movements stuttered before sitting up and taking it from him, slowly pulling it back over your head before grabbing his from across the bed and handing it to him. 

silence engulfed the room, both of them without a word to say as he pulled it over his head.  

you finally spoke up, "you can stay the night.. if you want." you shrugged before getting up and walking over to your drawers, grabbing a fresh pair of panties. rafe's mouth opened as if he were about to say something before shutting, he stretched and scratched at the back of his neck. 

guilt radiated off him as he looked down, "sorry i uh, i've gotta deal with somethin'... another time." you said nothing, just nodded your head before disappearing into the bathroom. rafe stayed for a moment, waiting for you to come out to say goodbye but left figuring you were angry. 

you washed your hands before coming out to find an empty bedroom, clenching your jaw for a moment you slipped under the covers and flipped off your salt lamp, hoping to easily drift off to sleep. 

you woke slowly, the pale morning light filtering through the curtains and painting the room in soft gold. you stretched under the covers, your hand sliding across the sheets. they were cold, empty. you frowned, the absence sinking into your chest like a weight. you rolled onto your side and pulled the duvet higher over your head, wishing, for once, that rafe would still be there, his arm heavy over your waist, his breath warm against your neck. but no such luck. your room was silent, the stillness deafening.

you dragged yourself up, the ache of disappointment lingering as you set about starting your day.

a quick text to cora later, and the plan was set. the country club was as good a place as any to escape—fresh air, a cold beer, and some much-needed distance from everything that had been clawing at your mind. by the time you arrived, the weight of the morning had lessened just a little. cora was already there, leaning against the entrance with that easy grin of hers, making your mood lift even more as you grabbed your gear and made your way to the course.

you took a deep breath, the scent of freshly cut grass filling your lungs, the cool breeze teasing your hair. you cracked open a beer from the cooler you'd brought, the chill of it a welcome distraction from the storm still swirling inside you. lining up your first shot, you tried to focus, but then you heard it—the unmistakable sound of rafe's voice, laughing too loud, too carefree.

your heart skipped. you snapped your head up, eyes already searching the course. and there he was.

rafe. as obnoxious as ever. he was stumbling between swings, a golf club hanging limply in his hand, topper trailing behind him with that idiotic grin on his face. they were both clearly drunk. of course they were. the sight of him had your teeth grinding before you even realised it. your jaw tightened, fingers curling around your beer can. where the hell did he go last night?

"you good?" cora's voice cut through, pulling you back to the present.

your gaze flicked to your friend, trying to smooth out the glimpse of annoyance that must've been obvious on your face. "yeah," you said quickly, forcing a tight smile, though you knew it didn't reach your eyes. "let's keep playing."

but the game was lost the moment your eyes found him again. there was no escaping rafe. no matter how much you tried to focus on your swing, every part of you was keyed into the sight of him across the course—his loud, careless laughter, the way his stupidly perfect smile twisted when he looked back at you. it was all a reminder of how little you actually controlled, of how much he still got under your skin.

"you're staring," cora pointed out, glancing over at you with a knowing look, but you quickly redirected your gaze, your face going cool again.

"not staring," you muttered. "just trying to focus."

cora didn't press, but you could feel your friend's eyes linger for a moment longer. you didn't need to know the truth, not about that—the part of your life that still felt like a secret you weren't ready to untangle. especially not after last night.

rafe hadn't just messed with your head—he'd taken everything you'd ever built between your rivalry and twisted it into something far worse, something that made your stomach churn every time you even thought about it.

but that didn't mean you were about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he still had that power over you. not when you had control of this moment.

except every time you looked up, there he was again. stumbling, grinning, so damn sure of himself. everything about him infuriated you—how he seemed to move through life with the kind of cocky grace that made every other guy look like an amateur. how his gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long whenever you dared meet it. how, despite your best efforts to push him away, it only made him linger more.

at one point, you hit a shot that sent your ball flying off the green, and as you moved to retrieve it, you felt a familiar presence behind you.

"nice shot," rafe called out, his voice thick with amusement. he had appeared out of nowhere, standing just behind you, making your skin prickle with unwanted awareness. you refused to let your shoulders stiffen, but damn, it was hard to ignore him when he was this close. you could feel the heat of his gaze even before you turned.

you bit back the urge to snap at him, but it was there, clawing at the back of your throat. he was the reason you couldn't concentrate. he was the reason you felt this constant simmering heat under your skin, the thing that kept you up late at night, unable to push him out of your thoughts.

"don't know why you're out here, rafe," you said instead, forcing a biting tone. "shouldn't you be out reeking havoc somewhere else?"

he smirked, taking a step closer. "maybe," he said, and your heart stuttered for a fraction of a second. "but i figured i'd grace you with my presence." his voice dropped lower, teasing, but there was something darker underneath it. "you didn't seem like you were having much fun without me."

your stomach clenched. "fun? not when you're around, no."

he raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "how mature of you."

"whatever, don't pretend you care about what i'm doing," you snapped, but even as you said it, you could feel the tension building, stretching thinner by the second. every word that passed between you was another match tossed onto the fire, and neither of you could seem to stop adding fuel to it.

he didn't say anything else for a moment, his gaze running over you like he was calculating something—figuring you out, peeling back another layer you'd rather keep hidden.

when he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, more dangerous. "you know, i didn't forget about last night."

you froze, your breath catching in your throat. your eyes narrowed instinctively, but the warning in your chest only deepened.

"keep talking, rafe," you said coldly, your hands curling into fists at your sides instinctively.

he took another step closer, his scent hitting you like a punch—cologne, smoke, and something else you couldn't quite place. he was too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that it was suffocating.

"oh, i will," he murmured, his voice low, lips twitching into that infuriating, maddening smirk. "but you're not gonna like where it goes."

you clenched your jaw, refusing to let the flicker of nervousness show. you hated him. but as he moved closer again, your feelings betrayed you—your body pulsing with an undeniable tension that made everything inside you scream to run, and yet... you couldn't.

not when he was right there. not when he was still the one thing that made everything else seem so damn insignificant.

just as you opened your mouth to retort, ready to snap back at him, cora appeared like a much-needed breath of fresh air. her voice cut through the tension like a knife. "hey, you two. enough with the glares and the bullshit, okay?"

cora's easy-going tone contrasted sharply with the fire that had been building between you, and somehow, it worked. you took a step back, not quite retreating but pulling yourself out of the storm that rafe was stirring up. your eyes shot one last look at him, but he didn't seem too fazed, just watching you with that infuriating smirk.

"yeah, well, i don't need this today," you muttered, not meeting rafe's gaze again as you turned to walk away, cora falling into step beside you.

cora shot rafe a pointed look, one that made it clear she wasn't about to entertain whatever game he was playing, before following you off the course.

once you reached the car, you felt the air settle between the two of you, your chest still tight with everything left unsaid. cora opened the door to the passenger side, tossing her golf bag into the back seat with an exaggerated sigh.

"you alright?" cora asked, watching you carefully as she slid into the car. her tone was quiet but knowing, the kind that suggested she wasn't about to let you off the hook so easily.

you clicked your seatbelt into place, staring out the window for a long moment before answering. "yeah, i'm fine," you said, though your voice didn't sound convincing even to your own ears.

cora raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "don't lie. what's going on with you and rafe?"

your breath caught at the question. you had hoped to avoid it. hoped—but cora wasn't one to back down once she got a sense of something being off. and after everything that had happened today, it wasn't going to stay buried for long.

"it's nothing," you said quickly, the words rushing out, but cora didn't let you off the hook.

"y/n," cora's voice was firm now, her eyes never leaving the road as they pulled out of the parking lot. "i saw the way he was looking at you, and i heard what he said. that wasn't just nothing. what is going on?"

you couldn't help the way your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your top, a nervous habit you hadn't been able to shake. you didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to acknowledge how messy everything had become. but cora's gaze was unwavering, and you knew she wasn't going to let up until you spilled something.

sighing, you leaned back in her seat, turning your head to glance at cora. "we... we hooked up," you muttered, the words coming out like they tasted bad on your tongue. "and now everything is... weird."

cora's eyes widened for a moment, then she glanced over at you, a playful but cautious grin tugging at her lips. "rafe cameron? really?" she raised an eyebrow, a mix of disbelief and amusement dancing in her eyes.

"yeah, i know," you shot back, bitterness coating your words. "i'm just as disgusted by it as you are."

"you're not disgusted," cora countered, her voice softer now, more understanding. "you're... frustrated. because there's something between you two. and you're fighting it."

you shook her head, exhaling sharply. "don't you think i know that? don't you think i've been fighting it this whole time? i hate him. i hate him." you gritted your teeth, your fingers curling into your palms. "but it's like nothing else matters when he's around. it's... it's maddening, cora."

there was a long pause as they drove, the air in the car feeling thick with the unspoken tension. cora didn't say anything right away, giving you the space to process your own thoughts.

"this is insane," you muttered after a moment, more to yourself than to cora. "he's a jerk, he's volatile... everything about him is wrong. but it's like i can't... not be around him."

cora's voice broke through the silence, softer now, with a trace of sympathy. "he's messing with you. and you're letting him."

"i know," you whispered, your gaze fixed on the road ahead as the words settled heavily in your chest. "i can't help it. i don't know what to do anymore."

cora glanced over at you, her expression still open and unjudging. "look, i'm not gonna say anything to anyone. this stays between us. but... you're gonna have to figure this out. because if you don't, it's just gonna keep eating at you."

you nodded slowly, the weight of everything pressing on your shoulders. "i don't know how to fix it."

cora smiled, you usual teasing grin softening. "don't worry about it. you'll figure it out. eventually."

"i hope so," you replied quietly, your fingers tapping absently on the window, the thoughts of rafe still swirling around in your head, no matter how hard you tried to push them away.

notes ; hello !!!!!! god im so sorry i've been awol for ages, uni is hectic but anyway i hope you enjoy !

series taglist ; @rafegetinmybed @sqfewrd @dreamyy-cloud @vampteeth @wtfisastiles @flvredcas @plaidcowboy @sematarygirls @slut4you @kravitzwhore @daryldixon83 @lexavanhuelee @dorcas4meadowes @i2rapunzel @rafestoothbrush @drewizz @6r4cie @akobx @seehowitshines @rafeswhoooreee @vbstrewbieri @waywarddiplomatfarmmonger-blog @ariivv01 @k4yr14 @luvrcndy @teleishachrisy @importantbeardcupcake @vanessa-rafesgirl @ltristessedureratoujours @cutkoskysnix1 @kennedywxlsh @funnyalpca @eeveelizabethh @burnburritono @marleymarleymarleymarley @katiebby04 @simplymaeee @hoppinbunny @slutglimreqpers ( lachesism taglist )  in order to stay on this taglist you must interact with the posts !

[callmearcturus]

dottie lasso is the final boss of the show (and ted loses)

someone commented on my ted-is-a-feminine-junior-too post about recognizing dottie lasso and what she did, and i'm a Johnny-come-lately to this fandom so i missed all the discourse

but surely it's been discussed to death that Dottie Lasso is the Final Boss of Ted's life, right? like, she shows up on that bench and you should feel the opening of "MEGALOVANIA" in your soul because she's the villain of the story.

honestly, in Ted Lasso, the main villains are: Rupert Mannion, Twitter, Rupert Mannion again, cisnormativity/heteronormativity, and Dottie Lasso, kind of in that order IMO.

"Mom City" is kind of a genius episode with its thesis and punchline. Because Dottie shows up and derails Ted's entire life and not in a good way. She makes him palpably uncomfortable and all of his usual kindness and interest is just turned off around her.

This episode isn't shy about reminding the audience that Richmond has become Ted's home. From the most fish outta water who nearly gets killed looking the wrong way crossing the street, Ted knows his neighbors, knows the culture here, and is defensive with that knowledge because it's been hard-won over time.

No but really, look at how UNCOMFORTABLE Ted is EVERY MINUTE of this episode. It's so stark bc this charm offensive Dottie's doing on everyone at Richmond is so clearly a Lasso Thing. This is the exact tactic Ted used when he was new in town and completely at sea.

(fuck this got long, there's a lot more under the jump)

But he isn't charmed or permissive or entertained, he never once Yes, Ands what Dottie says. In fact, he corrects her all the time.

because Dottie being here is a nightmare. she's the person who knows the Ted Lasso Source Code and the way she maneuvers and nudges him, he seems helpless against it. So he continuously separates himself from her in what feels to me like a fearful reaction.

Like, when Dottie explains where she's staying, she does this trick

DOTTIE: An adorable little hostel. I've met so many Australians. They are backpacking through Europe. So much sex.

TED: Mom.

DOTTIE: Not me, the Australians.

TED: No, no, I get it, okay. How about you stay here for the rest of your trip, all right?

DOTTIE: Only if I'm not a hassle.

This is such a fucking move, you realize? She has been in London a fucking WEEK without telling him, then as soon as she tells him where she's staying, she, a midwestern mom to her open-minded but very romantically private son, invokes sex so he'll be uncomfortable with the situation and invite her to stay. This is a chess move they should call the Wichita Shuffle.

And Ted absolutely hates the way Dottie lies about him. The connection is pretty straightforward; Dottie deals with her trauma and pain by covering them up with pretty little lies and melting truths until they fit the shape she wants them to be in. Everything she says in this episode is bullshit.

(points up) THIS INCLUDED, BTW. This is the Ted that Dottie wants him to be, the guy who will fall on his sword at the first sign of someone else's discomfort.

But that isn't who Ted is anymore and Dottie saying this is vicious and cruel. It's disrespectful to Rebecca, to everyone at Richmond, and to the work Ted's done with Sharon.

which oooooooooh

hey, anyone else remember Ted's "I love meeting people's moms, it's like an instruction manual on why they're nuts" from S2? boy that's a brick joke

and this bit of dottie saying her anxiety re: ted's therapy out loud, that hissing sound is a fuse being lit in this moment

Ted calls her out directly. He knows how she operates because she raised him in her own image. As I noted in the other post, Leslie Higgins is not the only feminine junior at Richmond, so is Theodore Lasso, son of Dorothy Lasso.

THAT FUCKING DARK CHUCKLE, THE "YEAH OKAY" MOMENT this is the fuse finally reaching the dynamite

this is the moment, this moment of push-back, implicitly the first time Ted's ever pushed back in his life

this is the moment Dottie takes every single thing she knows about Ted, everything she put into him, and she destroys his fucking life with the exact four words it would take to make Ted give up everything he's worked for, all so he'll go back to being what she expects from him.

and hell if he doesn't know it.

everything he's done for himself, all the space he's finally allowed himself to fill, the progress and labor he's put into becoming a better person

mom shows up and tells him no, you're coming back.

(and the fact Dottie Lasso, a character who has not said five truthful things this entire episode, tells us how someone else feels should be questioned very fucking directly. i don't trust this woman to honestly report on Henry's opinion of peanut butter and jelly, let alone if he wants his father to give up his life and return to Kansas. i know every single fic has brought up the question of "hey why doesn't anyone ask Henry what he wants" but that's because SOMEONE needs to ask the question instead of taking Dorothy fucking Lasso's word for it, christ)

I don't know how tf you don't read this show as a tragedy. Dottie Lasso is incredible, she's so pitch-perfectly written and acted, and she's absolutely the final boss of the show. And Ted doesn't win that fight.

hell THE SHOW SAYS THE QUIET PART OUT LOUD, i would put the screencap here but I've run out of images, but THEY FUCK YOU UP, YOUR MUM AND DAD, THE SHOW SAYS IT this is a fantastic tragedy, i love it