#or like i will start a conversation and then i will just Not Know What To Say

[redrage71890]

Backing Voice (Yan! KPDH x Fem! MC) Part 2

Synopsis: An ending tour marks the beginnings of a change. Just when everything was going so right. A meeting sparks emotions that were buried deep within one and another. What does that mean for our hunters and their source of peace.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn (?), Yandere (?)

CW: None

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Word Count: 2.5k A/N: I'll be honest here, the yandere part is quite slow. Apologies if you're reading this purely bc of the yandere part. Also probably OOC.

————————————————————

A lift plunges further into the stages interior with the three hunters excitedly discussing the sight of gold along the honmoon. All their efforts are paying off with the near closeness of blocking the demons away from the surface.

"Did we just see gold?!"

"Yeah, I can't believe we're doing it."

"It's so exciting!"

"Okay. You know what this means. Its time to release the song."

"(Cough) Whoa. That was weird."

"Good thing we're taking a break."

"Yeah. Sounds like you need the rest."

"Yeah. Just need a little water."

"Did someone say water?"

Just as the doors opened the girls were met with an entourage of staff, just to take care of their well-beings after the show. Meeting the proud smiles of their managers Bobby and (Y/N).

Urging to give them water immediately as they walk and Bobby complimenting them on their performance. (Y/N) walks besides the girls and adjusts some of their robes and getting permission to take off some of their accessories.

As a reward for the success and topping the charts yet again, Bobby organised a staycation at fancy resort for them. But they promptly denied since mainly Mira and Zoey were more excited about relaxing on their couch.

Since the resort is now available, Rumi states that he should go to the resort instead. Which Bobby promptly got a robe and face mask on.

"Oh, wait. (Y/N), are you okay? You seem a bit... um, tired." Bobby questions, pausing her exit to follow the girls. Granted she didn't get much sleep due to the stress of organising the venue with Bobby, along with keeping up with the girls every time a demon showed up.

Not to mention the three girls asking for little pointers and ideas for the stage performance up until she firmly told them to stop.

Look. She likes her friends, really she does.

She just wishes they would leave her alone sometimes.

Zoey clung to her space so she can get pointers and ideas for lyrics, while also eagerly curious as to what she does outside of the tower.

Mira is much more chill about how they spend time together, typically asking her to watch something on the TV and eat together. But she started taking more of her personal time and commonly asking where she went by herself.

Rumi can be described as professional, initially. She tried to converse first, but (Y/N)'s shaking body was enough to stop trying for a while. But again, they grew acquainted and the hunter began joining in on her lyric writing and demo making sessions. Though once again, she never left the poor girl alone.

Though for all of them...

They refused to.

"Y-Yeah... I just need to rest for a while. But I got some things to take care of before that." Pulling a reassuring yet still tired smile his way, before following the girls in their shadows.

————————————————————

"You're telling me, that the girls released 'Golden'? Now?!" (Y/N) had been on the phone with Bobby as he made his way back for promotions.

(Y/N) was nervously fiddling with her good luck charm on her waist as she was taking in the news. But as much as she wanted to help with the promotions tonight, she couldn't hold off on what she had to do now.

Speeding through the streets with a guitar case on her back, a baggy hoodie and pants while donning a face mask to avoid people as much as possible.

She didn't wear a mask before, but fans started to recognise her as a manager for HUNTR/X. Her blood pressure by itself couldn't given her a heart attack right then and there when she heard that. Never again. She doesn't even know why they liked her so much.

The city nightlife has always been a somewhat suffocating, yet calming. Bustling crowded streets of people coming off work just to drink and let their worries leave for just a moment, families and friends going to dinner to spend time together and unwind. Such people made the night calming for her.

But the suffocating darkness that lingers underneath...

It always chokes at her.

However, her duties are of the most effective during those darkening nights.

Pushing away her inner anxieties and paranoia about herself, she pursues into the nightlife.

Coming down to a secluded park, long emptied for the streets and lights. Its playground seen better days and benches uncleaned with lingering brown leaves and twigs. By passing the structures, (Y/N) finds a suitable large old tree for herself. Its roots coming out of the ground and some leaving a space that make it appear like a throne among the tree.

Taking a seat in the centre and dismounting her case, showcasing to no one, a black electric guitar with gold and light blue accents along its body. A shiny exterior that makes look untouched, no lingering fingerprints or stains and signs of its use. A small notebook used and battered laid within the case. Stickers of the HUNTR/X girls and other musically themed ones about the cover.

(Y/N)'s touch detests the guitars unused appearance, but causes the accents to glow in the night. Picking up the notebook and flicking through the pages, she stopped at one page and put it to the ground, still visible for her eyes.

Tuning her guitar to its right sound, she began to pluck the strings.

————————————————————

As the honmoon glowed its usual blue, a deep pink purple teared through like paper. Clawing out the hole is a purple hand, followed by a black sleeve of a hanbok.

As soon as their feet touch the ground, a puff of pink smoke covers their body to reveal a young man who looked like he just came out of a drama series.

Middle parted black hair with dreamy brown eyes that can melt a girls heart. A dark teel green hoodie underneath a black jacket, paired with dark blue jeans and shoes.

An attire fit for a heartthrob, an ideal standard perfectly. Too perfectly.

Gwi-ma gave his blessings to humour Jinu's demon boy-band plan, in exchange he would erase Jinu's memories.

Earlier than planned, he decided to scout out the perfect place for the newly formed Saja Boys to debut. Surfacing through the night was a perfect cover for him, nobody would take full notice of him just yet. Using this time to casually scope the area.

Smirking at the large number of souls in the night. Numerous fans ready to be converted into loyal fans for him and the boys.

Though as he was admiring an empty park, he feels a sudden rush of his heart racing. Clenching his chest like he had heartburn, he freezes in his spot.

'What is this? Why does my chest hurt?'

As Jinu was questioning his sudden chest pains, his head flicks up as his ears picks up a haunting voice coming from the park.

"Watch the sunrise along the coast"

"As we're both getting old"

"I can't describe what I'm feeling"

"And all I know is we're going home"

"So, please don't let me go"

"Don't let me go~"

A gentle yet haunting voice echoes through the empty park. Ruptures of calm and contentment filling those along the outsides of the park.

Nobody bothering to humour their sudden feelings and search for the source of the voice.

All but one.

Stepping on the old green grass, Jinu follows the closing strums of a guitar and the warming vocals of the singer.

"And if it's right, I don't care how long it takes"

"As long as I'm with you, I've got a smile on my face"

The echoes of laughter from a once young girl fills her mind. Followed by the joint giggles and chuckles of a mother and father. All just happy to be together.

No care for what setting they were in, whether it was the busy streets of a city or the quiet hums of animals in the countryside, nothing could wipe off their joy and love for one another.

Until it did.

"Save your tears, it'll be okay"

"All I know is you're here with me"

"Ooh ooh, oh, oh oh"

"Oh oh oh oh oh"

A pitiful smile plastered on her face. Pouring her heart and soul into her voice.

Rays of blue and lavender light ripple through the city. Areas closer to the park reveal small parts of the honmoon, glowing a lavender purple.

A memory in her mind becomes as clear as an old tape record. Or one could say a thought.

Her body growing older and older. Watching as those who care for her grow weaker and weaker. A bittersweet image.

"Watch the sunrise as we're getting old, oh oh"

"I can't describe, oh oh"

"I wish I could live through every memory again~"

"Just one more time before we float off in the wind"

"And all the time we spent waiting for the light to take us in"

"Have been the greatest moments of my life~"

Hiding behind a tree Jinu peaks to manage out the silhouette of a figure sitting at the foot of the largest and oldest tree in the park. Based on the voice he could distinguish the singer to be a girl, but her hair was shaggy and covered her eyes.

He did not think this haunting voice would come from here.

"I don't care how long it takes"

"As long as I'm with you, I've got a smile on my face"

"Save your tears, it'll be okay"

"You're here with me"

Lifting her head, facing up to the old branches of the tree. That pitiful sad smile she held brought something unknown to his heart. He couldn't place why it felt so warming. Yet so haunting.

He felt reassured for some reason. Like his guilt and shame was washed away, clearing his head.

There was no sound of Gwi-ma.

For the first time in 400 years, he heard nothing but the haunting yet comforting voice of the singer.

"Ooh ooh, oh, oh oh"

"Oh oh oh oh oh"

"I can't describe, oh oh"

The plucking of her guitar came to an end. An overflowing amount of lavender light spreads along the honmoon, but it didn't push him down.

He felt at peace.

Unknowingly to himself, he took a step out from behind his hiding spot. Continuing to take more and more steps until he was right in front of her.

"Are you the one singing?" He was mentally cursing himself for the obvious question.

The singer in question froze. Slowly turning up her head, Jinu is met with a shiver of nerves. Piercing (f/c) and gold eyes stared back. Her pupils constricting as her hands began to shake.

"W-Who says it was m-me?" He sort of expected a quieter speaking voice. Just not this melodic. Her body was nervously shaking from his presence alone. As a demon, he should feel a certain thrill seeing her so fearful from him. Alluring humans to listen to their own shame and insecurities so they can be consumed by Gwi-ma.

But he hated seeing her shake.

"Uh, you are the only one here. I-I just wanted to say that, you have a beautiful voice." The compliment nearly rolled off his tongue flawlessly. He felt unnaturally shy with her (f/c) eyes on him.

While Jinu was weirdly nervous meeting the singer, (Y/N) felt like she was sweating bullets.

'There's only one explanation for this.'

No regular human pays attention to her singing. The only reason why her backing voice is discussed online, is because its among their favourite girl group.

'He's a demon.'

"U-Um... thank you...its nothing special..." Quieting her voice until it became a near whisper. Trying to ignore the demon as she packs up her notebook and guitar.

"What's your name?"

'He wants to keep talking? Should I tell him?'

Its not everyday that a demon wants to get to know her. It was strange. Unnatural. But what malice did she hold towards the male who has done nothing but try to talk to her.

She's not really a hunter anyway.

"(Y-Y/N)..."

"I-I'm Jinu, its nice to meet you." He holds out a hand for a shake. But he's just met with a blank stare.

(F/c) eyes barely blinking while simultaneously looking him up and down. He's never felt so self-conscious in centuries, he was beginning to sweat.

Thankfully for him, she peeled her gaze off and locked up her instrument once again. Slinging it on her back once she stood up at full height. While this was happening, Jinu put his hand away faster than a car. He could feel blood rushing to his ears out of pure embarrassment. He doesn't even know why he feels this way, they literally just met.

"A-Anyways! I wanted to ask if-"

"What's a demon like you doing here?"

Her question catching him off guard.

She knew what he was.

'Is she a hunter? How does she know?!'

"A regular human d-doesn't usually pay mind to my singing." Her statement coming out a bit louder than before. She didn't exactly look happy with being noticed.

Though in reality, she was feeling her heart race.

Of course she knew the effects her voice has on demons. Its what her ancestors have been doing for centuries. Things just changed when her mother met the Sunlight Sisters. Their duties were altered by the wishes of the hunters.

She can freeze a demons actions just by them hearing her voice. But it does not strengthen the honmoon as much as the hunters. Her weapon can barely kill a demon. Yet her voice and emotion poured into her singing is always enough for them to leave on their will.

Beyond what her mother has informed her of their ancestors, that is all she knows of her capabilities.

Jinu on the other hand didn't know how to respond. Humans don't pay attention to her melodic voice? He was beyond stumped.

'How could the humans not listen to this beauty!? I-I can't even describe how it feels to my body and mind!'

He had to stop himself mentally before he went on a tangent he didn't know was in him.

"I-If you're done staring. I'm gonna go." Walking past him in his frozen like state, trapped in his waring thoughts. Realising she passed him, he quickly snapped his neck over.

(Y/N) stopped in her tracks and looked over her shoulder. Lifting up an arm and doing a little wave, paired with the softest smile he's seen in years.

"I'll see you around, Jinu."

For the first time in 400 years, he met someone he wants to protect again.

Damn whoever stands in his way.

————————————————————

Edit: Trying my absolute best here :') Its a bit insane. Also if anyone has ideas for duet ballad or even like r&b songs, pls tell me, its for the fic and an idea I have in mind. And tell me your favourite saja boy bc I badly want more content about them.

Tags: @kitsune-05, @the-bookish-artist, @apelepikozume, @shoopershtar, @ravvilicous, @valeriele3, @vikc, @lasa27, @chipster-321, @greensunflowerjuna, @napbatata, @that-one-girl2020, @tagmepls, @thoughtfulbananaduckcroissant, @minepugs, @crescent-z, @colorfulgardenerduck, @poem-bee, @deityofprocastinating, @0-undead-0, @gremlinartstudio, @jessica-mcd, @strayharmony943, @fruityg0rl, @cherryblossomfox, @aominehaven, @kyxmlii, @ssaischilling, @sweaterkitty-fluff, @historygeekqueen, @satansdaughter123, @theall-seeingone, @nvmkyuu, @amenabii, @julianne1024

[trinity15]

CATWOMAN

Lando Norris x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k

Summary: Lando's friends set him up on a blind date with a girl he apparently has nothing in common with until she starts talking about her four cats.

To my cat and Lando girlies (me ✋😔). Special mention to my cats Kimi and Max. I came up with this after recalling a conversation I had with my father about what drivers names you could give a cat.

masterlist

The date couldn't be going any worse. Two months ago his friends had convinced him that they had the perfect girl for him, and now that she was in front of him and the date was almost over he wasn't so sure about it.

She was pretty, for sure, but they where the complete opposite and the situation was becoming more and more akward. Lando was beginning to wonder why he had accepted Max's idea.

On the other hand, Y/n was defenitelly calling Pietra once the date was over to tell her that she appreciates her effort but that the date had been an absotute dissaster.

Two months before the date, Y/n and Pietra had met after not having seen each other for a long time. Pietra had told her friend that she had something very important to tell her. They went to a café and just sat down to talk.

"Y/n I have an idea" Y/n's face changed. Pietra was the typical person who always thought of something that didn't make sense, but says it anyway. She was Bubbles from The Powerpuff Girls in real life, but Y/n loved her anyway and she would always be one of her best friends.

"Tell me your idea Pietra" Y/n smiled at her and her friend's eyes lit up. She was excited to tell her her idea and she really hoped that Y/n would accept her proposal.

"Hear me out, a blind date" Y/n frowned, confused. A blind date? What did Pietra mean by that? She knew she had crazy ideas, but she'd expected anything but that.

"A blind date? But you're already dating Max!"

"No, silly, a blind date for you. Besides, I've got the perfect person for you" Y/n wasn't very convinced with the idea but she could only accept because her friend looked excited and deep down she was curious to know who was the person Pietra wanted to set her up with. "Ah, but don't talk about Formula 1, and don't mention your cats either".

Now, sitting in front of none other than Lando Norris, she understood why Pietra had said that. She knew perfectly well who he was. Y/n had loved Formula 1 since she was a child and still followed the sport. Nor was she surprised that her date was Lando. She knew perfectly well that Pietra's boyfriend, Max Fewtrell, was Lando's best friend. What she didn't expect was to be paired with him.

They were both equally silent. Y/n had been forbidden by Pietra to talk about the only thing she had in common with Lando: Formula 1. And on the other hand, to Lando, Max had warned him that if he mentioned his work, his date would get bored and leave, which he was very wrong about, but he didn't know it.

They had tried to talk about movies, she liked rom-coms, but he liked action movies. They had also mentioned their favourite food. She loved sushi, he hated fish. She had tried to tell him a couple of anecdotes, which Lando had listened to attentively as he searched his mind for some experience of his own that didn't involve Formula 1, but it was impossible. Formula 1 was his job, it was also part of his day to day life. It was his entire life. And it was also a forbidden topic of conversation on this date.

"Fuck it," Lando thought. If the date was already sucking he wasn't going to risk much if he mentioned the sport, after all, it couldn't get any worse. The girl had really charmed him physically and had a sweet way of talking, it annoyed him that he didn't have anything in common with her because he had liked her.

"Do you know what formula one is?" Lando threw out the question. He expected either a fake answer saying she didn't know anything so he would start talking to her about it or she would start telling him it was a boring sport and that it was just cars running around in circles. However, her answer surprised him.

"Yes, of course. I've been following the sport since I was a little girl." She did know what Formula 1 was and still watched it, which meant she knew who he was.

"So you know who I am?"

"Yes, I know who you are. Do I have to tell you your whole biography or is that enough?" She had said it as a joke, a sarcastic comment to lighten the mood, however it had sounded edgy and Lando had frowned. "Sorry Lando, I have a weird humour and sometimes it seems like I'm being very rude."

Lando shook his head downplaying it so Y/n wouldn't worry. "So you do like it? It's just that Max told me not to mention it because you'd get bored" Y/n laughed. A light, genuine laugh. It amazed her how Max and Pietra had been able to conclude that she and Lando would be a good match and not know one of the few things (or the only one) they had in common.

"Pietra just told me not to mention it, and not to talk about my cats either. I've lasted long enough, it's usually the first thing I mention." Now Lando was curious, he wanted to know more about her cats and why Pietra hadn't let her talk about them.

"What about your cats?" The question seemed to cheer her up, because when Lando looked at her her eyes had begun to sparkle with excitement. That brought a sincere smile to his lips.

"I have four cats and they're all named after Formula 1 drivers." Lando raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled even wider. The joy and enthusiasm in Y/n's words was infectious.

He was mentally thanking himself for bringing up that topic of conversation because, the once awkward date had now become very entertaining and he didn't want it to end.

Lando leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, attentive to what Y/n was saying. "It all started with my first cat. I adopted him when he was a kitten and since he was running everywhere I named him Kimi after Kimi Raikkonen."

"So you decided that since one was named after a driver the rest were too?" and as if Lando was inside her mind he formulated the next thing she was going to say in the form of a question. Y/n smiled and nodded before continuing.

"Yeah well, sort of. Then I adopted Max, he already had that name when I adopted him and I took it as a sign." Lando's smile didn't disappear, let alone Y/n's enthusiasm.

He had earlier planned to skip dessert to leave as soon as possible but now he was calling the waiter to bring them the menu and pick one. Anything to keep Y/n talking. "Wait, pick a dessert and then tell me more about it."

Y/n asked the waiter for a brownie and Lando ordered a cheesecake. The waiter returned almost immediately and left the plates on the table.

"As I was saying, then I found a kitten in a dumpster. She had just given birth and was malnourished. I took her and her kittens to the vet." Lando's face took on a worried expression. He had always loved animals, and it made him very sad to hear such stories. "The cubs didn't make it through the night, but the mother was recovering," Y/n continued as she ate her dessert.

"Did you adopt her?" It was a rhetorical question, she was telling him about her cats, of course she adopted her, but Lando just wanted Y/n to see that he was actually paying attention.

"Yes. She's the only girl cat I have. Her name is Senna, after Ayrton Senna."

"And the fourth one?"

"The fourth one, I adopted him because a friend's cat had kittens and she couldn't keep them. I called him Chilli." Lando frowned. Chilli? No one's called Chilli on the grid. Wasn't that a meal?

"Chilli?" he asked.

"Yes. Carlos Sainz is called Chilli, weren't you one of his best friends?" Y/n joked and Lando replied with a sarcastic laugh, but with a smile on his face.

"So they are called Kimi, Max, Senna and Chilli?" Y/n nodded. Lando could tell how happy it made her talk about her cats. "And why aren't any of them named Norris?"

"Okay I didn't know you were so self-centered" Y/n jokingly replied to him. "Maybe the next cat, who knows."

In the end the date ended well and they agreed to go on another one, maybe in the end they could be a good couple as Pietra and Max had thought. They both decided not to tell their friends anything, to tell them that the date had been a disaster and then, if they ended up being something, then tell them, to see their reaction.

5 months later

ynusername 🔒

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietrapilao and more

tagged: lando

caption: Norris and Norris (special appearnce of Max and Senna in the second slide and Chilli in the last one)

lando i know they're all missing me right now liked by author

pietrapilao excuse me??

maxfewtrell "the date was horrible" bullshit

pietrapilao when where you planing on saying anything??

pietrapilao where's my boy kimi?

ynusername you know he's camera shy

I would appreciate it if you could leave me a comment saying if you liked it. 🧡

taglist: @anamiad00msday @op81s-sweethOe @scentedrosa @h-rtsnana @ilovemeni @n3versatisfied @linnygirl09 @imdyinghelpplease @jaydensluv @love4rami @halleest

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚖𝚒𝚌’𝚍 𝚞𝚙 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it’s just you, paige and a camera you forget is there

You’ve done this a hundred times—more, probably—but today feels different.

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of LED panels and the occasional creak of your chair as you adjust your posture for the fifth time in ten minutes. Your assistant, Em, is in the editing bay making last-minute tweaks to the intro roll, but you can still feel her watching you through the glass with that knowing grin. She’s already teased you enough this morning.

“You’re fixing your hair again,” she says into your earpiece, voice crackling through the comm. “It looks fine. You look fine. Stop.”

You roll your eyes and shoot a sarcastic thumbs-up at the one-way glass, ignoring the slight heat in your cheeks.

Fine isn’t good enough today.

Because today, your guest isn’t just a guest. She’s the guest.

Paige Bueckers.

And yeah, sure, you’ve interviewed top tier athletes before—Megan Rapinoe, Candace Parker, even Serena Williams via video call once—but something about Paige is different. Maybe it’s the way she plays like poetry in motion. Maybe it’s how she carries herself—quiet, thoughtful, deadly on the court and disarmingly soft off of it. Maybe it’s just the damn smile you’ve seen in a hundred slow motion TikToks that fans lovingly post after every Dallas Wings game.

Or maybe, more realistically, it’s that you’ve had a crush on her since UConn, and you’re two hours away from sharing a couch and a mic with her for an hour straight.

“She Scores” has always been your passion project. What started as a niche podcast in your college dorm now pulls millions of listeners every week. You’re known for being sharp, knowledgeable, casually flirty without being pushy, and for asking questions no one else thinks to ask. But beneath all the polish and prep, you’re still just a massive women’s sports nerd who gets giddy when you get to sit down with the athletes who shaped the game.

You run through your notes again—childhood, UConn, transition to the W, off-day hobbies, rapid fire—but you already know you won’t stick to them perfectly. You never do. The best conversations happen when you let things drift. You’re just hoping you don’t drift too far into Oh my god she’s so pretty, stay normal territory.

Em buzzes back in.

“Just got word—she’s on her way up.”

You freeze for a beat, then rise from your chair and take a deep breath, brushing invisible dust off your vintage Lisa Leslie hoodie. You’re wearing sneakers that cost too much and jeans that hug just right, and your hair has been sitting at an intentional degree of messy for the past hour. Cool. Collected. Professional. Mostly.

The knock at the door is soft. You turn as your producer opens it, and there she is.

Paige Bueckers.

And she’s early.

You didn’t expect that.

She’s dressed in a simple grey zip-up and black sweatpants, no makeup, hair pulled back into a loose bun. Effortlessly beautiful. A little taller than you imagined—though that might be the sneakers. Her eyes meet yours, blue and steady, and she smiles.

“Hey,” she says, voice quieter than you thought it’d be. “I’m Paige.”

As if you didn’t know.

You step forward, trying not to radiate pure gay panic. “Hey! Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. And you’re early, which automatically makes you my favorite guest.”

She laughs, short and real. “I was scared of LA traffic. Got lucky, I guess.”

You offer her water. She takes it. Her fingers brush yours for a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

“You good to hang out in the green room for a bit?” you ask. “We don’t record for another half hour, but I figured it might be nice to talk first. Get comfortable.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and your heart taps out a Morse code you hope doesn’t show on your face.

You lead her to the smaller side room off the main studio, a cozy space with a worn leather couch, some plants that are somehow still alive, and shelves lined with sports memorabilia—signed basketballs, framed jerseys, candid photos with former guests. She walks past the wall and pauses when she sees the signed Sue Bird jersey.

“You’ve had Sue on here?” she asks, blinking.

You grin. “Yeah. She wore that jersey the first time we talked. She signed it after I beat her in a game of HORSE.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “You beat Sue Bird in HORSE?”

“Well, technically, I distracted her by asking about her some dumbass question, but a win is a win.”

She smiles again—wider this time—and sinks into the couch, folding one leg under herself.

“So, do I get the same treatment?” she asks. “You gonna ambush me with personal questions?”

“Nope,” you reply, sitting across from her. “I already know pretty much a lot. Twitter’s been over that since the UConn days.”

She groans softly, tipping her head back. “God. Twitter knows too much.”

You watch her for a moment, just… existing. Relaxed. Present. And you realize she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys small talk for its own sake. But you also don’t want to jump right into deep questions.

“You nervous?” you ask instead. Simple. Honest.

She shrugs. “A little. I’ve seen your podcast before. You don’t really let people off the hook.”

You smirk. “That’s true. But you’re in good hands.”

She looks at you, and something flickers between you. Not full-blown tension yet, but something.

You glance down at your phone, pretending to check the time. You’re stalling, which is dumb. You never stall.

“You wanna run through the outline real quick?” you offer. “Just to know what’s coming.”

She tilts her head. “Or… we could wing it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Winging it with a podcaster is dangerous, Bueckers.”

“I like dangerous,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to say it quite like that.

You catch it. You catch everything.

“Well,” you say, standing, “let’s give the people what they want.”

She follows you back into the studio, her presence magnetic even in silence. Your team starts final checks—lighting, mic levels, camera angles. You settle onto the couch next to her, not too close, not too far. You adjust your notes, but your hands aren’t shaking.

Not anymore.

She turns to you, just before you go live.

“You good?” she asks.

It’s simple, but the way she says it—grounded, like she sees you—settles something in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting her eyes. “You?”

She nods once. “Let’s do it.”

The red light is on, the music fades out, and you smile into the mic.

“Welcome back to She Scores, the podcast that unapologetically talks all things women’s sports—from buzzer beaters to backdoor cuts and everything in between. I’m your host, and today… listen. You already know. I don’t even need to hype this up but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You turn your body slightly, just enough to face her.

“Joining me in the studio is a certified bucket. UConn royalty. NCAA Player of the Year, ESPY winner, national champion, and now… Dallas Wings rookie and all-around media mystery—Paige Bueckers. Paige, hi.”

She’s already smiling, eyes wide and slightly amused. She leans forward, adjusting the mic with practiced ease.

“Hey. Wow. That was… a lot.”

You smirk. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, laughing. “Just… you made me sound way cooler than I feel.”

“That’s kind of my thing,” you tease. “Making legends sound approachable.”

She lets out a little breath, like she’s trying not to smile harder than she should. Already, the chemistry crackles—not obvious to the untrained eye, but fans at home are going to pick up on this. Especially the ones with compilation and edit accounts.

“So how does it feel?” you ask. “The WNBA. First season. First media tour. Sitting across from me. Try not to be overwhelmed.”

She laughs again, easing into her seat. “It’s surreal. All of it. Some days I wake up and still feel like I’m on a college schedule. Like I’m supposed to be running sprints at 6AM.”

“Trauma.”

“Literal trauma,” she confirms, mock serious.

You nod. “We’ll get into UConn trauma in a second. But first, let’s take it back. Way, way back. Minnesota. Hopkins. Little Paigey. What’s your first basketball memory?”

She pauses thoughtfully. “I think I was maybe three? My dad had this mini hoop in our living room. The kind that’s too low for anyone over four feet tall.”

“Unfair advantage,” you interject.

“Exactly. But I remember shooting on that every day. He taught me how to pass. We’d play these one on one games—he’d let me score just enough to keep me hooked. And then when I finally beat him for real, I cried.”

“Wait, you cried?”

“Yeah,” she says, almost sheepish. “Like ugly cried. I didn’t know what to do with the win.”

“That’s deeply poetic,” you say. “Beating the person who taught you. The origin story of a future number one overall pick.”

She shrugs, but she’s glowing a little. “I just liked the sound of the ball going through the net. I still do.”

There’s a moment there—small, golden. You don’t rush it.

“You talk about that sound like it’s music.”

She glances at you. “It kinda is, right?”

Your smile deepens. “See, this is why I’m glad this isn’t a live podcast. People would already be tweeting unhinged things. Like we’re flirting.”

She laughs, but there’s something in her eyes—a flash of interest, maybe curiosity. “Are we?”

“Dunno,” you say, flipping a pen between your fingers. “We’ll let the comment section decide.”

She leans forward a bit more, playful. “Dangerous game.”

“I like dangerous,” you echo, and there it is again—like you’re circling something neither of you fully plan to name. You redirect, but only slightly. “So when did it get serious? Like, serious serious. When did Paige Bueckers go from ‘cute kid with a mini hoop’ to ‘national recruit and Gatorade Player of the Year’?”

Her smile fades into something more grounded, thoughtful.

“Probably middle school. I was playing up against older kids. My coaches were honest with me early—they told me I had potential, but I had to want it. Like, really want it.”

You nod, sipping from your water as you watch her speak. “And you did.”

“I did,” she says. “I still do. I don’t think that’s ever changed.”

You scribble something in your notebook, not because you need to, but because you need to look away for a second. The way she talks—low, deliberate, with that quiet confidence—makes it a little hard to keep your cool. You’ve interviewed charismatic people before. But Paige? She’s that rare mix of humble and magnetic. The kind that makes you forget you’re working.

“Talk to me about Hopkins,” you say. “You were a walking headline by, like, freshman year.”

Paige makes a face. “Ugh. I was also a walking awkward phase.”

“You and every lesbian born in the early 2000s,” you reply.

She laughs, covering her mouth for a second. “I didn’t even know back then—”

“Oh, sweetie,” you say, deadpan. “We all knew.”

She tilts her head, pretending to be scandalized. “Are you outing me on my own episode?”

“Absolutely not. But girl, be so for real right now.”

“Wow,” she says, laughing, “this is targeted.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Just doing my journalistic duty.”

The banter flows, faster now. She’s open, unguarded. You ask about pressure, expectations, media narratives. She gives measured but honest responses. You don’t grill—never do—but you go deep, and she meets you there.

You click your pen like it matters, but you’re not taking notes anymore. Not really. You’re just watching her speak—fluid, honest, careful in a way that doesn’t hide anything but still keeps a part of her close to the chest.

“So, let’s talk about it,” you say, leaning back in your chair, mic close to your mouth. “The elephant in the room.”

Paige raises an eyebrow, amused. “There’s an elephant?”

“There is,” you nod seriously. “Its name is Geno Auriemma.”

She laughs—light, warm, fond.

“Oh, God.”

“No, no, we’re gonna go there,” you grin. “Because we’ve talked about Minnesota, we’ve talked about middle school, we’ve talked about how you terrorized local basketball courts by age twelve. But I want to know—why UConn? Why Geno? You had offers from literally everyone.”

She exhales slowly, as if this is a question she’s answered before but never gets tired of answering.

“I think... deep down, I always knew.”

“Why though?”

“The legacy,” she says first. “The culture. The players who came before me. It wasn’t just about playing at a top program. It was about pressure. UConn has this... weight to it. You don’t go there unless you’re willing to be great.”

You tilt your head, lips curling.

“So you just wanted to be surrounded by greatness?”

She smirks back. “Yeah. Kind of like right now.”

You cough, trying to cover the grin that breaks out too fast.

“Wow,” you say, shaking your head. “Are you flirting with your host mid answer?”

“You started it.”

“Very unprofessional. I’m literally just doing my job.”

“And doing it very well,” she says, with zero hesitation.

You blink. The room feels warmer. Or maybe it’s just you. You pull it back together, even if it takes effort.

“Okay. Back on track before I combust,” you mutter. “UConn. Talk me through it. Year one. Year two. Everything.”

She exhales again, a little softer now.

“It changed me,” she says simply.

You let the pause settle. “How?”

She looks at the ceiling, then down at her hands, fingers lightly curled in her lap. “I think there’s this myth that when you get to a place like UConn, you arrive fully formed. Like, you’re already who you’re supposed to be. But I wasn’t. Not even close.”

You nod, gently. “None of us are at eighteen.”

“I was scared,” she admits. “I was confident on the court, yeah. But everything off it? The pressure. The expectations. The comparisons. It messed with my head.”

There’s no pity in your expression—just knowing. You’ve watched too many athletes burn out under the same spotlight.

“I got hurt, too,” she continues. “Sophomore year. That knee.”

Your voice softens. “I remember.”

“Everyone remembers. It’s weird, you know? Being reduced to a timeline. ‘Six weeks out. Six months. A year. Will she be back for March? Is she ever gonna be the same?’ I stopped being a person and started being... a question.”

You don’t rush in with sympathy. You just let her have the silence. She fills it naturally.

“But I had people,” she says, voice gentler now. “My teammates. The trainers. Geno.”

“What was he like through that?” you ask. “Because people love to paint him as this gruff, yelling machine.”

She grins. “He is. But also... he listens. When you let him. When I was quiet—too quiet—he noticed. And he pulled me aside one day after practice. Didn’t yell. Just said, ‘I know it sucks. But you’re still here. That matters.’”

You write that quote down before you realize you’re doing it.

You glance at her again, and she’s watching you with a kind of cautious ease, like she’s not used to people writing her words down without turning them into headlines.

You smile. “You grew up at UConn.”

She nods. “I really did.”

“Who was your rock while you were there?”

“Azzi,” she says immediately.

There’s a new kind of stillness in her voice. Familial, rooted, undeniable.

“Azzi was—she is—one of the most disciplined people I’ve ever met,” Paige continues. “Like, I’d be on the couch recovering and she’d come in from shooting for two hours and say, ‘Want to play Uno?’ Like it was nothing.”

You laugh. “What’s the Uno score between you two?”

“Oh, I stopped keeping track when I realized she cheats.”

“She what?”

“Allegedly,” Paige adds, eyes twinkling.

You grin. “I’m putting that in the episode title. ‘Paige Bueckers Accuses Azzi Fudd of Cheating at Uno.’”

“She’s gonna kill me,” Paige laughs.

“She’ll love it.” You hesitate. “It sounds like you really leaned on her.”

“I did,” she says. “But not just for the injuries or the hard stuff. For the little stuff too. Like, post-game takeout orders. Netflix recs. The stupid stuff that makes it all feel normal.”

“And what about team chemistry?” you ask. “Because from the outside, that UConn squad felt... locked in. Like you’d die for each other.”

“We would’ve,” she says softly.

You’re quiet for a beat. “That real, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, we had our fights. We had our off days. But we always knew how to come back to center. I think that’s what made it work.”

You sit in that. The weight of it. The warmth.

“What was the moment you knew,” you ask slowly, “that you weren’t just good—you were built for this?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her mouth moves around the air like she’s sifting through time.

“There was a game my junior year,” she says. “We were down at halftime. I’d missed, like, seven shots. Geno told me I looked like I forgot who I was.”

You smile at the phrasing. “Classic.”

“Yeah. But it hit me. Because he was right. I’d let doubt take over. So the second half, I didn’t think. I just played. And I think I had, like... seventeen points in the third quarter alone.”

You whistle. “That’s not just playing. That’s poetry.”

She shrugs. “That’s UConn.”

You glance down, heart still tight from the way she said all of it—like she left pieces of herself behind on that court.

“You ever miss it?” you ask gently.

She nods, quick. “All the time.”

“What do you miss most?”

There’s a pause. Then, “The routine. The locker room. The smell of old sweat and bad jokes. Running suicides and pretending not to cry. Group chats about who forgot to bring their shoes. You know—real team stuff.”

“God,” you murmur, laughing, “that’s weirdly specific and deeply nostalgic.”

She grins. “It’s the stuff no one sees that sticks.” You nod again, feeling it. You’ve never been a college athlete, but you’ve been on enough sidelines to understand how those echoes live in you long after the lights fade. “And I trusted my gut when I went there. I still do.” You lift your gaze. Her voice drops, just slightly. “It’s never let me down.”

Your breath hitches.

Something about the way she says it—low, unwavering, not for show—cracks open a tiny place in you. You mirror it without thinking.

“I know what you mean,” you say. Your voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

There’s a beat. Neither of you look away. Neither of you speak. The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, not forced. Just... full.

If Em were in the room, she’d throw something at you. If your editor were watching live, they’d be marking timestamps for clips. You only break the stare because you have to. Not because you want to. You glance down at your notes, which might as well be written in a foreign language now. Nothing on the page matters as much as the thing still buzzing between you and her. When you look back up, Paige is watching you like she’s been doing it the whole time.

You clear your throat. “Well. That was a moment.”

She tilts her head. “Was it?”

“I think I blacked out.”

She laughs, soft and low. “You should trust your gut more.”

You smile, a little breathless. “I think I just did.”

The mics are still rolling. But it doesn’t feel like they’re there.

You ease into the next part of the conversation with practiced grace, but inside, your heart’s still caught on that last moment. The weight of her words. The look that didn’t blink. You’ve had sparks with guests before, but this… this isn’t a spark. It’s a slow burn, one you feel blooming low in your chest, rising like tidewater. Dangerous. Delicious. And entirely unprofessional. But you’re past the point of pretending you don’t enjoy it.

“So,” you say into the mic, voice steadied by muscle memory more than calm, “we’ve talked childhood. We’ve talked college. Let’s talk now. Dallas. Big city. New team. WNBA life. What’s that been like for you so far?”

Paige shifts in her seat. She’s a little more relaxed now—arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly spinning the cap of her water bottle. She smiles, slow and thoughtful.

“It’s... a lot,” she admits, almost laughing at herself. “There’s no other way to say it. It’s fast. Like, faster than I expected. Not just the game—though the speed of the league is insane—but everything. Schedules. Flights. Practices. Media. I feel like I live out of a suitcase now.”

You lean forward a little, eyes on her. “No more dorm room comfort zones.”

“Exactly. I miss knowing where everything is. My spots. The routine. But this—this is pushing me. It’s making me grow. I like that.”

“Tell me about the team,” you say, pen loosely tucked behind your ear, even though you’re not using it anymore. “Because that’s not just any locker room. You’ve got Arike. You’ve got DiJonai. That’s some serious personality to walk into.”

She laughs, head tilting back for a second. “It’s wild. In the best way. Arike’s got this energy that’s just... loud in the most joyful, chaotic way. She’ll walk into practice already roasting everyone. And DiJonai is the most stylish person I’ve ever met. She’ll show up in a full fit at 8 a.m. like it’s fashion week.”

You grin. “Do you feel like the rookie?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, smiling again. “They keep me humble. Arike made me carry her bag once just because I beat her at a shooting drill.”

“That’s hazing.”

“She called it character building.”

“Same thing.”

“She’s lucky I like her.”

“You like them both?”

“I do,” she says, with warmth that feels earned. “It’s different from college. You don’t have that built-in family right away. You’ve gotta prove yourself. Earn their trust. But they’ve been really supportive. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

“Do you mess up a lot?”

She shrugs. “I think everyone does. But I try to learn fast.”

“And leadership?” you ask. “You were the leader at UConn. Now you’re the rookie again. How’s that shift been?”

She hesitates—just enough for you to catch it.

“It’s humbling,” she says after a beat. “At UConn, people looked to me. Now I’m learning to speak less, listen more. It’s weird, finding your voice again. In a new system. A new city.”

You nod. “For what it’s worth? You’re doing a good job here.”

Her eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve got presence. And you don’t dodge the real stuff.”

A pause. Not long, but full. Charged.

“I think that’s the best compliment I’ve gotten all week,” she says, voice low.

“Maybe I’ll try to beat it before we’re done.”

“Now that’s dangerous,” she says, echoing the phrase from earlier, lips twitching at the edges.

The air between you pulls tighter, warmer. You push forward before it swallows you whole.

“All right,” you say, clearing your throat like that’ll clear the heat in your chest. “Walk me through a day in the life of Paige Bueckers. Not game day. Just... a random off-day in Dallas.”

She exhales like it’s a relief to shift gears.

“I wake up late,” she admits, eyes flicking to yours like she’s confessing a crime. “I’m not a morning person unless I have to be. So maybe 9:30, 10?”

“A rebel,” you murmur.

She smiles. “I stretch. Journal sometimes. Depends on the mood. Then maybe a walk. I like walking. Especially in new places.”

“City walks? Nature? What’s the vibe?”

“City. I like the noise. Headphones in. No destination.”

You hum. “You people watch?”

“Always.”

“And the music?”

She smirks. “What do you think I listen to?”

You blink, caught off guard by the pivot. “Oh, we’re flipping the interview now?”

“Just curious,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye. “What does your gut tell you?”

You lean back, arms crossed, mock-thinking.

“You strike me as an R&B girl,” you say. “Smooth, layered, a little introverted. You’ve definitely got some SZA in rotation. Maybe Summer Walker. Some old Alicia Keys when you’re feeling dramatic.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed.

“But,” you continue, slowly, “I also think you secretly listen to sad Taylor Swift songs on planes.”

That does it. She laughs so hard she folds in on herself, hand over her mouth.

“I—how did you—”

“I knew it,” you say, victorious. “You’re a ‘Clean’ or ‘The Archer’ type, huh?”

She’s still laughing. “You don’t miss.”

“You are the archer,” you tease. “Careful aim. Hidden feelings. Lowkey brooding.”

“Oh my God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You’re exposing me.”

“You exposed yourself, Bueckers.”

She grins. “You’ve been studying me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just doing my homework.”

“Dangerous,” she repeats again, softer this time.

You catch her gaze, and there it is—something wordless passing between you. Not scripted. Not planned. Just real.

Em’s voice crackles in your ear piece again, distant but amused, “Tell them to get a room.”

You cough. “Sorry, my producer says we’re flirting too hard.”

“Is she wrong?” Paige asks, still smiling.

“Isn’t that for the audience to decide?”

You both laugh. But it’s different now—layered. Knowing. You glance back down at your outline and realize, again, that you haven’t touched it in ten minutes.

“Any hobbies?” you ask, lighter now. “Other than walking with your headphones in and contemplating your entire emotional landscape through sad pop lyrics?”

She groans. “Stop.”

You grin. “Never.”

“I read,” she offers, regaining composure. “Mostly sports bios, but sometimes fiction. Stuff that lets me disappear a little.”

“And when you want to reappear?”

She looks at you, half-tilted smile, eyes softer. “I guess… I come back to things like this. Conversations. People who see me.”

You weren’t ready for that one. You blink, breath catching in your throat.

“Well,” you say, voice suddenly a little unsteady, “hi.”

She mirrors your tone. “Hi.”

And for the third time in less than an hour, you forget entirely that there are cameras on.

You lean back into your chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“All right,” you say, tone shifting into something more playful, “you’ve survived the deep dive. You’ve given us poetry, heartbreak, growth arcs. But now it’s time for the real journalism.”

Paige raises a brow, lips twitching. “Oh no.”

“Rapid fire round,” you announce, adjusting your mic dramatically. “No overthinking. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. You ready?”

She nods slowly, suspicious but smiling. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Favorite cheat meal.”

“Chick-fil-A. Spicy deluxe.”

You fake a gasp. “Problematic and spicy. Bold choice.”

She snorts. “Gotta be honest.”

“Pre-game ritual?”

“Getting lost in the music. Right sock on before the left.”

“Superstitious or just vibing?”

“Superstitious. Like, irrationally.”

You make a note. “We’ll revisit that in therapy.”

She laughs, shaking her head.

“Biggest pet peeve?”

“People chewing with their mouths open.”

“That’s fair. What are you bad at?”

There’s a pause, a beat longer than expected. She licks her lips, almost shy.

“Texting back,” she admits.

“Oh?” You lean forward, faux serious. “We’ve found the flaw.”

“Hey,” she says, defensive but laughing. “I read them! I just… don’t reply. Or I do, like, in my head. It’s a problem.”

“You know,” you muse, “that’s dangerous behavior for someone flirting on a podcast.”

She meets your gaze, eyes gleaming. “Who says I won’t reply to you?”

The silence after that is louder than anything you’ve recorded today.

You raise your brows, smirk playing at the edge of your mouth. “We’ll circle back.”

She grins. “Looking forward to it.”

You break eye contact because if you don’t, you’ll fall face-first into it again. Instead, you shuffle your notes, breathe slowly, and shift the tone with practiced ease.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “can I tell you something?”

Paige blinks, surprised by the sudden turn, but nods. “Yeah.”

You rest your elbows on your knees, fingers laced loosely. The studio feels smaller now, intimate. Like the lights have dimmed without anyone touching a switch.

“I started this podcast in my college dorm,” you begin. “Borrowed mics. Blankets tacked on the walls for soundproofing. No sponsors. No following. Just… this need to make space for women’s sports. For athletes who were always doing the most and getting the least attention.”

Paige’s expression shifts—softer, listening in a different way.

“I was mad,” you continue. “That no one was talking about it. Mad that I had to dig through forums and niche blogs to find out when a W game was airing. Mad that girls were breaking records and getting two seconds of coverage between football updates.”

You glance at her, and she’s not smiling anymore. She’s just watching you, gaze warm and unwavering.

“So I built this,” you say. “One episode at a time. And now we’re here. You’re here. And it means a lot.”

She sits with that. Doesn’t rush to respond. Just lets it breathe.

Then she says, quiet and sincere, “Thank you.”

You look up. “For what?”

“For doing it,” she replies. “For caring. For showing up. For giving people like me space to be more than stats and soundbites.”

It hits you harder than you expect. You swallow, nod.

“Sometimes it feels like yelling into the void,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, voice steady, “I hear you.”

And God, the way she says it. Like it’s not just about this podcast. Like she sees more than you’re willing to show. Like she’s been listening to you, even before she stepped into the studio.

The moment lingers. Longer than it should. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. You’re the first to shift, eyes flicking down to your notes. But your voice is soft when you ask the next question.

“All right. Last one. No pressure.”

She leans back a little, sensing the shift. “Hit me.”

“What’s something people always get wrong about you?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Paige’s gaze drops to her hands, fingers twisting the cap of her water bottle again. She breathes in slowly, then out.

“That I’m always put together,” she says finally.

You don’t speak. You just let her keep going.

“I think people look at the highlights and the press and assume I’ve got it all figured out. That I’m calm. Collected. That I don’t break down. But I do. A lot. I get nervous. I overthink. I put so much pressure on myself it sometimes feels like I can’t breathe.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, but it thins a little at the edges.

“I smile through it, because that’s what people expect. But inside? I’m scared all the time. That I’m not enough. That I’ll mess up. That they’ll stop believing in me.”

You nod, slow. “That’s real.”

She exhales. “Yeah.”

You glance at her, and your tone gentles even more.

“Me too,” you say.

She turns toward you.

“I get nervous before every interview,” you admit. “Even now. Especially now.”

Her brows lift slightly. “With me?”

You nod. “Yeah. You’re… more than I expected.” That makes her smile again. Small. Honest. “You’re doing great,” you tell her.

“So are you,” she replies, and something shifts again in the air—like a curtain pulled back, or a room getting quieter when someone important walks in.

The lights haven’t changed. The mics are still on. But everything feels different. You don’t need to say anything else. You just sit in it. Together.

You’ve never wanted an interview to end less.

It’s not just that the episode’s been good—though, objectively, it’s been one of your best. The pacing, the banter, the rhythm. The intimacy that crept in somewhere around the midpoint and never left. It’s all been magnetic. Electric. Like your favorite kind of story, the one you fall into so deeply you forget you’re holding the book.

But time’s up. You feel it before Em signals it in your ear. Before the last question fades into a silence thick with things unsaid.

You tap the edge of the mic once and clear your throat, voice calm but low.

“Well… that’s gonna do it for today’s episode of She Scores.”

Paige’s eyes are still on you, softer than they were an hour ago.

You glance at her, smile twitching at the corners of your mouth.

“Paige Bueckers, thank you for coming through, for sharing your story, and for ruining all other guests for me from this point forward.”

She laughs under her breath. “High praise.”

“I mean it,” you say, more serious now. “This was special.”

She doesn’t speak right away. When she does, her voice is quiet.

“I had fun,” she says.

You nod once, throat tightening for some reason you don’t have time to name.

“I’m your host,” you say into the mic, still looking at her, “and if you need me, I’ll be rewatching this episode on mute just to study eye contact.”

She lets out a full laugh—quiet, disbelieving, charmed. You don’t break the stare.

“And as always,” you finish, voice slow and warm, “thanks for listening. We’ll see you next time.”

The red light clicks off.

The studio doesn’t move right away. It rarely does. Your crew’s used to your pacing, your cadence. They let the moment breathe. But eventually, lights dim to neutral, camera arms swing away, and a few muted voices pick up as people begin unplugging cables and shutting down feeds.

You lean back in your seat, drawing a slow breath.

She stretches her legs slightly, then looks over at you. “That went fast.”

You nod. “That’s how you know it’s good.”

She stands first. You do the same. Neither of you rushes.

Em walks past the set, holding a half-rolled cable over her shoulder. She catches your eye and smirks. You ignore her.

Paige lingers by the couch, hands in her pockets, looking around the studio like she wants to memorize it.

You don’t say anything. You just watch her watching everything.

After a beat, you walk over and gesture toward the door.

“I’ll walk you out.”

She nods. “Cool.”

You step into the quiet hallway side by side. The air’s cooler here, and the low hum of fluorescent lights follows you down the corridor until you reach the side exit near the green room. You stop there, under a small overhead light. It's soft. Pale. Like a halo waiting to happen.

Paige turns slightly and leans back against the wall, her shoulder brushing the cool brick, arms crossed loosely.

“You’re really good at this,” she says.

You tilt your head, amused. “The podcast?”

She shrugs. “All of it. This space. The way you talk to people. It feels... safe.”

That takes the wind out of you a little. In the best way.

You take a small step closer.

“You made it easy,” you say, voice low.

She smiles again. Not wide. Just real. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then—without a word—she pulls out her phone and holds it toward you, screen lit up on the contact page.

“In case I need help prepping for interviews,” she says. You take the phone, eyebrows raised. “Or something like that,” she adds, teasing but quiet.

You type in your number, thumb hovering for a second before you hit save. You don’t add an emoji or anything extra. Just your name. Clean. Simple. But your heart’s not moving simple. It’s skipping. Tripping.

You hand the phone back and she looks at it for a second, nods once, then locks the screen and slips it back into her pocket.

“Well,” she says.

“Well,” you echo.

The silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Just unfinished.

You don’t hug. You don’t say too much. You don’t have to.

She opens the door and steps out into the early evening light. You watch her walk down the path toward the lot—hair catching gold from the sunset, one headphone already in.

She doesn’t look back.

But you stay there, standing in the doorway, your hands tucked into your pockets like maybe they’ll keep you from feeling too much.

A moment later, Em walks up behind you, pausing in the doorway.

She glances at Paige’s retreating figure. Then at you. “You are so down bad.”

You exhale. Slow. A smile cracks the corner of your mouth.

“I know.”

You don’t deny it. You just watch the door swing slowly shut, and try not to already miss her.

It’s just past 8:30 p.m. when a knock comes.

You’re on your couch, bare-faced, in sweats, hair tied up in a lopsided bun. The post-interview high has settled into a quiet hum in your chest, the kind that doesn’t want to fade but also can’t be sustained. You haven’t eaten yet. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The remote’s resting on your stomach. You were debating rewatching the episode clips Em already sent you—Paige’s soft laugh on loop, her eyes lingering on yours like there was more she wasn’t saying.

You haven’t even touched your phone. You’ve been too afraid to find out whether she texted or didn’t.

The knock happens again.

You freeze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not food delivery, not friends, not—

No.

No way.

You rise slowly, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, and pad barefoot toward the door.

When you open it, you forget how to breathe.

Paige Bueckers is standing on your doorstep, backlit by the hallway’s overhead glow, a bunch of wildflowers in one hand and two overfilled grocery bags in the other. She’s wearing joggers and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair down, glasses slightly crooked, like she threw the whole look together in a rush.

You stare.

She blinks, then offers a crooked smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, dumbly.

She lifts the flowers a little. “So… I might’ve told Em I wanted to see you again and she might’ve given me your address.”

You narrow your eyes. “That little traitor.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘She’s down bad so don’t mess this up.’”

You groan into your hand.

“You’re not the only one,” Paige adds, laughing.

You step back and open the door wider. “Get in here before someone sees you and sells the story to DeuxMoi.”

She steps inside. You take the grocery bags from her hand, eyes scanning their contents—pasta, wine, garlic bread, salad mix, two pints of ice cream, and a suspiciously expensive-looking block of parmesan.

You blink. “This is… a lot of food.”

“I panicked,” she admits, cheeks pink. “I was going to ask you out for dinner tomorrow, but then I realized I didn’t want to wait.”

You look up at her.

She shrugs. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s—God, it’s not weird. It’s really not weird.”

“Good.” She shifts the flowers in her arms. “Because I was kind of already halfway here when I realized I didn’t actually ask.”

You reach for the flowers. “Consider me asked. And saying yes.” You pause. “Like… yes, yes.”

“Yeah?” she asks, a little breathless.

You grin. “Yeah.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re both barefoot in your kitchen. She’s stirring the sauce while you try, and fail, to open the bottle of wine. Soft music plays from the speaker you usually reserve for sad Sunday cleaning sessions.

There’s flour on your cheek, red sauce on her hoodie sleeve, and an entire salad still untouched in a bowl because the two of you got distracted talking about pre-game pump up songs and you accidentally brought up her Rookie of the Month highlight reel with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I knew you watched that ten times,” she teases, hip bumping you lightly.

“I was doing research.”

“For what? Your dreams?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

She sets the spoon down and turns to you, leaning her hip into the counter. “This is nice.”

You nod, heart thudding against your ribs. “It is.”

You’re quiet for a second. Not uncomfortable—just full again. The kind of silence where things settle without losing spark.

Then she tilts her head.

“I didn’t want the night to end,” she says, voice lower now. “After the podcast. I kept thinking about everything I didn’t say.”

“Like what?” you ask, careful not to move too fast.

She meets your gaze. “Like how I didn’t want it to be just one interview. Or one conversation. Or one night.”

Your breath catches.

She steps a little closer, the space between you narrowing to something charged.

“I know we’re both busy,” she murmurs. “Schedules. Travel. Different States. Media stuff. But I wanted you to know that I meant it—when I said you made me feel safe. Like I could be myself.”

You swallow. “You were yourself.”

“Because of you,” she says, no hesitation.

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of her, the steadiness in her voice. Her hand brushes yours on the countertop.

“So,” she says softly, “if this is just dinner, that’s okay. But if it’s something more—if it could be more—I’d like that.”

You don’t speak. You just lean in and press your forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut, everything inside you humming.

“I’d like that too,” you whisper.

Her fingers graze yours, then hold.

Outside, the city keeps moving—cars passing, lights blinking, lives rushing past. But in your kitchen, time slows down. The sauce simmers. The wine breathes. And for the first time in a long time, so do you.

[luvergirl-535]

off-limits, on purpose

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 9.4k

c/w - privateschool!au, paige and nika are rivals, incredibly self-indulgent with little to no plot. read at your own will 😔.

a/n - reworked fic that i had written from a couple years ago, rediscovered, and decided to make pazzi lol. there will be a bonus part which is even more unserious than this one.

“I just don’t think they’re a very good fit. Not to be rude or anything—I mean, she’s probably super nice—but don’t you think he’s a little out of her league? I mean, a lot out of her league.” Nika smiles a little, amused at herself. “Like, miles out.”

“Stop, I’m so glad I’m not the only one.” Jana picks up her phone and starts searching for something. “Have you seen the picture she posted on her story yet? It’s so embarrassing.”

Nika snorts. “I don’t keep up with what she posts.” But she still looks eagerly when Jana hands her the phone, and her eyes widen when she looks at it. She clasps a hand over her mouth, looking almost nauseated, like she just watched one of those weird animal birth videos they were forced to watch in health class.

Azzi shovels another bite of pasta into her mouth, hoping they don’t rope her into whatever they’re talking about because she didn’t have time for breakfast this morning and she’s hungry, but unfortunately, Jana nudges her and shoves the phone in her face. “Look, Az. It’s bad, right?”

Azzi spares a glance at the photo. It’s a picture of this random girl that she kind of recognizes but doesn’t know the name of, and Jalen, a mutual friend of theirs, has his arm wrapped around her. She has to admit, it isn’t a very flattering picture on the girl’s part. It’s not bad, but not good, either. She looks a little jaundiced, maybe, but that’s just the lighting.

Needless to say, it’s not very interesting. At least not more interesting than her food. So she just says, “Why are we talking about this girl, again? Do any of us even know her name?”

“Well, no—she’s just dating Jalen. And she always stares at us in chemistry.” Nika gives a dainty little shrug. “But that’s the point. She’s…weird. She’s always writing in that little notebook and I’m pretty sure she grows weed in the school greenhouse.

Okay, Azzi has to agree. Whenever she sees this girl, she always has an aroma, and she usually has pit stains, which is, like, a surefire way to knock yourself down a couple of pegs on the social hierarchy.

“We might have to disown Jalen if he keeps dating her,” Jana says, her voice low and conspiratorial, like she thinks Jalen himself might sneak up on them at any moment. “She’ll definitely take him to the dark side.”

“Ew, gross. Let’s hope he has more common sense than that.”

Azzi pulls her phone out of her pocket, officially bored of the conversation. The gossip has been lame today, with Jalen’s new love interest being the only thing her best friends can seem to talk about. She sort of wishes for something terrible to happen to somebody, like a circulated sex tape or an unwanted pregnancy, but then she scolds herself for thinking that because it’s one of those thoughts that Jana would call ’fucked up’ and ‘crossing a line.’ Jana is the moral compass of the group.

Just as Azzi is about to suggest they go vape in the bathroom or something, a general hush falls over the cafeteria. She recognizes the sudden silence as the same silence that falls whenever she walks into a room. And besides Nika and Jana, there’s only one other person in the whole school who can elicit this kind of reaction.

Nika’s eyes widen at something behind Azzi and Jana, and the two share a look before turning to see what all the fuss is about—though there’s no reason to look. They already know.

It’s Paige Bueckers.

And she’s dressed in the exact same outfit as Nika.

At their private school, there is a standardized uniform that everybody has to wear, which are only slightly less horrid than the standard public school uniforms in their area. Even though they’re expensive and made of high-end fabrics, the student body hates wearing them. They’re stuffy, hard to get into, and the skirts that the girls have to wear squeeze your waist until you’re blue. So, in her freshman year, Azzi, as student body president—three years running, now—fought long and hard to give them all a day every two weeks where they can wear whatever the hell they want.

Some come wearing shorts and bikini tops, even in the winter.

Some come wearing the most outrageous, hideous costumes Azzi has ever seen in her life.

And Nika Muhl? She comes wearing all of her daddy’s money in the form of a stylish top and jeans tailored specifically to her. She makes absolutely sure that every outfit will be nothing any of her peers have seen or even dreamed of wearing before.

And here Paige is—Nika’s self-proclaimed rival and toughest competition—wearing the same exact outfit as Nika, all the way down to the baby pink lipgoss.

Azzi puts her head in her hands and groans. She does not have the energy to deal with the storm that will surely follow this. Not today.

“What. The. Fuck.” Jana’s mouth is slightly open, and she’s giving Paige her most practiced mean girl stare, but Paige couldn’t care less. She struts across the room like she owns the place and sends a chin nod Azzi’s way. The smile on her face is probably the most satisfied, egotistical expression Azzi has ever seen.

After Paige and her little posse have sat down at their respective table, and the noise levels in the caf have gone back to normal, Azzi spares a glance at Nika. On the outside, she looks calm and collected, perfectly unbothered. But Azzi can tell by the way she fidgets with her hair, by the way her cheeks are a touch pinker than her Dior blush usually makes them, that she’s absolutely seething on the inside.

“Oh, my god.” Jana looks at both of them, her mouth still open, and Azzi nudges it closed before she starts drooling or something. “Nika, I…”

Nika puts a hand up, effectively silencing their friend. “Don’t. Don’t even try to talk to me right now. I think I’m going to faint.” She says all of this with a small smile on her face, like she’s gossiping with them about something funny, but her tone is pure venom.

Though Azzi gets scared of Nika in these moments, she decides to speak up. “Maybe we should go to the bathroom and—“

“Don’t be dumb, Azzi.” This is a sentence that is repeated a lot whenever they all spend time together. “Do you know how bad it would look for me if we got up and left right after that?” she shakes her head decidedly. “No. We’re going to sit here and eat our food until five minutes before the bell rings, and then we’re going to go and grab drinks from the cafe before lunch is over. Just like we always do.”

Azzi wants to roll her eyes, because Nika’s really being just a little dramatic about all of this, but her phone dings and she looks at it before standing up. “Okay, well, I’m leaving. I have to piss. Nika—“ she reaches across the table to pet Nika’s hair—“we can work this out later, babe. It’ll be fine until then. You’re wearing the outfit better, anyway.”

“I know that,” Nika snaps, but she leans into Azzi’s hand and smiles just a little.

Azzi blows them a kiss as she walks backwards, her heels clicking on the floors. They both pretend to catch it like the giant dorks they are and then they go back to gossiping, this time more heatedly than before. No doubt they’re talking about how they’re going to get back at Paige for this little stunt.

As soon as they’re distracted, Azzi spins around and makes a beeline for room 203A. This room used to be a counseling office, like, years ago, but then the counselors all got their own classrooms and the school must have forgotten about this one, because it’s relatively small and tucked away in an easy-to-miss hallway. It’s also perpetually unlocked. A perfect hideaway.

Azzi closes the door behind her with a soft click, and she thinks that she’s alone until someone speaks up from a dim corner of the room.

“Hey.” It’s Paige, sitting on top of the counselor’s desk, leaning back against her hands. “That was fast.”

Azzi doesn’t comment on how Paige was the fast one—seriously, Azzi hadn’t even thought she’d left the cafeteria yet—because she’s too upset. She crosses her arms and glares at Paige. “That was a bitchy thing to do.”

Paige raises her eyebrows. “What was?”

Azzi does roll her eyes now, and she rolls them hard. “You know what. I’m going to have to deal with Nika for probably the rest of the week because of you.”

“I mean, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. Because she’s my best friend, Paige.” Azzi leans back against the door, trying to act like she doesn’t want to walk over to that desk and stand in between Paige’s legs. “And it really wasn’t cool of you to mess with her. Not today, out of all days.”

For a moment, Paige’s eyebrows furrow like she’s confused. And then the realization dawns and the easy smile turns to a frown as she slides off her desk. At least she has the decency to look guilty. “Right. Your game. I—“

“Forgot?” Azzi scoffs. She feels sort of bad for making Paige guilty about this, because the whole wearing-the-same-outfit-as-Nika thing really isn’t that big of a deal. But the fact that Paige forgot about her soccer game? She’s been talking about this for weeks. “Yeah, I thought you might’ve. I mean, it’s not a surprise.”

Azzi isn’t oblivious to how Paige is slowly making her way towards her, but she ignores it. “You’ve barely been answering my texts the past couple of days. You haven’t so much as made eye contact with me in Spanish. This is the first time this week that we’re meeting in here, the first time this week that I’m actually talking to you in person.” Paige’s close now, within reaching distance, but she doesn’t touch, which is good because Azzi’s not finished yet. “And I was already kind of pissed at you, Paige, and then you forget about this game when you know it’s important to me. And now I’m really mad at you. Like, really, really mad.”

The corners of Paige’s lips quirk up for just a moment, which makes Azzi even more angry. “That mad, huh?” she almost seems amused, but then she’s frowning again. “Listen, Az, I’m—I didn’t know you were so upset. I didn’t mean to ghost you or anything, I swear. I thought you were fine with the distance, because you didn’t say anything.”

How could Azzi possibly have been fine with the distance? Sure, distance is okay—healthy—but without warning?

Azzi sighs, reminds herself that she’s getting all worked up over next to nothing, that this is just pent-up frustration from the past week. She runs a hand through her hair and looks down. “I guess I just got a little scared.”

“Of what?” Paige asks gently.

“I don’t know.” Paige reaches out and tugs on her wrist, and Azzi lets herself be pulled into her arms, because she’s been missing this closeness all week. She wraps her arms around Paige’s waist, rests her head on her shoulder, breathes her in. “That you found some cooler, smarter, taller girl than me and were planning to, like, dump me in front of the whole school.” She pauses. “Or something.”

Paige takes her upper arms and pushes her back a little so she can look at her face. Paige definitely looks amused now, and Azzi feels silly. “Taller? You think I’m going to leave you because you’re five ten?”

“Don’t laugh!” Azzi hits Paige’s midriff, embarrassed. “I’m serious. You just stopped talking to me out of nowhere and I got scared.”

“No, you’re right,” Paige says, and she seems to be serious now. “I shouldn’t have done that. And I also shouldn’t have forgotten about your game. I know how excited you’ve been for it, but I guess since we haven’t talked a lot this week, it just…slipped my mind.”

Azzi takes a step away. “Can you tell me why you stopped talking to me?”

Paige shrugs uncomfortably. She avoids Azzi’s eyes. “I guess…I don’t know. We’d just been spending sort of every waking minute together for the past couple of weeks, and I wanted…needed a little space.” She glances up nervously, and Azzi realizes with a sinking feeling that Paige thinks this will make her more mad.

“Paige, you know that’s okay, right?” she cups Paige’s face in her hands, making her look her in the eye. “It’s totally fine to need space. I get it. I was starting to feel a little suffocated too with how much time we were spending together,” Azzi admits. “All you needed to do was say that, and I would have given you space.”

Paige takes Azzi’s hands off of her face and wraps them around her shoulders just as the bell rings. Neither of them pay any mind to it. “I’m sorry I didn’t do that. And I’m sorry for making you so mad. And I’m really sorry for forgetting about your game.”

Azzi smiles softly, because she’s a sucker. “It’s okay. I should have communicated better. But, to be honest, I think I’m just sort of grumpy because I haven’t gotten to kiss you all week.”

“Oh, that makes sense. That’s an unfortunate situation.” Paige nods somberly. “I would be sad about not getting to kiss myself, too.”

Honestly, this girl needs to get her ego in check. Majorly. “Shut up.”

“Not unless you make me.”

Azzi shakes her head at the dumb line, but she leans up and kisses her girlfriend anyway.

Paige presses her against the door, pushes against Azzi’s lips with her tongue, and Azzi opens up for her. They make out like that for a while before Paige kisses her cheek and then traces a wet path down Azzi’s jaw, playfully nibbling at a ticklish spot that makes Azzi giggle.

“Be honest,” Paige says, pulling away to smile at her. “I’m pulling off this shit way better than Nika is, right?”

All Azzi really hears is pulling off, which is certainly something she’d like to do to the outfit because Paige always looks best in nothing, but the thought is concerning enough to make her lean away. She’s never skipped class before, and she’s not going to start now.

Paige senses that their time is almost over, and she slips a hand under Azzi’s shirt, rubbing small circles on her tummy with her thumb. “We’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, P,” Azzi replies honestly, because she can never stay mad at Paige, not when she looks at her like she is now. “We are.”

“Okay.” Paige presses one last kiss against her lips, then takes a reluctant step away. “I love you.”

Azzi blushes, then really hates Paige for making her the type of girl to blush at all. “I love you, too.”

She collects her bearings, and just before she walks out of the door, she says, “And yes, by the way. You’re definitely pulling it off better than Nika.”

She gets to her class only ten minutes late, but Jana still looks at her weirdly when she walks in. Azzi doesn’t know if the look is because of her tardiness or the probably stupid smile on her face.

“What’s up with you?” she whispers when Azzi sits down, immediately handing her one of her earbuds to share. “Did you take a really good shit in the bathroom or something?”

Azzi shoves her. Jana says gross things sometimes. “No. Just hit my pen.”

Jana hums suspiciously, then gets back to the writing exercises that they’re supposed to be doing. Azzi pulls out her laptop to do the same, relieved that Jana’s not going to interrogate her like Nika most definitely would.

But as she’s moving onto the second exercise, Jana brushes a thumb over her jaw and says, “Is that lipgloss?”

Usually, Azzi is very good at controlling her reactions, but now she lifts a hand way to quickly to cover the side of her jaw that Paige was kissing just minutes earlier. She can’t believe she didn’t check herself in the mirror before coming to class.

“It looks like the lipgloss Nika’s wearing,” Jana comments. Azzi clears her throat and brings her pencil back to paper, trying her very best to act nonchalant.

“Yeah, she kissed me on the cheek earlier. It must have smudged.”

Azzi feels Jana’s eyes burning into the side of her head, but still she looks firmly down, refusing to give anything for Jana to catch onto.

Eventually she just shrugs. “Oh. Okay.”

She hardly sounds convinced.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

If you were to ask Azzi why she’s secretly dating her best friend’s rival, she would tell you it’s because the secrecy, the sneaking around, the Romeo and Juliet-esque relationship, is exactly what makes dating Paige Bueckers so fun.

This, of course, would be a lie.

The real reason is because Azzi doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone who can make her feel quite the same way that Paige can, nor does she think she ever could. Which may sound a little pretentious and naive, but it’s how she feels.

Paige brings her flowers for no reason at all. Paige listens when she talks about her absentee dad and insufferable mom. Paige lets her lean on her shoulder when everything else in her life is just a little to heavy for her to bear on her own. And, maybe most importantly of all, Paige is, like, a really good kisser.

It all sounds so cliche and juvenile even to Azzi’s own ears, but to her, what they have is maybe the most substantial thing in her life.

Which makes her feel beyond guilty, because since when does she betray her best friends? Has she forgotten how Nika was the first person to ever really listen to Azzi, to talk her through any and every problem she may have? Or how Jana is the only person in the entire world who can help Azzi breathe through a panic attack, who can sense when something is going on at home?

Her friends aren’t artificial. Her friends are just as real as Paige is. Her friends don’t deserve to be left out of the loop of such an important aspect of Azzi’s life, and they certainly don’t deserve for Azzi to turn around and stab them in the back like she does every single day, like she’s been doing every single day for the past three years.

But Azzi is happy with Paige. Happy with her in a way she isn’t with her friends. And, despite all her flaws and all the admittedly mean things she’d said about people in the past, doesn’t she deserve to be happy?

“I can leave, if you want.”

Azzi bites her lip and glances over at Paige, who’s watching her cautiously. She wants to ask Why? or Did I do something? But she knows exactly why Paige’s offering.

She’s having a bad day. She woke up wallowing in her insecurity and has spent the day an anxious ball of guilty energy. She really should have said no when Paige offered to come to her place after school to study, but she thought maybe the company would make her feel better.

Instead, it might be making her feel even worse. All she can think about is how terrible of a friend she is and how terrible of a girlfriend she is and how she’s also sort of a bad person in general.

So, obviously, she’s a little irritable and more than a little distant. When Paige kissed her when they got up to her bedroom, she pulled away almost immediately; when Paige reached over to hold her hand while they were doing homework, she let go as soon as possible under the guise of needing to find a new pencil; and just now, while Azzi was questioning her place in this world and why she deserves it, she had shrugged Paige off when all she did was lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

It makes sense why Paige would want to leave. But, as badly as Azzi’s PMS-ing today, she still doesn’t want Paige anywhere else but here.

So, she replies with an earnest, “I don’t,” and when Paige looks at her skeptically, she reaches up from her place on the floor and lays a palm on the bed where Paige’s sitting. Paige puts her hand over Azzi’s, albeit tentatively, and looks at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Azzi says with a pout, trying to forget guilt and self-deprecation and just letting herself enjoy holding Paige’s hand, enjoy being in her space. “It’s just been a hard day. I shouldn’t take it out on you, though.”

Paige slides off the bed, sits next to her on her plush carpet. “Did something happen?”

Azzi pulls Paige’s hand into her lap and twiddles with her fingers. “Not specifically. I just woke up feeling bad and pretty much everything that’s happened today has made me want to cry.”

“I could kinda tell,” Paige says, and Azzi worries that she was too obvious about it, but Nika and Jana spent all day with her and they didn’t say anything. Azzi thinks Paige is probably an empath, or maybe she’s just attuned to Azzi’s emotions by now. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me over, but I figured I’d ask just in case and when you said yes I thought it’d make you feel better to have someone around. But if you want to be alone, that’s totally fine.”

“I don’t. I think I’d be lonely if you left and then I probably would cry.”

Paige smiles, opens her legs, a silent invitation much like Azzi’s hand on the bed, and Azzi doesn’t hesitate to move and sit between her legs, leaning back against Paige’s chest, letting herself be held and not feeling suffocated by it.

“If I were a really evolved, in-touch-with-emotions type of girl, I would tell you that you probably should cry,” Paige says, face nuzzled into Azzi’s neck. “But I say we just drop the homework and kiss until your mom gets back instead?”

Azzi giggles, presses her lips against Paige’s, and they do just that. And Azzi is very glad for a girlfriend who has such good ideas, because this is definitely more fun than crying.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Having a secret relationship is probably one of the hardest things Azzi has ever done. Of course, having a secret relationship can never be easy, but Azzi thinks she has it especially bad because the very friends that she is trying to hide Paige from also happen to be very nosy and very susceptible to barging into Azzi’s house without any warning whatsoever.

Usually, Azzi and Paige are doing something like making out on Azzi’s bed whenever Nika or Jana invite themselves into Azzi’s home. It’s always pretty nerve-wracking, but it’s also not that difficult to just shove Paige under her bed or into her closet the moment they hear Jana’s yelling or Nika’s loud-ass laugh in the hallway. Of course, the fact that Paige has to sit in a cramped space until they can find a way to properly sneak her out is unfortunate, and it’s also sad when their time together is cut so abruptly short, but they usually just end up laughing about it later. No harm done.

Today, though, is different.

Paige and Azzi are not in Azzi’s room today, because they are in the kitchen instead, baking cookies.

Azzi’s mother is out on a trip with her latest boyfriend, and her brothers are out doing whatever they do on the weekends, leaving the entire house to her. Which means they don’t have to hide out in her room like they usually do.

Of course, maybe baking was a mistake, seeing as neither of them exactly know how to bake. There’s flour everywhere, the cookie dough has a weird texture, and they’ve spent more time ‘taste-testing’ than actually baking.

But, still, Azzi is having more fun than she’s had in a really long time.

“This is a good look for you,” Azzi says, inspecting the flour stuck to Paige’s eyelashes. “The white really brings out your eyes.”

“Oh, yeah?” Paige bats her eyelashes, then pulls Azzi in by the waist and kisses her.

Azzi pulls away, nose wrinkled. “You taste like flour, Paige.”

Paige kisses her nose, then her jaw, then her ear before saying, “That’s probably because you threw flour at me. Like a psycho.”

Azzi wants to tell her that she didn’t mean to throw it, it just flung out of the measuring cup when she slipped on the oil that Paige spilled earlier, so really it’s her own fault that she’s covered in flour, but Paige is kissing her neck and pressing her against the cupboards, and all she can really do is sigh contentedly.

After a minute, Paige grabs the bottoms of her thighs and lifts her onto the counter, probably so she doesn’t have to bend down so much to kiss where she wants to. Azzi gasps when Paige sucks at her collarbone, and she tangles her fingers in Paige’s hair, and she’s just worrying about the cookies and how they’ll probably burn if they get any more distracted when the front door opens.

Paige detaches from Azzi’s neck, though her hands stay underneath her shirt, still playing with the wire of her bra. “What—“

“Az!” it’s Nika. Of course it’s goddamn Nika. “You’re home, right?”

“Azzziiiii,” sings a second voice. Jana. “Azzzziiiii!”

Paige tries to say something else, and Azzi shoves her face in her chest to silence her while she tries to think. The front entryway leads into the living room. There’s a door from there that leads to the kitchen. If Nika and Jana decide to check the kitchen first, then Azzi and Paige are screwed.

Azzi holds her breath, clutching anxiously at Paige’s head as the footsteps get closer. The girls are still calling for her, and Azzi thinks she hears them pause outside the door, but the next second the footsteps get fainter as they walk towards the staircase.

“Shit,” Azzi mutters, releasing her girlfriend’s head. “That was close.”

Paige rubs at a spot on her scalp where Azzi must have dug her fingernails in too hard and glares. “You didn’t tell me they were coming over.”

“I didn’t know they were coming over.”

“They’re kind of shitty friends. They always show up without asking you if it’s okay.”

There are a lot of downsides to dating somebody who hates her best friends, but the biggest one is probably the arguments they get into whenever Paige says things like this and Azzi gets defensive.

She slips off the counter, straightens her shirt, and gives Paige a little shove towards the door. “They knew I was home alone. They had no reason not to come over.”

Paige pouts at her. “I don’t wanna leave.”

“You have to, Paige.”

“Why?”

“Because you just do.”

The pout falls, turns into a frown that is much less cute and much more angry. “Kick them out instead of me.”

This takes Azzi aback. Paige has never asked for such a thing, has never questioned it when Azzi has to choose her friends over her. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Paige’s tone is challenging, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Why can’t you just tell them that you don’t feel like hanging out today and ask them to leave?”

Azzi hesitates. The change in the atmosphere has thrown her for a loop. A minute ago, they were kissing, and now Paige looks like she’s rearing up for a fight that Azzi doesn’t want to have. “I don’t know. I don’t really want them to leave, Paige. I like hanging out with them.”

“You see them all the time at school,” Paige says. “You’re with them every weekend. If I don’t ask you to hang out a week in advance, you’ve already made plans with them. Moments like these—“ Paige motions at their surroundings—“are getting way too fucking rare. And even when we do hang out, this always ends up happening. You have to sneak me out like I’m some dirty secret when they show up unsolicited, because you choose them over me every fucking time.”

“You were just saying you needed space because we were spending to much time together, and now it’s not enough?” It’s silly, but all Azzi can think about is how she and Paige made a rule to never cuss while they’re angry at each other, and Azzi finds herself wanting to bring that up rather than face this poorly timed argument. Instead, she just tries to keep her voice down because the footsteps from overhead are getting louder. She sighs. “Now isn’t a good time for this, Paige.”

“Of course it isn’t.” Paige scoffs, runs a hand through her hair, and grabs her phone off the kitchen counter. “You know what? Fuck you, Azzi.” And then she turns around and just…leaves.

Azzi stares after her, even after the kitchen door has closed and her footsteps have long disappeared.

Her phone starts ringing. The sound startles her into movement, and she looks around, realizes Paige left her sweater sitting on the island. She hides it. Then, she answers the phone.

“Where are you?” Nika says accusingly. “Your car is in the driveway, so we know you’re home.”

“Are you guys over?” Azzi asks, trying her best to sound aloof rather than panicked. “I’ve had my earphones in for the past, like, hour. I’m in the kitchen.”

“Since when do you even step foot in your kitchen?”

“Since today, I guess. I’m making cookies.”

“Okay, we’re coming down.” On cue, Azzi hears footsteps descending the staircase. “Hold on.”

Nika hangs up, then appears in the kitchen with Jana a second later. “Hey, pretty.”

Azzi takes a shaky breath and smiles. “Hi.”

Jana stares at her. “You have flour on your neck.”

Azzi wipes it away, unworried about whether it was left in the shape of Paige’s lips or not.

“We thought you might be bored, all alone in the house.” Nika wanders around the kitchen. They hardly ever come in here, because Azzi has a mini fridge and candy stash in her bedroom and Nika’s house is where the good snacks are at, anyway. “Obviously we were right. You were reduced to baking cookies.”

Azzi tries for a laugh. Nika seems completely unaware of her strange behavior, but Jana is still looking at her intently. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah.” Azzi can never lie to Jana, so she says, “I mean, I sort of have a headache, but it’s okay.”

Nika hoists herself onto the counter, sitting at the same spot Azzi was a few minutes ago, when Paige was here and close and warm. “Want to go shopping later?”

Azzi nods, and can’t help thinking she’s made a terrible mistake.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The first time Azzi met Paige, she was fourteen.

Paige was some sort of basketball prodigy, a year older than Azzi and yet playing at a higher level than any other sophomore, and when Azzi saw her standing at the front of her lit class, introducing herself all-too confidently, her first thought was that she was very, very pretty.

Her second thought was that Paige could fit in perfectly with Azzi and Nika and Jana. This was her first mistake.

When she told Nika about it later that day, her best friend was furious. She told Azzi about how Paige had already tried to one-up her in debate club (which was Nika’s thing) and had also already been named the school’s basketball star before even playing in a game (also definitely Nika’s thing).

Obviously, this new girl was trying to take Nika’s spot as queen bee. Azzi still didn’t see why Paige couldn’t just join their group and be with them rather than against them, but Jana seemed to agree with Nika on this one, so she was sort of outnumbered.

Paige found her own group of friends soon enough, and the rest of the year was spent as some sort of long competition between the two groups—Who can silence a room the fastest? Who can wear the most expensive clothes? Who can throw the best parties?—and neither one of them ever came out on top. It was a constant tug-o-war.

For some reason, Nika was under the impression that since Paige was from a different state, that meant she was only going to be in Virginia for a year before she moved away again. Nika spent the whole summer singing about how the next year was going to be a fresh start, an amazing, Paige-less year—she was ecstatic.

(One June day, Azzi was out shopping with her brother and she saw Paige browsing one of the shops. They made eye contact. Paige waved, and Azzi smiled shyly. It was their first real interaction besides sharing blushing glances in class.

Azzi didn’t tell Nika about that.)

After the interaction, she found herself hoping that, since Paige hadn’t moved away by June, it meant she would still be around for the school year. It was no surprise to her, then, when Paige walked through the doors of the high school on her first day as sophomore, looking really cute in her school uniform.

Nika nearly fainted, and Azzi pretended to be shocked and angry when really she was just hoping for a chance to speak to Paige this year.

And then they got paired up together for the biology assignment.

“Hey,” Paige had said after the teacher had announced their partners and instructed them to go to each other’s desks to get to know one another. “You’re Azzi.”

Internally, Azzi was flipping her shit. She had never seen Paige up close before, and she was even prettier when she was standing right there. Plus, there was a pink tint to her pale cheeks and she was wringing her hands nervously, which let Azzi know they were feeling more or less the same way.

But on the outside, Azzi was as cool as a cucumber. She was known for her I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude and effortlessly pretty smiles, and squealing at Paige’s closeness would be a foolproof way to ruin her brand.

“Yeah, I am,” she replied, and then she thought of Nika. She couldn’t keep something like this from her. She still didn’t understand why Nika and Paige hated each other so much, but she was in no place to argue against their little rivalry. All she could do was try to stay loyal to her best friend.

But that didn’t mean she had to be a bitch to Paige. Paige seemed nice, and if she was okay with setting she and Nika’s strife aside to be friends with Azzi, then Azzi was perfectly fine with that, too. Even if the friendship had to stay a secret.

Nika freaked when she found out, of course. She gave very specific instructions to Azzi—don’t speak to her unless it’s about the assignment, don’t let her into your house, and don’t, under any circumstances, tell her anything about the group. Anything and everything she said could be used against her, against them, as blackmail.

Azzi broke basically every one of these rules within the first week of she and Paige’s partnership. Because Paige was cool, and funny, and she told good stories and turned out to be a great listener. And, again, she happened to be very nice to look at.

They got an A on that assignment, and Paige didn’t stop coming over after they finished it.

Needless to say, Azzi soon realized why she got all giggly and nervous around Paige—it was because she had a crush. Which brought on a whole slew of identity crises and a lot of looking back at certain events in her life and thinking Oh, that makes so much sense now, but the side effects that came with realizing she was queer could be saved for later.

For the moment, all she could think about was how maybe, maybe, Paige just might have felt the same way.

Azzi spent a lot of time picking petals off flowers, she loves me, she loves me not, and analyzing basically every single thing Paige said and did while they were together. Paige grabbed her hand at a jumpscare in the movie, did that mean anything? Or what about when Azzi caught her staring and she looked away and blushed—that had to mean something, right?

The end of the year rolled around before Azzi could figure out if anything actually meant anything. Paige and Azzi made plans to see each other over winter break. The night after the last day of school, Paige showed up at Azzi’s front doorstep and said, “I like you a lot, and I don’t want to end the year without kissing you,” and Azzi said, “We’re seeing each other on Wednesday, silly,” and then she leaned forward and kissed her for the first time.

All promises about staying loyal to Nika flew out the window the minute their lips slotted awkwardly together, but that didn’t matter so much to Azzi anymore.

She’d pulled away and said, “We won’t tell Nika about this, right?”

“No,” Paige replied. “I guess not.”

And that’s how their relationship started—with a secret friendship and a hidden first kiss.

They are used to their world being confined in a tiny locked box, never to be opened by anyone but them. But worlds can’t grow, Azzi will come to learn, without space.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The curious thing about Paige is that she’s the type of person who looks like she could never, ever get angry, let alone at someone she loves as much as she loves Azzi. But then you catch yourself saying the wrong thing, or stumbling over your words at the wrong time, and she explodes, because when all that time you thought she was simply a happy, contented girl without a hateful bone in her body, she was really letting the anger sit just underneath her skin to fester.

Paige does not explode, however, in the way that explosions usually happen. Even when the anger bubbles up to the surface and bares its ugly teeth, she is quiet about it. She doesn’t scream, or demand answers, or stomp her feet and yell. She looks you in the eye, says what she wants to say, and leaves.

She leaves, and she takes your heart with her.

It has been four days since Azzi and Paige fought. Or, to put it more accurately, since Paige fought and Azzi sat there like a stump. A stupid, clueless stump. Azzi has been trying to contact her girlfriend basically every spare minute she gets since then, but there has been nothing. Paige’s ghosting her.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Last year, they got into a fight much bigger and louder than this one, and in the middle of it Paige had said something like “I can’t do this anymore” before walking out the door.

Paige had no idea, then, that Azzi’s father left them after a big fight with her mother. She did not know that he had said almost the same words, worn almost the same expression as he walked away as if it were nothing.

Azzi panicked, surprised by the likeness of it all, surprised by her own reaction to it, surprised that Paige could leave her as easily as he did. Her mom found her in the bathroom, trying and failing to breathe properly because she’d driven somebody away again.

She was scared of the rejection that would surely come with reaching out, but she did it anyway, sending Paige one long text and reminding herself that this is why she doesn’t let herself care about people too much when Paige didn’t respond.

But the next day, Paige knocked on her bedroom door with a bouquet of flowers and begged to her, please, I’m sorry, I love you, and Azzi told her about her past, about why her dad isn’t around anymore.

Paige held her, and said, “I will never leave you again. I will stay right here forever. I promise.”

And yet, here they are. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

But Azzi knows that, this time, Paige is not the one who needs to apologize. So, after four days of radio silence, she shows up at Paige’s doorstep after school when she is supposed to be at a soccer game, because Paige was right. Azzi has had to choose between Paige and everything else in her life for a long time, and she always goes for everything else when she’s pretty sure that Paige is her everything. So, here she is, missing a pretty important match, freezing her ass off on Paige’s front porch, and hoping that Paige will just answer the door and give her a chance to explain herself.

The door opens, but it’s not Paige. It’s Paige’s stepmom. “Oh, Azzi. Hi, honey.” She looks quite confused, for some reason, but not angry, which makes Azzi think Paige hasn’t told her family about what happened.

“Um, hi. Is Paige home?”

The confusion on her face deepens. “No, she went out with KK about a half hour ago. Said they were going to watch your soccer game.”

Azzi stops. She stops because this whole time, these past ninety-six hours, she has been terrified because Paige left. But now Paige is trying to come back, despite everything.

“Thank you,” Azzi says, and then she walks back to her car and pulls her phone out of her pocket just as it starts ringing.

“Azzi,” Paige says when she picks up.

“Where are you?” Azzi asks, because she needs to apologize in person.

“I’m at your house. I—I went to the school, to see you, but you weren’t there, and you’re not at your house either.”

“I know. I came to see you. It was more important than the match.”

There’s a pause, and then Paige exhales something like relief. “Come to me?”

Azzi starts her car. “Always.”

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

When Azzi was little—when her parents never fought, before her younger brothers were adopted—she had a universe for a bedroom.

Now, this is a very well-kept secret of Azzi’s, but she was sort of lame back in kindergarten. Her father was really into astronomy, and Azzi was able to read the stars like a second language before she ever opened a book. So, for her fourth birthday, all that she asked for was a space-themed bedroom.

She fell asleep in her older brother’s room the night before her birthday. And when she woke up, she had been magically transported to her own room, except it wasn’t her own room anymore. It had been professionally painted, and murals of all the planets in the universe had been painted on every wall, making her feel like she was taking a walk through the sky. The ceiling was split into two halves: on one side, there was the sun, this giant fiery ball of yellow that Azzi was sure would fall down on her if she wasn’t careful—and on the other, the moon sat not quite as bright nor quite as extraordinary as its counterpart, but Azzi thought it must have been much less lonely because it had all the stars and constellations for company and the sun only had itself.

That night, her parents lay in bed with her. Her dad pointed out all of her favorite constellations which the painters had so carefully constructed, and her mom stared around the room with something like wonder.

“So, we got you the universe,” her dad had told her as he tucked her in, after her mom had already left the room. “How can we top that for your big O-five?”

“Don’t be silly, daddy,” she’d giggled. “I can’t have the whole universe.”

“Why not?” he’d asked.

Azzi found that she didn’t know how to answer him.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

It starts to rain while Azzi’s driving, and usually she would slow down because it terrifies her to drive in the rain, but today she can’t seem to be that scared of hydroplaning or careening or dying because all she can think about is how Paige hates the cold and she’s standing outside of Azzi’s locked, empty house with nothing but the roof over the front porch as shelter.

She gets to her house in ten minutes, which is a record time considering it’s a busy Saturday afternoon and there’s traffic lining every street. Paige is sitting on her porch in a t-shirt and baggy jeans when Azzi pulls into the driveway, and she gets out of her car, passes by without even looking at her to unlock the door. She hears her stand up, take a step towards her. “Azzi—“

She opens the door. “Let’s get inside. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

Paige looks at her a little hesitantly, but she does what Azzi asks anyway.

Once they’re inside, Azzi splays her palms over Paige’s forearms, thumbs rubbing at her cold elbows, animosity and fear forgotten for the moment, overpowered by the need to take care of her girlfriend. “How long were you outside?”

Paige stares down at Azzi for a moment, looking at her as if this is some sort of trick. “Azzi…” but Azzi levels her with a look that says later, and she relaxes a little. “I don’t know. At least ten minutes, I guess.”

“You should go change. You left your sweatpants over awhile ago. And I have your sweater from Tuesday.” They both flinch a little at the mention of Tuesday, like even mentioning it will take them right back there. Azzi backs away and nudges her towards the hallway. “I’ll make hot chocolate, and then we can talk.”

As soon as Paige is upstairs, Azzi goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. She’s trying to think of how she should apologize, how she can make up for all the mistakes she’s made in the past year. Well, almost two years. Their anniversary is in a couple months. Which reminds her that she needs to start looking for a gift, because shipping is slow this time of year.

That is, if she and Paige are still together a month from now, if Paige doesn’t break up with her today. Which, yeah, maybe she’d deserve that because she hasn’t been a great girlfriend. But she doesn’t think she could get over it if Paige broke up with her.

The milk starts boiling just as Azzi starts crying just as Paige walks into the room, dressed in warm clothes and looking pretty enough that Azzi cries harder and turns away, embarrassed, busying herself with turning the stove on low.

Paige doesn’t say anything about Azzi’s sniffles or the way she’s wiping her eyes angrily with the sleeves of her sweater. She just grabs two mugs and moves Azzi’s hands away from the stovetop, pours the boiling water.

Azzi watches her miserably. “I’m supposed to be making it for you,” she hiccups.

“It’s okay, mama,” Paige murmurs, and Azzi knows that this is Paige’s way of comforting her without the risk of getting too close.

Azzi goes into the pantry, mainly to collect herself and to try to stop her lips from quivering anymore. When she comes out with three hot chocolate packets, the tears streaming down her cheeks are silent.

She pours them into the mugs—two packets for Paige, one for herself—and lets Paige stir them in, watching the milk turn brown and creamy.

By the time they’re settled in the living room, Azzi’s properly embarrassed. She hides behind her mug, pulling her legs into herself, and tries to remember how to speak. She’s spent every second since their argument going over how she’s going to apologize, what she’s going to say, what she’s going to do. But now that Paige is here, sitting in front of her looking tentative and a little angry, all of that seems useless. Instead, she blurts out the one thing that’s been in the back of her mind since she realized that Paige came back for her. “Are you here to break up with me?”

Paige sighs, sets her hot chocolate down on the coffee table. “Azzi, no.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Azzi adds, but the words choke her up again so she closes her mouth.

“Just because we argued doesn’t mean I want to break up with you.” Paige avoids her eyes, picks at the expensive fabric of Azzi’s couch. She says, voice a little shyer now, “I asked you to come to me, didn’t I?”

Yeah, she did.

“Are you…” Azzi peers at her over the rim of her mug, “angry with me?”

“To be honest? Yeah,” she says quietly, like a part of her is scared to hurt Azzi. And it does hurt, a little bit, but Azzi would rather she be honest with her than hide her feelings for Azzi’s sake. “I’m not just angry with you, though. I’m also hurt, and sorta sad, and I miss you a lot, despite everything. And I’m mad at myself for how I handled…everything.” She meets Azzi’s eyes sort of sheepishly, and then shrugs like none of what she said matters.

Azzi opens her mouth to apologize, but instead what comes out is a soft, “I’m proud of you for telling me that,” because it’s always been incredibly hard for Paige to communicate, to put her feelings into words.

Azzi isn’t sure whether her being proud has any substance right now, but Paige’s eyes widen and then she smiles just a little bit, looking back down at the sofa bashfully. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

Azzi hums, and then she puts her hand on Paige’s knee, lightly enough that she knows she can move away if she wants to. She doesn’t move away, though, just lifts her eyes, and Azzi says, vehemently, “I’m really sorry, Paige.”

Paige nods, places her hand over Azzi’s, and watches her expectantly.

“What you said that day…Paige, I’m not going to say I hadn’t noticed the way I’d been treating you. I’m not going to say that I had no idea I’ve been putting you second to everything in my life for awhile now, because of course I did. Every time I chose someone, or something, over you, I was making a conscious decision to do that.” She stops to frown at herself—this is more difficult than she thought it would be. Paige rubs a thumb over her knuckles, gives her an encouraging nod, and that’s enough to make Azzi continue. “I guess it was just easier that way. It was easier to cut you out of my life whenever it was convenient, knowing you would come right back the next day acting like it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Which sucks,” Paige says.

Azzi looks down shamefully. “I know.”

“I know that what we’re doing is complicated,” Paige says, scooting a little closer to her. “But the way you’ve been treating me…it’s mean, Azzi.”

Tears well in Azzi’s eyes when she hears the hurt in Paige’s voice, and hearing that—seeing it written all over her face up close—she understands now the weight of everything she’s done, all the mistakes she’s made. And yet Paige is still here, holding her hand, willing to make this work.

And Azzi is sure as hell willing to change. For her. For them.

“I know,” she whispers again. “I’ve been a really shitty girlfriend.” She wipes a stray tear away with her free hand, and Paige’s lips wobble. She looks away, probably to pull herself together, and Azzi reminds herself of the one-cry-a-day rule that she put in place for herself a few years ago, which sort of helps her stop sniffling. “And I’m really, really sorry.”

Paige squeezes her hand. “I know you are.”

It’s not forgiveness, not yet, but Azzi feels better knowing that Paige knows how sincere she is.

“I could’ve handled it better, too,” Paige says after a silent moment. “I never meant to blow up on you like that, and especially not at such a bad time. I was just…I had had enough, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me sooner?” Azzi asks gently.

Paige gives her a sad little smile. “I was sort of hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

Paige hates conflict, but Azzi knows it’s not about that. It’s about the fact that she shouldn’t have had to talk about it—Azzi shouldn’t have kept treating her like shit until she reached the end of her line. But she did. And here they are.

“Baby,” Azzi breathes, a new wave of guilt crashing over her, and she wonders if she will ever stop feeling bad about this. It’s probably for the best if she doesn’t, anyway.

“I know,” Paige whispers. She takes Azzi’s hand off her knee, and for a moment Azzi is worried that she’s going to turn her away, but she just starts playing with her fingers like she does whenever she gets anxious. “I should have talked about it before I got so angry, though. Or I at least could have picked a better time to yell at you about it.” The teasing lilt in her voice makes Azzi smile a little, but then Paige’s wincing. “And I’m sorry for cussing at you. I feel the most bad about that.”

Azzi has spent the better part of the year treating Paige like she’s nothing more than a second thought, and yet Paige is still apologizing for something so small, so insignificant in the end, and Azzi almost wishes Paige would break up with her, find someone a million times better, someone who can treat her right.

“It’s okay,” she says, knowing Paige won’t let her dismiss the apology. “Hey,” Paige is avoiding her eyes, so she takes her chin, angles her face towards her until they’re looking straight at each other, “I’m going to be better, okay? I don’t care if my friends can’t know about you. I don’t care if it’s easier to keep them from asking questions than it is to ask you to stay. I care about you.” This, most of all, is what she wants Paige to know, because she deserves to feel nothing but loved, respected, cared for. “From now on, I’m going to show it better, okay? I love you. I love you so much I don’t even know what to do with myself sometimes. I want you to know that, even if it feels stupid to say.”

Paige juts her bottom lip out a little bit, and she leans into Azzi’s touch, leans into Azzi, getting close enough to her that Azzi can feel her breath on her lips when she murmurs, “Promise?”

“Promise,” she echoes, and she does. She stays where she is, letting Paige decide whether she wants to move away or close the gap, and she almost gasps when Paige bridges the space between them, even though she sees it coming. It’s a soft, tentative kiss, like they’re trying to remember how to fit together, trying to be gentle with each other in the way they weren’t four days ago, trying to say I love you and I’m sorry and I promise all at once.

It takes a moment to catch her breath when they separate because Azzi’s heart and lungs had already nearly forgotten what it was like to kiss Paige, but by the time she finds her voice again, she says, “Can you promise me something, too?”

Cupping Azzi’s face in her hands, Paige nods and pecks her on the lips.

“If we ever find ourselves here again, please do me a favor and dump me. Like, don’t be nice about it, either. Pull a Regina George and sabotage me, or something.”

Paige stares at her for a moment, and then she laughs, that loud, full laugh that Azzi loves so much. “You’re ridiculous.”

Something inside Azzi slides into place, like she’s been missing a vital organ and just got a life-saving transplant. “I’m serious! You need to have some self-respect, baby.”

“How about,” Paige kisses her again, “we just try not to find ourselves here again. Yeah?”

“Seriously,” Azzi says, more to herself than Paige, “you have such good ideas.”

Paige giggles, calls her a dork, and kisses her. Just like that, everything is right in the world once again.

[matt-murdockk]

request for spenceeeee (literally my boyfriend)

bau!reader and spencer are dating now, and they're just like talking about how they met and stuff casually and he's like you know i sorta tried to ask you out when we met? she's like what? you're telling me we could've started dating years ago??? he's like hey it's no big deal, ig you just weren't really into me back then and she's like not into you??? my brother in christ i stuttered and rambled for 3 entire minutes when we met what made you think i didn't like you

a whole lot of fluff badically thanks x

helloooo <3333 thank you so much for the request!!!! i had a WIP with sort of a similar theme as the ask so decided to combine them, i really hope you like it xo

Um, actually

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader words: 2.0k summary: A flashback to when you first met spencer helps you realize just how oblivious you were. But so was he, so it's all good. warnings: fluffffffff, possibly incorrect etymology facts, Spencer being a horrible cook for funsies, minor Brooklyn 99 reference (if you caught it i love you so much), glasses spencer !!!!! (not really all that relevant to the plot but i am a sucker for glasses!spence <3), established relationship

"Beeves? Really? Come on, that cannot be a real word."

Dinner conversations were always lively with Spencer. More often than not, it involved facts about the recipe, the origins, the historical significance, different interpretations of the same dish in other cultures, and whatnot. Today, it was etymology.

"It is!" he exclaimed, pointing towards you with his fork, way too excited about beef etymology in the most endearing way possible.

"You see, in the context of 'meat from cows', the plural of beef would just be beef. If we're talking about fights, disagreements, that kind of beef? It would be beefs. But beef also refers to an adult cow, steer or bull. So in this case, the plural would be—"

"Beeves?"

"Bingo."

"Huh, the more you know. You got more weird plurals?"

"Well,"

"Of course you do."

"There's moose, whose plural is actually—"

"Meese, obviously."

"Oh, no."

Eventually, dinner was done, dishes were put away, and you were now cuddled on the couch, his arm around your shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing circles on your bicep over the sleeve of your sweater.

It was quiet. Silent. But not the kind of silence that came with warnings and omens. It wasn't the kind of silence filled with premonition that you had so gotten used to with your job. It wasn't uncomfortable, and it wasn't foreboding. It was the kind of stillness that settled like morning fog over a quiet lake. Gentle, unmoving, and content to simply exist. The air bore a sort of warmth and hope that neither of you had been familiar with in years. Ever, if you're being honest. Beautiful thing, domesticity. Naturally, you were reminiscing.

"Spence?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Remember how we met?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully, lips pressing together as though deep in concentration. “Hmm… you know, I have an eidetic memory, but I can’t say I do—”

You smacked him with the throw pillow. He laughed, pulling you a little closer. “Of course I do. It's one of my favourite memories of us," he admitted, kissing your forehead. He smiled into your hair. “Crazy how much has changed, huh?”

You nodded, eyes still on the soft knit of his sweater sleeve. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“You know,” he said, suddenly bashful, “I tried to ask you out that day.”

Wait, what? Your head snapped toward him. “You did not.”

"Oh yeah. Crashed and burned splendidly."

"Spencer, honey, I feel like I would remember that."

“Um, actually,” he said, adjusting his glasses with mock seriousness, “that’s literally the first thing I did.”

You stared at him, slack-jawed. “Wh— what do you mean? We… we could have started dating ages ago?”

He chuckled lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean, maybe? I thought I was pretty obvious about it. But you didn’t seem interested, so I figured—”

“No, no,” you interrupted, practically sitting up. “Believe me, I was interested, alright? Spencer, I stuttered and— and rambled for like three entire minutes when I met you. I forgot to tell you my name. I—I asked you if you wanted the extra ticket to—"

His eyes widened as he realized where this was going. “Wait, wait. That was supposed to be flirting?”

"Yeah!?" you exclaimed, so exasperated it almost sounded like a question. "Honey, what else did you think it was?"

"I thought you were being polite! And I— I definitely flirted back," he promised, clearly going through that memory inside his head as he spoke.

"Sweetie, when?"

"You know, when I said there was someone I'd like to go with?" He stressed on the word someone far too much, waiting, hoping you would catch his drift. You finally did, after 10 really long seconds.

"Me? You meant you'd want to go with me?" you asked, still incredulous at what he had implied.

"Uh-huh!? Honey, who else—"

"Spencer, Oh my god, I thought you were telling me you had a girlfriend."

"...Oh."

You both sat there for a moment, letting that truth settle between you like dust in late-afternoon light. You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Wow. Can’t believe we missed out on years.”

“I know,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, eyes trained on the space between you, like he was watching the shape of time itself. “We're idiots, aren't we?”

"Possibly, but at least we're idiots together now," you responded, leaning further into him, leaving no more space between you, if that was even possible with how close you were sitting in the first place.

"Agreed. If anything, I think our love makes me a better person. Remember when I boiled that egg last week?"

"That was really big. I'm proud of you," you affirmed, your voice sincere.

"Crazy how much hasn't changed, though."

"What do you mean?" you asked, head tilting to look at him. His eyes were already on you, fond, like he was enamoured with you. Like he was going to tell you he loved you, and even after you had already heard it a hundred times by then, it still made you nervous.

"You still don't double-check the mail, even after I specifically—"

Another throw pillow found him, this time directly across his face, muffling the rest of his declaration. He laughed in response to that yet again, smug bastard that he is. You feigned offence at that and attempted to push him off of you, and sat a couple of feet away from him, hands crossed across your chest, face neutral.

But he knew what you were expecting to hear. He also knew that he didn't have to say it loud for you to know. It went without saying how much you loved each other. With every word you ever exchanged, every sentence ever spoken, the unspoken part? The subtext? It was always there. I love you.

He sensed that he had to make it up to you now. He also knew that you weren't really mad, probably loving the banter just as much as he was. Still, he always enjoyed making it up to you way more than he'd ever care to admit, so if it meant he had to come up with an elaborate ruse to rile you up first and then pretend to ask for your forgiveness, then so be it. His arms were around you in record time.

Bonus— a flashback: how our idiots actually met

You were grasping the tickets tight. There had been an oversight. On your part, mostly (entirely, if we're being honest), but you had to fix it as soon as you could, nonetheless. The tickets in your hand did not belong to you. And the longer you were holding them, the more it started to feel like they were burning a hole in your hand. You had to give it to whoever was expecting it, apologize, and get out of their face before you started sensing their judgement. The tickets belonged to one Spencer Reid. Who the hell was Spencer Reid?

A small part of you wanted to get to know him immediately. You don’t find a lot of federal agents who take Halloween seriously, let alone someone willing to spend Halloween weekend at Phantasmagoria. Someone with that good of a taste? Sign me up, you thought.

Your eyes scanned the bullpen of the BAU, searching for any face that might look like it belonged to a “Spencer Reid.” You didn’t know what he looked like. But there was a tall, lanky guy— glasses, brown hair, cardigan layered over a dress shirt, tie slightly askew, gun holster hanging off his waist like it had no business being there. (Is that even allowed?) He was holding a cup of coffee and making his way toward a desk.

Unfortunately, the first thought your caveman brain was able to come up with was— cute. Nope. You were on a mission. You had to focus. Focus, damn it. You figured, if this nice, fine (really fine) and distinguished gentleman, whoever he was, wasn't Spencer Reid, at the very least, he looked approachable and helpful enough to point you in the right direction. Personally, you didn't want haphazard gun holster guy to be Spencer Reid. Hell of a first impression you'd be making, if that were the case.

“Hi! Sorry— um, where can I find Spencer Reid?”

He paused, blinking. “Hmm? That would be me.”

Well, shit.

“Oh? That—It, uh. You?” Brilliant. Very eloquent today, evidently.

“Uh-huh,” he nodded, a little amused.

You nodded like that would help shake your embarrassment off. Be normal, you thought. You're a normal person. Words are easy. Speak. Say things.

“Right. Cool. Hi. I’m Sex Crimes. I mean— I work Sex Crimes. The division. Of the FBI. I don’t— I don’t go around committing sex crimes around town. You already knew that. Obviously. Why am I explaining this?” Oh, sweet Jesus.

He was staring politely now, wide-eyed and politely stunned.

“Anyway!” you barreled on, desperate to claw back whatever dignity you had left, if any. “Lester, the mail guy, yeah, he came in today with this orange envelope? With the pumpkins on it? I assumed they were my Phantasmagoria tickets, so I just took them. To be fair, he tried to, um, stop me, but I was sort of way too excited to listen, and it wasn’t until I got back that I remembered I’d asked for mine to be delivered to my house, not here. So then I looked at the envelope— which, yeah, is what I probably should’ve done in the first place—and surprise surprise, they didn’t have my name on them. They had yours.”

You shoved the envelope into his hands like it might bite you if you held onto it any longer. “So yeah. Sorry. These are yours, is what I am trying to say with way too many words than necessary. I took them by accident. Please take them away from me. Thank you.”

You were looking down at the ground, waiting for it to open up and swallow you whole. The seconds of silence that followed your very passionate ramble were not helping. Any time now, ground. His voice snapped you right back into reality.

“Firstly,” he said, smiling, “thank you. Seriously. And secondly, you don’t get a lot of FBI crowd at Phantasmagoria.”

He glanced down at the envelope. “You said tickets? Plural?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I booked them in August, thinking I’d go with my boyfriend. And, well, come October… I am yet to find him. August me was a little too optimistic.” Exactly why you trauma dumped about your love life to this stranger, you may never know. But he didn't seem to mind all too much, so yeah, what do you know?

He smiled again, warmer this time. It made your stomach flip in a way you did not have time to examine. NO. Nuh-uh. You promised yourself no workplace crushes, and you meant it. Did you mean it? In retrospect, maybe you weren't all that serious. You could make an exception, right? For him? Oh, absolutely. Well, that was a quick change of heart.

“But now that you mention it,” you continued, “there’s an extra ticket. I don’t really need it. So, if you know anyone who might want to go with you…” Smooth. Real subtle. Oh, yeah. Asking him if he's single? You were so smart, you should've been an FBI agent or something. You should've gotten a raise.

“Well, actually…” he started, almost sheepish. “There is someone I’d love to go with. But I have a feeling she already has a ticket.”

Of course, Halloween Jesus wasn't single, you thought. He was too good to be true, right? Your sweet, foolishly sweet brain, interpreted his advance as— Oh, he's taken. Well, couldn't blame a girl for trying (you would later be upset about this for a while).

“Oh. Right. Okay. Well, if there’s anyone else who might need a ticket, I’m two floors down.” You offered a tight smile and turned to leave before you could make it worse. His face contorted in confusion, a hint of disappointment flickered across too, before he quickly recovered.

“Hey— Sex Crimes?”

You turned.

“You got a name?”

a/n: this is all so how i met your mother to me hence the song, in this house we stan idiot4idiot romance, we ♥️ imbeciles, hope you liked it lol<3333

[ethe-realfantasy]

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen. Simon is just stepping out of the bathroom and into the dim hallway, as the low light from the kitchen spills out in a soft rectangle across the floor.

He pauses in the doorway. You're standing barefoot at the counter, reaching for the mugs. The one you want, his mug, is on the top shelf. You stretch for it, rising onto the balls of your feet, with one hand braced against the cabinet. You’re wearing one of his army shirts and it rides up with your reach, exposing the backs of your thighs and the faint curve of your butt disappearing beneath the hem.

You don't know he's there. Simon doesn't speak or move. He just… looks, in that quiet, still way he has. He's not staring, but simply taking you in, like he has every right to.

Then you make a soft, frustrated sound under your breath. “Why is it always up there?” you mutter, more to yourself than anything.

He steps forward at last, reaches up and takes the mug from the top shelf. He hands it over with an unreadable expression, but there is something in his eyes.

“Think I’ll start keeping it up there,” he says quietly, with an even voice.

“What?”

His gaze drops, slowly, deliberately, to your legs and then back up. “Good view.”

Your eyes widen and a scandalized little giggle slips out before you can catch it. “Simon."

He leans slightly closer. “Could make a whole shelf of things hard to reach," he says with a flat voice.

“You are so...," you roll your eyes. But you're laughing now, helplessly, the warmth spilling out of your chest. He watches you with a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. You turn away to finish the tea, still giggling to yourself, but you don't notice him moving behind you until his fingers slide under the back hem of your shirt and tug it up just a little more.

“Simon! Drop it!” you shriek, loud and amused, as you spin around.

He doesn't flinch. “Wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were absolutely doing something,” you say, still giggling as you push his hand away.

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

“I didn’t know you were watching,” you laugh, clutching the edge of your shirt again.

“Hard to resist.”

“Then try harder.”

He looks down at you and the flicker in his eyes is unmistakable. “Rather not.”

You bite back another laugh, but your cheeks are already warm. Then you bump your hip into his as you start walking toward the living room. “I want to watch the movie.” It's half-honest... maybe less than half.

Simon follows you instinctively. “This is way more interesting than the movie."

You glance back at him, trying not to smile. “That‘s too bad."

“Yeah?” His voice is quiet, mild, like he’s just making conversation.

You don’t even make it a step before his hand slides right under the back of your shirt again, warm fingers grazing your bare skin in a slow sweep.

You shriek, jumping half out of your skin again as you spin to face him, giggling and scandalized all at once. “Simon!”

He’s already got that look on his face, completely unfazed, a hint of amusement pulling at his mouth, like this is exactly what he was aiming for. “What?” he says, deadpan. “Was just thinkin’, next time you’re reachin’ for somethin’," his gaze flicks down slowly, “maybe skip the underwear. Would save me the trouble.”

[owe-143]

Heyy can i request a "confessing to us for the first time" with the saja boys, like what would they plan, are they nervous, will they be all flustered when we like them back😍🫶🏻

✷I confess. I love you✷

A/N: ty for requesting!! <33 I had sm fun writing thiss

Warnings: naughty language 😔🔥, baby's part lowkey unhinged

Fluff⭐☁

Saja boys (seperate) x reader

→Kpdh masterlist←

➳Jinu

-he is a prepared mf😭

-probably thought months before on how to ask you out or confess

-then when he finally gets the guts to meet with you, he almost chickens out

-just know he is awkward as hell around you. Knocking over shit and letting nonsense slip out

-tries he's best to confess but always ends up cutting himself off!!

-but when he finally does and you like him back..

-THIS MAN IS OVER THE MOON. HE CANNOT BELIEVE IT.

-is giggling and asking "Really? Like you really do? You're not joking? "

➳Abs

-Doesn't know what he's doing but hopes for the best

-he literally knows all your favorite places and things to get you

-acts all confident and nonchalant but is actually a nervous wreck and might break down

-he uses jokes or ongoing conversation just to stall the confession part

-truth is, he doesn't know how?? 😞

-so he kinda just mumbles, hoping you'll hear or get an idea

-when you do and return his feelings, he'll be dumbfounded for a moment but then goes straight to "HELL YEAHHHH"

➳Romance

-okay, this man just actively gives you SIGNALS that he likes you

-and if you still haven't caught on then idk

-if that is the case, he'll do something stupid just to confess

-a whole ass marching band or plane in the sky I don't even know

-there will be roses, whole love letters confessing his love to you. although, he doesn't necessarily confess to your face. It's all very indirect

-it would be funny if you knew he liked you the entire time then admit that after all the efforts he put into making everything dramatic 🥀🥀

-you say he could've just said he liked you because you like him back and Romance would be like "Oh"

➳Mystery

-tbh, I don't think he'd procrastinate on it too much

-if he likes you, he likes you and needs you to know that

-but the problem is, the words don't come out as naturally as in his head

-probably googled stuff like "How to confess to your crush without sounding pushy" or "What do people say when confessing to their crush"

-ATP he has a mental panic because why tf is he overthinking

-until he eventually just walks up to you and says it straight up

-and when you return his feelings, the dude is all smiley. He'll have his arms wrapped around you until you eventually pry him off🤭

-(bonus points if he knew you liked him but just asked to check)

➳Baby

-NO FILTER WHATSOEVER 🗣️❗

-Goes up to you without a second thought

-holding gifts or flowers all smug like "BABYGIRL, MARRY ME😩🌹"

-uses one of those corny ahh pick up lines( he practiced that 100 times before trust💔)

-he WILL rap his feelings out to you. And you have to listen to it.

-but so glad that you like him back because in all honesty, he doubted that you did

-let out a sigh of relief!!

-would've been embarrassing AF if you didn't feel the same

-will start jumping for joy and immediately imagining the wedding

[imstillalexcomic]

Thank you to Fran - @crazygnomenclature - for gracing us with another appearance as my Fairy Godbully.  While she coined the phrase, I do really want to stress that she is not a bully.  She’s a wonderful and supportive friend who’s been a huge help as I’ve been transitioning, and her enthusiastic kindness inspires me to be a better person.

Regarding the comic, this summer is going to be pretty unique.  Outside of the kids visiting the office, I’m going to be heading up to my camp again periodically for work.  There now will be tons and tons of folks who know me seeing me for the first time as someone who is publicly out. 

Part of me would like to think that a lot of these folks don’t know about me being trans yet or don’t follow me online, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.  Apparently, I’ve been a dinner conversation topic for families, which is… strange, but kind of good.  I want people to know.  I want to get this conversation going in families who are unfamiliar with the trans community. 

I want to be a positive representative. 

For some of these families, I’ve been taking care of their kids during the summer in one way or another for over fifteen years. 

I’m going to deliberately misgender myself for a moment, but even if the conversation starts with,

“well I don’t know about trans people…”

but continues to

“…but I know Alex and he’s a good guy”

Then I see that as a win.  Getting my foot in the door and being the same Alex that they’ve always known (just looking a little different), can help.

If this is what I can do, then I want to do it.

[lqveharrington]

Never Planned | F.W.

summary: you and fred had been friends for so long that it never occurred to the both of you that everyone thought you were dating.

pairing: fred weasley x gryffindor!reader

includes: fluff, the both of you being mischievous, kissing, cursing, the two third years being wingmen when they don’t even know it

a/n: officially working on requests the second this gets posted!

You and Fred had the same routine every Sunday night after dinner. The routine was simple and familiar—so familiar that even the younger students knew it all too well. Every Sunday evening, you would typically read the Daily Prophet or do final touches to your essays while Fred would find a way to bother you until you finally gave into him and give him attention. That’s how Sunday nights would always go.

Except for tonight. For some reason, today felt off and neither of you could place a finger on it. The evening started off normal, but the longer you ignored it, the more the feeling intensified.

You were supposed to be working on your Charms essay, but all you could think about was the small feeling nagging at the back of your mind. You were so absorbed with the thought that you didn't realize you were biting the tip of you quill until Fred pulled your hand away from you, propping his feet up on your lap.

"What's with the face, Faucett? Need help with your Charms essay?" Fred asked, pouting dramatically when you snapped out of your trance and pushed his feet off your lap. "You hate me."

You scoff and roll up your parchment, placing it away on the side table. "I do not hate you, Fred."

“You do.” He teased and angled you to face him, pulling your legs to lay over his lap instead. He watched you rest your head against the cushions of the couch, making him tap your knee in concern. “What’s wrong?”

You huff and play with the threads of you sweater that Molly had made you this past Christmas, meeting his eyes that were filled with more emotion than you could place. “Nothings wrong with me, but it feels like something in this room is, you know?”

Fred looked over at the other people in the room. There were hardly any people in the Gryffindor Common Room on Sunday evenings. Everyone was out either making use of the last few hours of freedom they had before classes started the next day or in their dorms, trying to cram for any surprise quizzes.

The only people that were in the Common Room were a group of first years comparing notes, some fourth years playing exploding snap, and a pair of third years conversing quietly in a corner, tucked away from prying eyes and voices—such as Fred Weasley himself.

Fred raised a brow at the two boys who looked away quite quickly when they met the older boy's gaze. He turned back to you for a quick second, replying quietly to your previous comment. “Maybe…”

You crease your brows and look over at the pair of boys as well, “What—?”

“Oi!” Fred hollered at the two third years, making the entire room snap their heads over at the sudden boom of a voice. You blew a piece of hair away from your face in exasperation, giving the other students apologetic looks for the commotion.

“What are you blokes whispering about?” He called out, making the third year on the left burn bright red.

You poke Fred's arm when you saw the poor boy's face, not deterred by all his muscles underneath his own sweater. “Fred, stop bothering them."

The same boy looked away from you two, swallowing thickly while his friend pursed his lips in an effort to not laugh at the current situation. While the rest of the room went back to what they were doing, Fred continued to watch the pair, waiting for a response from either one of them.

Finally, after the two boys whispered back and forth—for Godric only knows how long—one of them spoke up, making the red-head beside you perk up instantly.

“Nothing important.” The teen on the right said for the sake of his friend, waving a dismissive hand in your general direction. “Just trying to figure out how to ask this girl out."

The second you both heard those words come out of the boy's mouth, you looked over at Fred who was already looking back at you with a grin that could only be described as smug.

You sighed, knowing you couldn't do much to stop whatever Fred planned on doing. “Freddie, don’t—“

He stood from his spot on the couch, hands placed on his hips like he suddenly knew the answers to everything in the universe. “Luckily, you’ve come to the right man—“

“—Boy—“ You quipped from his side as you followed him to ensure he wouldn't do or say anything stupid.

“Shut up.” Fred half-heartedly pushed you to the side, still catching you when you stumbled over your feet. He stuck his thumb in the other teen’s direction, “Anyway, who does he fancy?”

You roll your eyes at his antics and give them a warm, reassuring smile, hoping it would take their minds off whatever foolishness Fred has in plan. “First, what are your names?”

“I’m Oliver, and he’s James.” The boy on the right said tentatively, the one on the left—which you both now knew was James—nodding in agreement.

Fred clasped his hands together and nodded mindlessly, keeping his eyes trained on the boys. “Alright, I’m Fred and she’s the pain in my arse—“

“Can you focus?” You groan and shove him to the side, laughing loudly when he threw you over his shoulder to get you to stop interrupting—although the two of you knew it was hopeless.

“Oliver, who does James fancy?” Fred asked, ignoring your calls and protests.

You continued to wiggle yourself free from his grasp, huffing when he held onto you tighter. At that point, the rest of the Common Room gave you odd looks, making you flush a bright pink in slight embarrassment.

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, hesitantly as he stared at you and Fred in concern and confusion, unsure what to do in the situation. “Uhm… He fancies this girl in Hufflepuff named Lila—“

You gasped and hit Fred hard in between his shoulder blades, earning a groan as he dropped you from his arms. You spun around and gave James a soft look, knowing exactly who Lila was. You had tutored her last year in Potions—and based on your five minute interaction with James—the would be the perfect pair.

“She’s really bright and gifted in Herbology.” James says softly, making your heart ache at how he spoke about Lila in adoration.

“Have you tried to ask her out before?” You ask and watch him fidget with his hair.

He shakes his head, eyes darting away from your face toward the ground. “I’m too nervous.”

After recovering from you sudden attack, Fred clapped his hand on James’ back, ruffling his hair when the boy looked up at him. “Don’t be, you look handsome and clearly you’ve got the brains for it.”

In an instant, you saw an increase of confidence in the thirteen year old, making you grin at the sight. Maybe Fred being nosy in other students’ conversations wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

You watched for another second before murmuring something to Fred about finally finishing your Charms essay, giving the two boys one last smile. Before you left for the couch, Fred subconsciously pressed a kiss to the top of your head, knowing you were leaving even though he barely listened to you as he continued to speak to the younger students.

“Ask her out to a picnic by the lake or in one of the outdoor gardens—Not Hagrid’s, of course. That would be a nightmare.” Fred clarified with a small smirk decorating his face, leaning back on one of the armchairs behind him as the boys listened intently.

“Thanks, I’ll ask her tomorrow after class.” James replied with a new found determination in his voice.

Finally snapping out of his small trance, Oliver switched his gaze from Fred to your spot on the couch, tilting his head with a raised brow. “How did you ask your girlfriend out?”

Fred copied his facial expression, turning his head to follow the boy’s eye line when they landed on you. He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue before clearing his throat, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“Oh, we’re not dating.”

“Sure seems like it.” Oliver crossed his arms and raised both brows this time, judging Fred like he was a liar. “You can’t give out advice about dating without having a girlfriend yourself.”

“My advice is fool proof!” Fred blurted, almost baffled that a thirteen year old accused him of spreading false information—though he has done that multiple times before to everyone he knew

“Then how come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Fred opened his mouth and shut it, putting his index finger up toward the boys before turning and walking over to you. He stood in front of you with his hands in his front pockets, waiting until you finished your thoughts on the essay before speaking.

“Did you know people think we’re dating?” He said quietly, earning a wide-eye look from you. Based on your reaction, you probably didn’t know either. “Yeah, weird. Those two boys thought we were dating.”

“That’s the weird feeling I was getting in this room.” You say as you twirl your golden charm necklace between your fingers, looking over at the two boys who suddenly looked guilty and mischievous at the same time. You raise a brow and look back at Fred with a small smirk, making him grin back.

“Can you imagine the shock on their faces if they believed it took you two seconds to land a girlfriend?”

Fred bent over by the waist, lips mere centimeters from yours. “And what do you have in mind, Faucett?”

Your smirk widens before you pull him in by the collar of his sweater, lips meeting his faster than anyone could have expected it. As if someone flipped a switch in Fred’s mind, he quickly reciprocated, hands coming up to cup the back of your neck and cheek.

For a second, the two of you were completely immersed in each other that you didn’t realize that—once more—the Gryffindor Common Room stared. This time, they stared only for a brief moment before looking away. It seemed like everyone expected it since the moment you both walked into the Common Room together on any Sunday evening.

You separate after the kiss that lasted longer than you both thought it would last, the two of you slightly out of breath, but still wearing eat-shitting grins at fooling the two third years in their small corner. Fred glanced at them from the corner of his eye, winking at Oliver specifically when he stared with a gaped mouth.

“That’ll be the best piece of advice they’ll ever get.” You laugh quietly as Fred plops down beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arm around your abdomen, warm against your skin under the sweater. “You’re not going back to those two boys?”

“Nah, it’ll ruin the fun.” He drawled and looked up at you with his pretty brown eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder unexpectedly. You looked down at him and raised a brow, waiting for an explanation from the one Weasley you liked a little more than the others.

“So, you? Me? Next weekend? Hogsmeade?” He asked with a confident smile, twirling a piece of your hair in between his index and thumb.

You bite back a smile and pat his cheek, his own smile never wavering. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Weasley.”

“Is that a yes?” He questioned, looking between your eyes.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” You say as you go back to finishing your essay, not caring for the blush that rose to your cheeks.

You and Fred have been friends since first year, but it never crossed your mind that you could ever be in the relationship everyone assumed you were in. Not until this year. It felt like you clung to every single word he spoke to you this time, and it felt so different.

All the pranks he would plan with Lee and George was always relayed to you, every gift he planned to give to his family members went through you—you were practically his without officially being his.

“I plan for many things, Faucett.” Fred moved to sit properly and dragged your legs back on top of his lap, messing with the embroidery on your jeans. “But I never planned on someone like you kissing me just to mess with two thirteen year olds.”

“You went along with it.” You clarify, knowing damn well that he also wanted to prank the two teens. Besides, it’s not like it was your first time kissing Fred. Not at all.

Your gaze meets his, “So what, you actually want to take me out on a date now?”

“Yep.” He continued to grin and trace the embroidery.

You carefully tuck away your Charms essay once more, continuing to hide the smile that came with the thought of going out with Fred Weasley. “I guess I’ll go on a date with you.”

Fred didn’t even know his grin could get bigger, but it did. He pulled you as close to him as he could, arms wrapped securely around your waist as he tilted his chin down to meet your eyes. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“You are bad news.” You laugh and melt into him when he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You raised a brow at him, “Never planned huh?”

“Nope.” He popped his syllables with a smile so bright you swore the sun would shake in it’s presence. “Never planned.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[lilirae00]

Hard Launch - Part 2

Paige x Azzi

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: explicit sexual content, you've been warned. Minors DNI. Also more fluff and fun interactions with the team afterward.  

a/n: After part one, I really had more little scenes I thought worked well with this idea of the aftermath of the hard launch so I made a part two. Just some sexy times after the charity gala and fun conversations about the future. Enjoy! 

Hard Launch Part One HERE

—-

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Paige exhaled slowly, pressing her back against the door, her chest rising and falling like she’d just finished a game. She looked across the room at Azzi—barefoot now, her heels dangling in one hand, the soft silk of her champagne-colored dress glinting in the low apartment light.

“You know,” Paige said, voice husky, “I’ve been trying to keep it together all night.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Yeah? You looked pretty composed to me.”

“That’s because I had to be.” Paige pushed off the door, walking toward her with purpose. “But now that we’re home… I don’t have to pretend.”

Azzi tilted her head, teasing. “Pretend what?”

Paige stopped in front of her, eyes roaming her face, her neck, her body. “Pretend I wasn’t picturing this the entire night.”

Azzi’s breath caught just as Paige leaned in to kiss her—soft at first, just the brush of lips, but then deeper. Hungrier. Azzi dropped her heels to the floor and reached up, undoing Paige’s tie with practiced ease.

“You’re gonna ruin this suit,” she murmured between kisses.

Paige smirked against her mouth. “It was always for you to take off.”

They made it to the bedroom in slow, stumbling steps—Paige’s jacket hitting the floor, Azzi’s dress unzipped and slipping down her back. When Paige pulled back to take in the sight of her, nearly bare and glowing in the soft bedroom light, she froze.

“You’re unreal,” she whispered. “Like… I don’t even know how you’re real.”

Azzi stepped close and hooked her finger into the waistband of Paige’s briefs and started pulling them down. “Then maybe you should stop thinking and start showing me.”

They kissed again—deeper now. Azzi moaned when Paige’s hands slid down to grip her thighs, lifting her up with ease and lowering her gently onto the bed. Paige kissed down her body, murmuring between each kiss: “This… is… mine.”

Azzi arched under her touch. “Yours,” she echoed, breathless.

Paige took her time, exploring every inch of skin with mouth and hands—pressing kisses to Azzi’s collarbone, the curve of her breast, the dip of her stomach. Her touch was both reverent and hungry, like she was worshipping and claiming her all at once.

Azzi shivered under Paige’s mouth, fingers threading through her long blonde hair with a breathy sigh. Paige moved slowly, pressing kisses to the soft skin just above her hip before her hand drifted lower, sliding between Azzi’s thighs. 

She paused there, letting her fingers brush gently, feeling how wet Azzi already was. Azzi gasped and lifted her hips into the touch instinctively. 

Paige’s lips curved into a slow, approving smile against her skin. “You’re so ready for me,” she murmured, voice low and thick with want. 

Azzi’s breathing stuttered, her eyes heavy-lidded as she met Paige’s gaze, cheeks flushed and lips parted. 

Paige let her fingers linger, stroking softly, feeling Azzi grow even wetter under her touch before finally pulling back just enough to look at her, desire burning in her eyes.

When Paige reached toward the nightstand drawer, she paused, fingers hovering over the harness. Her voice dropped into something quiet, hesitant.

“Can I use it?” she asked. “I really want—need you to ride me.”

Azzi’s eyes darkened instantly. She nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Paige kissed her, then got up slowly, strapping in with practiced hands, her jaw tight with anticipation. Azzi watched her, lips parted, chest rising, already curling her fingers into the sheets.

“You sure?” Paige asked again, crawling to lie back on the bed.

Azzi pushed herself up and swung a leg over Paige’s waist, hovering just above her stomach. Paige could feel the slick heat dripping onto her skin, making her breath hitch. “I’ve never been more sure.”

Paige kissed Azzi’s jaw softly, voice steady and low. “Hold still for me.” 

She let her fingers slip between Azzi’s thighs, moving gently, gathering the warmth and slick there with patient care. Azzi shivered under her touch, breath catching. 

Paige met her gaze, eyes dark but full of tenderness, as she smoothed the wetness carefully over the strap. “Just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” she murmured, pressing their foreheads together, sharing the quiet heat between them. 

Azzi closed her eyes, exhaling shakily, leaning in so their noses brushed. “I’m ready, P. I want you.”

Their mouths met again, slower this time—hot and full of intent. Paige’s hands gripped her hips as Azzi shifted up, angling herself and slowly sinking down. 

Azzi let out a long, broken moan as she took in the full length, her voice high and desperate, filling the space between them. She couldn’t hold it back, the sound raw and needy, making Paige’s breath catch in her chest.

Paige watched as Azzi sank down, groaning beneath her. “Fuck, Azzi… that’s hot.”

Azzi leaned forward, planting her palms on Paige’s abs, grounding herself as she began to move up and down—slow and rolling, grinding down hard enough to make them both gasp.

With every thrust, the base of the strap dragged perfectly against Paige’s clit, tricking her body into believing she was the one sinking into Azzi’s heat, feeling her pulse and clench around her.

“Look at me,” Paige said, her voice thick and rough as she reached up and squeezed both of Azzi’s breasts into her hands. 

Azzi obeyed, eyes locked on hers as she rocked. “I love how you look at me when I’m like this.”

“You ride me like you were made for it,” Paige muttered, hands moving down to Azzi’s hips, then to her ass, guiding her movements, helping her grind harder, deeper.

Azzi moaned and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Because I was. I am. I love making you lose control.”

Paige’s breath stuttered in response. She shifted, sitting up straighter so their chests pressed flush together. Her arms wrapped tight around Azzi’s back, locking her in. 

She pressed hot, messy kisses to Azzi’s collarbone, lips parting around her skin as her teeth grazed just enough to draw a gasp. Then she softened it with her tongue, murmuring against her skin.

“Fuck,” Paige rasped. “It feels so good.”

Azzi whimpered, rolling her hips in slow, grinding circles that made them both moan. Her fingers tangled in Paige’s hair, tugging lightly to tilt her face up, kissing her with messy, open-mouthed hunger.

Paige kissed her like she needed oxygen, hands gripping Azzi’s back, guiding her movement as she pressed her hips up into her. They stayed locked like that for a few heated seconds, breath mingling, tongues meeting, before Paige finally broke away for air, panting.

She loosened her hold and let herself fall back onto the pillows. Paige’s eyes were dark, wanting, but steady. She let her hands settle on Azzi’s hips, fingers digging in with intent.

“You’re doing so good, mama,” Paige said, voice low but clear. “Let me see you take it.”

Azzi’s breath hitched at the command. She straightened her spine, bracing her hands on Paige’s stomach as she began to move—lifting herself slowly and then sinking back down with a moan, letting Paige see everything. Paige’s eyes tracked every movement, jaw tight, breath coming faster.

Azzi built her rhythm, finding the right angle that made them both gasp. Paige’s hands slid down to grip her ass again, helping her move faster, deeper. The wet sound of them meeting filled the room. Paige’s head fell back, eyes fluttering shut with a raw groan.

Azzi let out a ragged moan, breath hot and uneven. “Shit—my legs are burning for you,” she panted, voice thick with heat and pride. She didn’t slow down, rolling her hips even harder, wanting Paige to feel every bit of how hard she was working to make them both come.

Paige’s eyes snapped open, locking on her with wild need. Her voice cracked with urgency.

“Don’t stop,” Paige growled, breath shaking. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Azzi whimpered at the praise and the command, obeying immediately—riding her harder now, hips slamming down in quick, desperate rhythm. Their skin clashed, the air thick with ragged breaths, low moans, and whispered words.

Paige’s breath stuttered, her hand moving between them, fingers brushing Azzi’s clit just enough to make her hips jolt in response. “You’re perfect,” Paige whispered. “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Azzi gasped, leaning down to bury her face in Paige’s neck. “Only yours.”

“Then don’t hold back.”

Azzi rolled her hips faster now, matching the rhythm of Paige’s thrusts. The slap of skin meeting skin echoed softly, the air thick with ragged breaths, low moans, and whispered words.

Paige’s breath caught as she watched Azzi move over her, strong and gorgeous and completely hers. All the tension she’d carried from the press conference—the fear, the nerves about going public—melted away with every roll of Azzi’s hips. 

This was Azzi proving she was hers, and Paige felt like she’d break from how much she needed it.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” Paige said, her lips brushing Azzi’s shoulder. “God I needed this… to see you like this. After tonight, after everything…”

“I know,” Azzi replied, her voice trembling. “You have me. All of me.”

Paige kissed her again—deeper now—as her hand moved between them, adding more pressure just as Azzi’s body began to shake.

“You close?” she whispered.

Azzi nodded against her lips. “Yes right there… baby, please—”

Azzi’s hips ground into Paige with quick, desperate rhythm, and Paige could feel her own release approaching fast.

“Fuck, I’m close too. I wanna hear you, baby,” Paige panted, voice rough with need. “Let me hear how good it is. Don’t hold back for me.”

Hearing that was all the permission Azzi needed to let go. Her body tensed, breath shivering before she cried out, voice ragged.

“Fuck—Paige—you feel so good—I’m coming—don’t stop—”

Paige watched in awe as Azzi threw her head back in pleasure and cried out. She lifted her hips to meet Azzi’s erratic rhythm, helping her ride out every last wave of it—until Paige’s own release overtook her.

“That’s it, baby, just like that,” Paige moaned, gripping Azzi’s thighs tight, her fingernails digging in deep as her whole body shook with pleasure.

When Azzi finally collapsed onto her—skin damp, body spent—Paige gently brushed her curls away from her face.

“You okay?” she whispered, kissing her gently.

Azzi mumbled, still breathless. “Just needa minute.”

Paige smiled and held her closer, heart full and chest heaving. “You’re everything to me. You know that, right?”

Azzi nodded against Paige’s chest.

For a long moment, neither of them moved—just the quiet rhythm of their breathing syncing as the world outside their bed disappeared.

Paige pressed a kiss to the top of Azzi’s head, lingering there as she whispered, “Take a breath, baby. I’m gonna pull out.”

Azzi inhaled, slow and steady, and Paige gently eased out from under her. Azzi let out a sleepy sound of protest, but Paige just smiled and smoothed a hand down her thigh before slipping off the bed.

In the dim glow of the lamp, Paige unbuckled the harness and set it aside, then padded barefoot into the bathroom. She ran warm water over a soft washcloth, testing the temperature on her wrist before wringing it out. She took a deep breath, still catching little sparks of her own release buzzing through her limbs.

When she returned, Azzi had rolled onto her side, eyes barely open, but waiting for her. Paige climbed back onto the bed and wordlessly settled between her legs, her touch slow, reverent.

The first press of the cloth made Azzi flinch slightly.

“Too much?” Paige asked softly, brushing her knuckles over her knee.

Azzi shook her head. “No. Just… really sensitive.”

Paige’s expression softened. “Okay. I’ll be gentle.”

She moved with care, dabbing the cloth along the inside of Azzi’s thighs, catching the wetness between her folds with slow, deliberate motions. She wasn’t in a hurry—this was just as intimate, just as important.

Azzi’s fingers found Paige’s forearm, grounding herself in the contact. “You always take care of me like this.”

Paige looked up, her voice warm and low. “Of course I do. You gave me everything tonight. I just wanna make you feel safe. Loved.”

“You do,” Azzi whispered. “Always.”

Once she was done, Paige tossed the cloth to the floor, climbed up beside her, and tucked Azzi in against her chest. Their skin was still warm and slightly damp, but neither of them cared. Paige wrapped a blanket over both of them, her chin resting on Azzi’s hair.

Azzi’s voice came out drowsy. “You think we’ll always be like this?”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

“Even if we’re on opposite sides of the court?”

“I’ll still be yours,” Paige murmured. “Same team, different team, together or 1000 miles apart...”

Azzi let out a long exhale before finishing Paige’s sentence, “We gon ride till the wheels fall off.”

Paige smiled and pulled Azzi closer, “that’s right.”

The room fell quiet, the only sound a gentle hum of the air conditioning and the soft brush of skin on skin as they slowly drifted into sleep—held, known, and wholly loved.

—-

As morning came, the sun leaked slowly into the room, slanting golden across tangled sheets and bare bodies. Paige stirred first, still half on her stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow. She blinked slowly, eyes adjusting.

Beside her, Azzi was curled inward, one leg tangled with Paige’s, arm draped over her waist, hair spread out across the pillow like a halo.

For a few long minutes, Paige didn’t move. She just watched her sleep, felt the weight of Azzi’s body against hers, and let the silence wrap around them like a blanket.

Azzi shifted slightly, brow furrowing like she could feel the eyes on her. Her voice was low, barely a whisper.

“You’re staring.”

Paige smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re pretty.”

Azzi cracked one eye open, smirking. “That’s the only reason?”

Paige leaned in, kissed the tip of her nose. “That and… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this calm.”

Azzi stretched out a little, limbs brushing against warm sheets, body still sore in the best way. She let out a low, sleepy groan, burying her face in the pillow for a moment before turning to look at Paige.

Paige watched her with soft, half-lidded eyes, one arm tucked behind her head, hair messy from sleep. She reached over and traced lazy circles on Azzi’s hip with her thumb.

“You okay?” Paige asked gently.

Azzi nodded, voice still rough with sleep. “Yeah. Just… a little sore.”

Paige’s hand drifted down to Azzi’s thigh, fingertips skimming over the skin there. She paused when she felt the faint crescent-shaped marks she’d left behind last night, the little indents from where her nails had dug in. Her chest tightened.

“Too much?” Paige asked quietly, her thumb brushing carefully over one of the marks.

Azzi’s lips curved into a slow, tired smile. She reached down to cover Paige’s hand with hers, squeezing it. “Not too much. Just… enough to remember how good it was.”

Paige let out a small breath, relief clear on her face. She pressed a soft kiss to Azzi’s temple. “You’d tell me if it was too much though, right?”

Azzi nodded immediately. “Of course. You’re always careful with me. Even when you lose it a little.”

Paige gave a sheepish little laugh. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Azzi glanced down at where Paige’s fingers still rested over the marks, then back up at her with a spark of heat in her sleepy eyes. “I like having proof,” she teased softly.

Paige’s mouth quirked in a warm, crooked smile, eyes softening. “I just want you to feel safe.”

Azzi leaned in and kissed her gently, lingering. When they pulled back, their foreheads rested together.

“I do,” Azzi whispered. “Always with you.

They laid like that for a while, quietly tracing skin, exchanging sleepy kisses, wordlessly soaking in the peace of being known. There was nothing to explain. Nothing to run from. Just the soft, golden hum of morning and the solid weight of each other.

Eventually, Azzi lifted her head and smiled. “Want to go get breakfast?”

She glanced at the clock. “Or more like brunch.”

Paige yawned and buried her face into Azzi’s neck. “Only if you promise to let me order something ridiculous.”

“Like a tower of pancakes and a mimosa the size of your face?”

“Exactly.”

Azzi laughed. “Deal.”

—-

They didn’t try to hide.

Paige wore joggers, a Wings t-shirt, and a messy bun that Azzi had playfully tugged into shape before they left. Azzi threw on a cropped tee, biker shorts, and sunglasses, letting her curls live wild and untamed. They didn’t match, didn’t coordinate, and didn’t care.

The place was a little hole-in-the-wall brunch spot Paige had found during training camp. It had outdoor seating, terrible parking, and some of the best French toast in Texas.

They sat outside, elbows brushing, legs tangled under the table. Paige poured syrup over her pancakes with alarming precision while Azzi scrolled through her phone, snorting at DMs.

“Oh my god,” Azzi said, holding up a screenshot. “Someone made an edit of us from the red carpet with the caption, ‘the WNBA power couple we didn’t deserve.’”

Paige peeked over and smirked. “Accurate.”

Azzi scrolled further, snorting. “People are seriously shipping us so hard. Look at this—‘Queens. Soulmates. I’m crying.’”

Paige raised an eyebrow, cutting into her pancakes. “As long as they don’t know what we did last night, they can write whatever they want.”

Azzi’s jaw dropped, eyes wide. “Paige!”

Paige just shrugged, lips twitching. “What? I’m just saying. You were… pretty loud.”

Azzi kicked her lightly under the table, cheeks pink. “Stop. Oh my god.”

Paige leaned in closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Azzi couldn’t help it—she laughed so hard she snorted, burying her face in her hands. “You’re the worst.”

Paige grinned, eyes warm and shameless. “You love it.”

They were halfway through breakfast when a teenage girl hovered at the edge of their table, fidgeting with the strap of her backpack.

“Um… sorry to bother you,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “Are you Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd?”

Azzi smiled gently. “We are.”

The girl beamed. “You guys are… like, my favorite players. I just wanted to say that what you posted last night? It was really cool. You’re both so cool.”

Paige’s smile softened, a hand instinctively resting on Azzi’s knee under the table. “Thanks for saying that.”

The girl glanced around. “Would it be okay to get a picture?”

Azzi stood first. “Of course.”

They posed together—Paige towering slightly behind, Azzi at the girl’s side, all smiles. When the girl left, practically floating, Azzi sat down and looked over at Paige with raised brows.

“You okay?”

Paige hesitated. “I wasn’t sure what it’d be like… people seeing us after getting that confirmation.”

Azzi reached across the table, lacing their fingers together. “But?”

Paige looked at her like the sun had just risen again. “But I think I’m gonna like this.”

Just then, someone from a table nearby called out, “Hey! Go Wings! And congrats, y’all look amazing together!”

Paige flushed a little but didn’t let go of Azzi’s hand.

“I think I’m really gonna like this,” she said again, smiling wide.

—-

The next night was one of Paige’s rare nights off from the game of basketball—no games, no practice. Just a quiet night out with friends. 

The four of them sat at a corner table on the rooftop patio of one of Dallas’ trendiest restaurants—string lights twinkling above, live music floating from the bar inside, and the scent of grilled steak and warm bread drifting in the air.

Paige had on a purple button-down with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, one arm draped casually behind Azzi’s chair. Azzi wore a sleeveless cream top tucked into high-waisted jeans and looked impossibly good, not that Paige was keeping score.

Across the table, Dijonai and NaLyssa were already mid-banter, cracking jokes over their drinks like they’d been waiting for an audience.

“Oh I know,” Lyss said, swirling her margarita, “this girl convinced her college team she was straight for two whole seasons.”

“I didn’t say I was straight,” Nai defended with a smirk. “I just… didn’t correct anyone.”

Azzi laughed. “Sounds familiar.”

Paige groaned. “Why is it always us getting called out?”

Lyss grinned. “Because now you two are all over everyone’s for you pages with your soft launches and slow burns and ‘who’s the top’ Twitter threads.”

Azzi leaned into Paige’s shoulder, smiling proudly. “That’s what makes it fun.”

“You know we were rooting for you the whole time, right?” Nai said, resting her chin in her palm. “Like, even before you ever said anything. Lyss literally said when we watched the draft, ‘They’re either dating or practicing for a rom-com.’”

“I did say that,” Lyss confirmed with a satisfied nod.

Paige chuckled, cheeks warm. “Well, you were right. Sorry we didn’t give you the hard launch sooner.”

“We’ve been there,” Nai said, voice softer now. “We know it’s not easy.”

The table settled for a moment into that comfortable space only people with shared experience can reach. Paige reached for Azzi’s hand under the table, squeezing it once.

“So, Az,” Nai asked after a few bites of food, “you declaring next year?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s always been the plan. I’ve been trying not to overthink it.”

“You’ll kill it,” Nai said with full confidence. “You’re already league-ready. And if you end up here with us? That’s just bonus.”

Lyss smiled across the table. “Seriously. It’d be dope to have another couple in the locker room. You two would take all the heat off us.”

Azzi laughed. “You say that like y’all aren’t fan favorites.”

“Yeah, but we don’t get edits with angel wings and background music,” Lyss teased.

Paige leaned back, playing it cool. “What can I say? We’re marketable.”

Azzi elbowed her lightly. “And humble.”

Lyss raised her brows, then tilted her head slightly. “So, real talk—have y’all talked about what next year might look like? I mean… with the draft, long-distance again, different cities maybe?”

The question wasn’t pointed—it was kind. Genuine. But it still made Paige pause.

Azzi answered first. “We’ve talked about it. It’s still early, and obviously I don’t know where I’ll end up. But we’ve done the distance thing before.”

“And survived it,” Paige added. “Barely.”

That made Azzi laugh, but she squeezed Paige’s hand again.

“We’ll figure it out,” Azzi said, her tone soft but solid. “We always do.”

Nai nodded. “That’s what it’s about. Doesn’t matter where you play, just that you stay on the same page. It’s the league, yeah—but it’s your life too.”

“You don’t have to do it how anyone else did,” Lyss added. “You can build it your way.”

Azzi smiled at them. “Thanks. Seriously. It means a lot coming from you two.”

The rest of dinner flowed easy—swapping rookie stories, trading gossip, laughing over Nai’s ongoing beef with her DoorDash driver. At one point, Azzi reached for a fry from Paige’s plate and Paige caught her hand mid-air, mock scandalized.

“Boundaries,” Paige said, holding her plate protectively.

“I shared my dessert with you!”

“That was voluntary.”

“You’re in love with me!”

“Barely.”

Azzi shoved her anyway and Paige kissed her cheek mid-protest, drawing a chorus of teasing whoops from across the table.

By the end of the meal, the check arrived with a note from their server:

“Go Wings! Good luck later this week!”

They all smiled.

—-

The next day at practice, the ball thudded against the hardwood as Paige hit another pull-up jumper from the elbow, the sound sharp and clean in the mostly empty gym. A few players lingered for extra reps, but most had already hit the locker room.

Paige stayed behind, rhythmically grabbing her rebounds, one after the other.

“You tryna make the rest of us look bad or something?”

Paige glanced over her shoulder to see Lyss walking toward her with a towel slung over her neck and a knowing smile on her face.

“Just keeping my hands busy,” Paige replied, catching her own rebound and tucking it under one arm.

Lyss raised an eyebrow. “Your hands or your head?”

Paige sighed, then offered a small grin. “Both.”

They walked to the bench and sat, sweat still drying on their skin.

“I’m assuming this is about Azzi,” Lyss said, gently.

Paige didn’t answer right away. She stared down at the basketball between her hands. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation we all had at dinner last night.”

She paused before adding, “I know me and Azzi are good…we’re solid. But sometimes it just… hits me, y’know? This league is a grind. Long seasons. Different cities. The pressure. The travel. The media. I just—sometimes I wonder if love like this fits into something like that.”

Lyss nodded slowly, giving her space. “You’re asking the right questions.”

Just then, Nai came around the corner from the weight room, spotted them, and walked over mid-sip of her protein shake. “What’d I miss?”

“Paige’s existential love crisis,” Lyss said casually.

“Ah,” Nai said, sitting on Paige’s other side. “Classic.”

Paige smiled despite herself.

“Listen,” Nai continued, nudging Paige’s shoulder with her own. “When Lyss and I were on separate teams, it sucked. We were lucky if we saw each other twice a month during the season. You know how we made it work?”

“Tell me.”

“We wanted to,” Lyss said simply. “That’s it. That’s the whole secret. We both decided to try, even when it wasn’t convenient. Even when it was hard.”

Nai leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You love her, right?”

“More than anything,” Paige said instantly. 

Lyss smiled. “Then you’re already doing the hardest part.”

Paige blinked.

“Letting yourself love someone that deeply and not holding back?” Lyss added. “That’s scarier than any travel schedule or media headline. And you already did that.”

Paige looked between them, the weight in her chest loosening just a little. “Thanks. Really.”

“That’s what teammates are for,” Nai said, patting her back.

“Now go home to your girl before she calls me asking if you died in the gym,” Lyss teased.

Paige stood, tucking the ball under her arm again. “Y’all are soft for being so good at advice.”

“And you’re lucky we like you,” Nai called after her.

—-

Paige let herself into the apartment with a slow exhale. Her body ached from drills, but her head was clearer. She dropped her gym bag by the door, pulled off her shoes, and wandered in—

And paused.

The apartment smelled like lemon and fresh linen. The floor was clean. The dishes were gone from the sink. The laundry was folded and stacked neatly on the couch.

And Azzi stood in the middle of it all, barefoot in soft shorts and one of Paige’s oversized sweatshirts, hair tied up, AirPods in as she folded the last towel and hummed along to her music.

Paige didn’t say a word. She just watched, heart thudding in her chest at the sight of her girlfriend doing something so simple—so deeply thoughtful—without ever needing recognition.

Azzi finally noticed her and pulled out one earbud. “Hey babe.”

Paige walked toward her slowly, set her water bottle on the counter, and wrapped her arms around Azzi’s waist, burying her face in her shoulder.

“You okay?” Azzi asked, arms wrapping back around her instinctively.

“I love you,” Paige mumbled. “So much it hurts sometimes.”

Azzi pulled back just enough to see her face. “You good?”

Paige nodded, eyes soft. “I was overthinking earlier. About the future. About how we make this work once you’re in the league.”

“And now?”

“Now I realize I’m an idiot for doubting us,” she said with a small, emotional laugh. “You cleaned our whole damn apartment while I was out spiraling.”

Azzi shrugged. “I know how your brain gets. Figured a little peace and quiet might help.”

Paige’s throat tightened. “Well… it worked.”

Paige leaned in and kissed her, long and slow.

They ended up on the couch with tea and leftover cookies, knees tangled, Azzi tucked under Paige’s arm.

“So… what do you want next year to look like?” Paige asked quietly, running her fingers through Azzi’s curls.

“I want to get drafted. I want to play hard. I want to prove I belong in the league.”

“You will.”

“And I want us to stay us. No matter what. Even if I end up in Minnesota and you’re here. Even if we don’t always have nights like this.”

Paige nodded. “We will.”

“We’ll just have to work at it. Like Lyss and Nai did.”

Paige smiled. “I had a long talk with them today.”

Azzi glanced up. “Yeah?”

“They made me realize something. All the external stuff doesn’t matter. Not if the person you’re with makes you feel like home.”

Azzi kissed her collarbone and rested her head back against her. “Then I’m always gonna make you feel like home.”

Paige exhaled slowly and contently, brushing hair off Azzi’s face.

Azzi grinned sleepily, voice muffled against her. “Think we should post a thirst trap next?”

Paige let out a low laugh, pulling her closer. “God, I love you.”

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s neck, giggling. “Just saying. The people are hungry.”

[tripmy]

So let me start by asking, what has gotten into you?

And let me follow that up with, how can I also get some of whatever the hell you’re having…

The way that this starts is so reminiscent of a fun night out with an almost very naaasty ending with the person you’ve wanted for forever. (Niche, but REAL)

How she starts out nervous, a shy twitchy thing. AND HOW HE CALLS HER OUT?

“Shaky this morning, yeah?” yea smthn else is about to be shaking

And from there it feels like a predator/prey dynamic. Cause he knows they’re gonna fuck and it’s inevitable and she’s so skittish and trying but not really to wiggle her way out of his trap. And then she gives it back to him! Literally lays herself bare and confesses all the things he already knew and I swear, your writing just makes it seem like he melts at the sound of her saying it. Like it wrecks him as much as it has been tormenting her to just hear it.

Like something just breaks open in his chest and he’s now pulling at his the strings of his own control, showing her that they’re the same after all. That she’s not crazy or even far fetched in her thinking because he’s been tormented too.

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you both share. “Tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit that you’re not the only one losing mind here.”

Like… HELLOOOOOOO

And your dialogue is genuinely so delicious and tension filled. It’s always like listening into a conversation that you’re not supposed to hear but can’t break away from. Something intimate and private and real and horny. Maybe I’m just horny.

I loved this from you. Thank you for taking your time on it!

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

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[chaes-tea]

── // feeling the dream .

// kpop demon hunters fic. // jinu x reader. // a/n: hi! i hadn't planned on expanding living the nightmare, but here you go! his pov: living the nightmare ⚠️!! WARNING: kpop demon hunters spoilers !!

Your eyes shoot open, your vision blurred by tears. Blinking them away, you grab your phone from your nightstand.

3:48 am.

You had that dream again. Well, not exactly again, but this is the only one that's recurring. These dreams specifically always seem to take place in the same time period, with the same people. A mother, a little girl, a young man, and... you? At least, that's the perspective these dreams always put you in.

Dressed in rags, surrounded by a variety of medicinal plants, you figured that 'you' were a low class physician. Glimpses of the noble class attire in other dreams suggested that all of these dreams take place in Joseon, Korea. Though no two dreams were ever the same, they always involved the same mother, little girl, and young man. Despite the muffled voices and the blurred faces, you couldn't help but feel that they were related to 'you'. The terms 'in-laws' and 'lover' comes to mind. Were they family? Were they 'your' family?

It's strange, you think. These dreams are starting to feel more and more familiar to you. Nostalgic, like you've experienced them before. A cold winter night, a scorching hot summer, a warm embrace, a kiss under the starry sky– all with that man.

You decided to tell Rumi about it the next night.

"I've had them for a while now," you said. "I don't really know how to explain it. It's almost like... they're my own memories? But not really. It feels like I'm living someone else's life."

"Have you talked to Celine about this?" You shake your head.

"No, though that probably isn't a bad idea."

"It wouldn't hurt to try, she might know a thing or two." She says. "So, you've had these dreams for how long and never told me?"

"Rumi, please-"

"Just kidding~"

You and Rumi have been friends since childhood, way before the formation of Huntr/x. With both of your mothers being a part of the Sunlight Sisters, it was inevitable that you two would stay friends.

The two of you chat about anything and everything else, until a wave of tiredness hits you.

"Okay, Roomba, I'm getting tired," you say, holding back a yawn, "I'm gonna head out now. Good night."

"Hehe, goodnight, [Name]."

You didn't end up telling her about your latest dream, though, which woke you up in tears. In the dream, 'you' reached a hand out to a person's back, large wooden palace doors closing behind them. The distress, the sadness, the pain, you felt it all. But this time, you got a name.

You drift off to sleep, thinking of the name from the dream.

"Jinu!"

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

"Is this place even credible, Zoey?" You ask, staring at the entrance suspiciously.

"Don't you ever listen to Bobby, [Name]? The internet. Never. Lies!"

It was the day after Rumi lost her voice. Zoey suggested to get tonics from a shady looking alleyway doctor.

"There's no way he's legit, Zoey." Mira replies.

"The reviews were so good though!"

Needless to say that that whole ordeal was an experience to be remembered. After losing the staring contest with Mira, the doctor gave Rumi a box of the tonics– or, as Mira calls it, 'voice juice'– and the four of you went off on your merry way.

"We got the tonics! Yay!" Zoey exclaims. "Once your voice is fixed, we can get back to the important stuff, like the fans!"

"What exactly is in this 'voice juice' anyways?" You ask, taking a peek into the box.

Before you could take a better look at the tonics, the four of you see shadows in front of you. Five young men turn the corner. Tall, photogenic, straight off the cover of a magazine. A few of them talked amongst themselves, some listening into the conversations. One of them, a man with black hair, trails behind them, lost in his own thoughts, until he directs his gaze forward, past the men in front of him, and he looks at you.

The moment he sees you, it's like something in his expression changes. Not visually, but the way he looks at you with his chocolate colored eyes feels like he knows you. Not in the way that a fan recognizes their favorite artist, but like he knows knows you. And you don't know why, but you also feel like you know him.

He looks away and gently pulls the cyan haired man closer to him, making space for your group to pass.

"Excuse us."

You can't say for sure, but you feel like you've heard that voice before.

Later that night, you have another dream about 'you' again. This time, it's dark, 'your' eyelids are heavy, about to fall asleep. The sound of crickets fill the night, and there's a gentle breeze in the air. A comforting touch tucks a strand of hair away. Your conscious knows it's the young man again. He presses a kiss to 'your' forehead before whispering.

"Good night."

[gojoest]

diaper duty! — gojo satoru

part of papatoru days

the one where your husband fumbles through his first diaper change

a/n: posting this real quick before i dip again, bye

brrrrt

It’s the sound that comes first.

You and Satoru exchange a look, and then simultaneously turn toward the bassinet where your baby had been soundly sleeping just moments ago.

A second later, the smell hits — your baby just did what most babies do. Filling her diaper.

“Was that her?” Satoru blinks, slightly amused.

You nod. “Well, who else could it be?”

And, as if responding to your conversation, your little one chimes in with a delighted chuckle.

“Don’t babies usually cry when they make a mess?” Satoru questions, pinching his nose.

“Seems like she’s already taking after you… being all smug after pulling off something mischievous”, you snort.

“Well, what can I say — she’s my girl, after all”, Satoru grins.

You grab a clean diaper and head over to the bassinet with Satoru trailing behind, baby wipes in one hand and a bottle of cream in the other. Setting the fresh diaper aside, you gently lift your baby and lay her on the changing table. She’s still all smiles, that little troublemaker, very much basking in the mess she’s made.

Glancing over your shoulder, you ask, “Want to give it a try?”

“Can I?”

“You’ll have to get used to it”, you say, stepping aside. “When I’m not around, you’ll have to deal with it yourself. And by the way — no, you can’t call Ijichi for that too. He’s already juggling enough of your petty requests.”

You do feel a little bad for Ijichi, but it’s hard to deny how helpful he’s been. Satoru hasn’t left your side since you got discharged from the hospital after giving birth to your beautiful daughter, and with the baby still too small for outings, someone has to run out for supplies. You’re not quite ready to be alone with her (or worse — leave her with your chaotic husband). Not just yet. So naturally, the errands fall to Ijichi — your husband’s go-to errand runner.

“But—”

“No buts!” you cut him off with a smirk. “Come on now, your turn.”

Satoru carefully approaches — with baby steps, literally. He’s already fake gagging as he slowly begins to unwrap your little one, calling her “tiny stink ball” and whatnot under his breath. But among all of his ridiculous dramatics, that soft smile tugging at his lips and reaching his eyes tells you that he’s very much enjoying this.

And so is your daughter. She’s still giggling and kicking her tiny feet in delight, making her father’s first attempt at diaper duty a little more chaotic than expected.

“Yeah? You’re having fun there, huh, princess?” Satoru coos, gently trying to keep her still. “Remember this, alright? Because when you grow up and start talking back to me, calling me uncool and lame, I’m going to remind you exactly who wiped your butt when you were blowing it up like this.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Watching your husband in this moment, you think how precious he looks right now and how different from the figure the world knows. You wonder if the curses that cower at the mention of his name or the unbearable higher-ups would find this sight as endearing as you do and maybe cut him some slack so he can forever be this lovely and silly man by your side. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, fumbling his way through a diaper change... Or pacing the house after feedings while holding your daughter to his chest, trying to coax out a burp. His shirt stained with little spots of baby spit… It’s so far from the polished image he presents to the world, and yet… so perfect.

“Fatherhood kind of suits you, you know?” you say, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch his hands tremble while he gently wipes the baby clean.

“Kind of?” he glances over at you, letting out a fake gasp. “Only kind of? I’m offended…” he pouts. “I think I’m doing a stellar job here. I deserve more credit than that.”

“Right”, you laugh. “If you manage to get her to sleep too, I might even give you a reward for being the most perfect husband and father in the world.”

He smirks at you, eyes gleaming, and then turns back to the baby. “You hear that, little one? Papa’s on a mission now and the prize sounds very promising. So be a good girl and help me out, okay?”

[mindless-existence1]

Kpop Demon Hunters

Humanized!Jinu x Manager!Reader

Summery: Jinu has a thing for the Saja Boys Manager whos friends with the Huntrix girls. Huntrix and Saja Boys work their magic and get you guys to confess

Authors note: Pretend Rumi and Jinu never had a thing pls 🙏 also requests are open for kpop demon hunters, check my page for more info.

Edit pt2 has been posted!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Jinu started the band he didnt really think about it fir the long run. Once the hunmoon was broken and Huntrix eas taken down the band would disban. But the hunmoon didnt break and now hes in a rising star kpop group.

With no experience whats so ever.

Thats when Huntrix stepped in as the experienced idols they are and got the hook up for the Saja Boys. Their good friend who was a recent jobless manager, you!

The last group you worked with spontaneously disbanded so you were left without a job. Not that you were too upset the group you were with kinda sucked.

So when you heard your besties found you a new group the hot upcoming Saja Boys you jumped at the opportunity. Honestly it was an amazing gig, you got to hang out with a group of hottest that are actually nice? And they treated you like royalty because you saved them from going under real quick.

You made sure their media coverage was good, they were ready for any shows, etc etc. It wasnt too hard to keep them at the top, already famous from the start. But they werent exactly good at the industry part.

You liked all the guys they were nice considering their demon origin, Rumi and the girls had given you the run down on the whole situation and you were already aware of them being hunters. You bonded with Jinu especially though.

Maybe it was the fact he used to be human, or that he was so nice to you, or that he was willing to hang out the most. The other guys were interested in learning about humans and their ways but Jinu wanted his humanity back and you were helping him.

Showing him how the world has changed and what new wonders there are. Your admiration for the man slowly turned into a full blown crush in a matter of months. It was blatantly obvious, at least to the girls... and Romance who said he'd keep it a secret but if you wanted advice you know where to find him.

You just couldn't believe someone like Jinu would be into someone like you, his manager. But the girls couldn't take it anymore so- during their much needed break- they had an intervention with you at a sleep over.

You and the girls were all in the bath house, Mira and Rumi had been chilling but Zoey was pleading with you. "Y/n please you are such a catch!" She shook your shoulders. "Zoey, Zoey! I know, I know im just doubting the fact hes into me." You say.

"Oh no he totally is." Mira deadpans. "What do you mean?" You ask confused. "What do you mean what do I mean its soooooo obvious." Mira answers. Zoey and Rumi nod their heads with her words and adding sounds of agreement.

"Nuh uh no chance." The girls collectively groan "Common y/n!" They all collectively say. "You have to talk to him trust us!" Zoey pleads with you and finally you stop her "ok ok ok ok calm down ill- ill talk to him" they all side eye you with a knowing look "I promise."

Now unbeknownst to you the boys were having a similar conversation themselves. It was after practice, you had just left to go hang out with the girls and Jinu just so happened to be caught. He was the last to say good bye and sent you out with a wave.

He had watched you walk away with a longing look in his eyes. "Isn't Romance supposed to be the lover boy here?" Abby teased him with a question, leaning against him his elbow on Jinus shoulder.

"Cut it out Abby, he cant help he's got a crush." Baby teased, the others walking up to where Abby and Jinu stood. "I don't know what you guys are talking about." Defensively Jinu held up his hands.

The guys all look at him with a "be so serious" look. "I think I know what im talking about a bit more than you do," Romance spoke up, "and I say you've got a crush." Jinu rolled his eyes while the others nodded their heads.

"He's right theres no point in denying it." Abby told Jinu, Romance was working over time to keep his mouth shut about 3your3 crush. But he gave you his word and he wouldnt breja that trust.

"Well what am I supposed to do about it?" Jinu asked, more of a rhetorical question then anything. But Baby just rolled his eyes, "is this guy dumb? Ask her out idiot!" Jinu shoock his head.

"I cant shes our 3manager3 did you forget?" Jinu said. "What that got to do with anything? It'll be fine trust us." Romance reasoned with him, "it is quite painful to watch you two" Mysteyr some up from behind the boys.

"See even Mystery agree with us!" Baby said his voice raised a bit. Jinu groaned, gently slapping his face and dragging his hand down. "Fine fine I will." Jinu said after some contemplation.

"Swear it!" Romnace pointed at him. "I swear." The guys nodded and started walking away towards the door to their rooms. "You should say something about her being your soda pop-" Baby started but Jinu elbowed him in the side.

"Shut up" jinu said, but he turned his head to hide the blush creeping up to his cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If enough people ask for pt2 where they confess I'll write it

[elleaitch22]

Love on Fire

Chapter 9: Everything, Again

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Happy days are coming soon! Wings won, Paige is getting rest, Azzi posted, AND Tea, Luisa, and (hopefully) Nai are back the next game?! Thank you for all the well-wishes while I’m recovering from that concussion! I hope you love it! xx Elle

Warnings: Fertility treatment, injections, medical appointments, mentions of pregnancy loss

Word Count: 3.9k words

-----------------------------------

Azzi took six weeks off after the first IVF cycle failed.

But she wasn’t resting. Wasn’t living – at least, not really.

She threw herself back into everything. At work, she apologized to her staff about missing so much work by giving them four days off. She completed two wedding orders, a bridal shower order, and a baby’s first birthday all by herself. She worked every day. From 5 am to 11 pm, grief smothered by flour and frosting.

It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t sustainable.

But it helped her a lot. Kept her upright.

It helped her process her anger, her grief, her frustrations. Now she was actually able to comprehend that nothing that had happened had been her fault; all that anger she had for herself was slowly fading.

The grief she felt for Peanut didn’t fade – it softened. She was learning to grow around it.

It wasn’t any better at home.

She got rid of all the nonstick cookware in Paige’s house and replaced it with cast iron and stainless steel.

She raided the fridge and pantry, throwing out anything that wasn’t organic or unprocessed.

Paige watched it unfold, like watching a hurricane form in real time.

“Azzi,” She called gently, “Sit down, come talk with me.” Paige asked, moving to the couch.

Azzi hesitated, wooden spoon in hand, halfway through stirring something on the stove. But one look at Paige’s face, soft with concern, and she surrendered. She sat stiffly on the far edge of the couch. “What’s up?”

“Maybe you should tell me what’s up.” At Azzi’s confused expression, she continued. “You’ve been on a rampage, Az.”

 “I have not.” Azzi scoffed.

“You don’t think I’ve been talking to KK? She’s one of my best friends, Azzi. And she’s worried about you. Said in the last week, you’ve filled enough cake orders to feed a thousand people. Not to mention the cookies, cupcakes, brownies, and macarons.”

“We had orders!” Azzi snapped, cutting off whatever else the blonde was going to say. “I’m not letting things fall apart just because I’m trying to have a baby!”

Blue eyes widened in disbelief, “You sent everybody home last week, knowing the bakery had three massive orders to prep.” At her friend’s silence, she continued. “And then, instead of resting when you got home, you completely cleared out my kitchen. You didn’t even –”

“Fine! I’ll just leave!” Azzi shot up, turning to walk away.

A pale hand reached to grab a brown one as the crease between Paige’s brows deepened. “Do not yell at me, Azzi.” Paige said firmly. “And we don’t walk away from each other in the middle of a conversation. You know that.”

Azzi huffed, moving to an armchair across from Paige. She crossed her arms and stared outside stubbornly.

“I’m not mad.” Paige started, voice low. “I’m just worried. You’re not talking to anyone. You’re not getting any rest. You’re sitting in front of me, but I feel like we’re so far apart.”

Blue eyes, full of concern, searched her face.

“Just talk to me, Azzi, please.” Paige begged.

Silence fell between them, heavy and aching.

Then –

“I feel so broken,” Azzi’s voice shook with sadness. “This is like the one thing my body is supposed to do naturally, and it just won’t. And that makes me feel failing at being a mom before I even get the chance.”

Paige was frozen in place. Azzi needed to talk through her feelings, through her problems, or they would fester and boil over. She was going to sit there and wait until Azzi got everything out, give her the space to break, then she’d do her best to put her back together.

“I’ve been researching. Every time since the first cycle. About hormones, egg quality, toxins. And everything says no processed foods and nothing that leaks chemicals into your food. I didn’t mean to wreck your space; it was just something I could control.”

She sniffled, tears falling regularly now. “And I can’t even talk to my mom about anything. I miss them so much, but they don’t understand. And Katie’s amazing. Like, I’m so thankful for her and Bob, but it’s different when it’s your actual mom.”

Tears streamed now, silent and steady. But Paige still didn’t interrupt, she waited until she moved closer.

“You’re not broken Azzi, and I know it’s hard to make your brain believe that. So, I’ll be here to remind you every day.”

She pushed a dark curl behind her ear. “And even if it doesn’t work this time, you’ll still have eggs left. We can do whatever you want. We can take a long break and try again. Or we can look at the other ways to make you a mommy.”

We.

One syllable. Two letters. And they hit Azzi square in the chest.

We. Not you.

“And the food is fine. You’re the best chef I know.” She paused. “I just want you to talk to me instead of closing yourself off.”

Azzi stared at her, something raw flickering in her eyes.

“Your mom loves you, Azzi. Why won’t you just talk to her?” She questioned quietly.

“They think I’m making a mistake by doing this alone.” She wiped at the tears on her cheeks. “They don’t care that you’re here. That’s I’m never really alone. Or that I’ve never wanted anything more. And if I talk to them before I’m really pregnant, it feels like they’re right. That I shouldn’t be a mom until I have a partner.”

A long silence. Then Paige reached up and cradled her cheek. “You’re not alone. And you never have to leave. You can stay here as long as you want. This is your home too.”

“Even when I have a screaming baby?” Azzi mumbled into her hoodie.

“Especially when you have a screaming baby.” Paige said, pulling back slightly. When Azzi’s eyes met hers, she continued. “I love you more than anyone in the whole world, Az. I’m gonna love your baby just as much.”

Their eyes met.

And for the first time in weeks, Azzi didn’t feel quite so far away.

-----------------------------------

The next week, Azzi had to brave an appointment without Paige.

And it was almost odd sitting in the waiting room alone. She hadn’t realized how much she’d relied on Paige being the calm in the storm – the low hum of her voice, the way she knew to keep stroking the back of her hand, the hand on her bouncing knee. The waiting room felt colder, quieter, lonlier.

She left her appointment with a prescription for an injectable (boo) birth control. The medication was only for ten day – enough to make her ovaries and endometrium to behave and to keep her mood sour.

Her next appointment was set for March 7. Just another baseline check her endometrium.

She pouted the whole way to the fire station.

When she arrived, she didn’t say a word. Just hauled a massive basket of muffins to the kitchen. She dropped it on the kitchen counter with a thump and looked around for one face.

Not seeing Paige immediately made her annoyance grow exponentially.

“Oooooh, Paigey!” Rickea called from the hall, smile clear in her voice. “Your girl’s here, and she does not look happy.”

Seconds later, the firehouse was filled with shouts and booted feet pounding down the hallways.

“Azzi’s here?” She heard Jalen shout.

Then a high pitched, “Azzi Raaaaay!” Cameron Brink, of course.

“Thank you, Azzi!” Phee and Stewie called simultaneously.

Finally, a blonde rounded the corner, panting. “What, what is it, Azzi?”

Azzi only pouted harder. She just walked straight into Paige’s chest.

“More shots.” She mumbled into the gray t-shirt.

Paige didn’t hesitate. She just wrapped her arms around the woman she loved and pulled them into a side room, away from all the chaos.

“What do you mean, Mama?” She questioned lowly, hands rubbing her back.

Azzi lift her head. “I have to do ten more days of shots. Every morning. To get my cycle lined up with the transfer.”

Paige’s hands stilled. “We got a transfer date?”

Azzi’s lips twitched despite her bad mood. “March 20.”

Paige’s whole face lit up like the sun. Her body practically vibrated with excitement. “It’s really gonna work this time, Azzi. I can feel it in my bones! You’re gonna be a mommy. We’re gonna have a baby to hold in ten months!”

Her arms tightened again, almost lifting Azzi off the ground in the excited embrace.

“Let me have my mood!” Azzi laughed into her shoulder. “Ten whole days of shots before we can even check and see if the rest of the cycle is a good idea, or if we should wait until the next.”

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “But think about it, Princess. Ten days from now, you might be closer to meeting Jellybean.” Her voice softened, the nickname curling around them like warmth. “Every shot gets us a little closer.”

The excitement was palpable, and it made Azzi smile again.

Before she could reply though, the intercom sounded. “Engine 22, Squad 5, Ambulance 35, structure fire at –”

Paige leaned in, forehead pressing briefly to Azzi’s. “I’ll give you your first shot in the morning, okay?” Her hand lingered at Azzi’s waist. “I love you.”

Then she turned and ran.

“I love you too,” Azzi whispered into the silence, hugging herself where Paige had just been.

-----------------------------------

Every morning at six, Paige got up and made Azzi a hot chocolate.

She would pad to the kitchen half-asleep and stir in a packet into oat milk. It was a mindless task, but the ritual was gentle, sacred, and treated with all the care she could muster.

Then she’d tiptoe back to the bedroom and pause, cradling the warm mug in her hands.

She leaned against the doorway and watched. Kept her eyes on Azzi wrapped in Paige’s sheet like she belonged there – body completely still like she was still curled into Paige’s side.

She gave herself five minutes to let her mind savor these moments, let herself imagine.

A perfect life – one that was hers.

One where she got to make Azzi hot chocolate, coffee, or tea every morning.

One where she kissed her awake. Lips trailing across her eyelids, cheeks, tip of her nose, before finally settling on her mouth.

One where tiny feet pressed into her ribs.

But it wasn’t real. Not yet. Not until she got the guts to confess.

And still, the ache for that future with Azzi tugged at her every day.

After mourning what could have been, Paige would pad forward and wake Azzi. She started with a gentle rub on her back, pressure increasing with each pass. Then a kiss to her forehead and a soft, “Azzi, wake up.”

Like always, Azzi grunted and pouted in protest. She pulled the blanket over her head without fail, and didn’t even think about emerging until Paige said something about her drink.

Then, once the warmth had settled into her bones, the brunette would rise, ready for her shot.

The routine was muscle memory now. Wipe. Blow. Stick. Pray. Kiss.

And every morning, Azzi felt it all.

Because the way Paige wiped her skin was slow, tender. More caress than cleaning.

Because her breath, cool and careful, always sent a shiver across Azzi’s stomach—and lower.

Because the shot, though sharp, came with a litany of love whispered in Paige’s low, raspy voice.

“Good job, Mama.”

“Jellybean is so lucky to have you.”

“You’re already the best mom.”

“You’re the strongest person I know.”

And then, always, the prayer. Never the same, but always heartfelt. Paige would close her eyes and press a palm just over Azzi’s skin.

“God, let this work. Keep her safe. Keep Jellybean safe. Let love be enough.”

Finally, the kiss.

Right below Azzi’s belly button, warm and lingering. Paige would hold her lips there for several seconds, whispering something Azzi couldn’t quite make out.

It made Azzi feel seen, loved, cherished in a way that scared her sometimes.

And maybe it worked because at Azzi’s next appointment, Liv was more than happy with the results of the ultrasound.

“You’re right on track. No more shots for now. Just oral estrogen, three times a day with food.” The doctor instructed.

Paige had already rationed Azzi’s prenatal vitamins for the week, something she treated as sacred. She added the estrogen to the pill organizer and texted reminders for every meal. Even when she was on shift, she FaceTimed at lunch and dinner to make sure Azzi ate and took the pills.

Then, it was back to the progesterone shots.

A different one than last time. This round was in her hip. A thicker needle. A deeper ache.

Only the two nights before the transfer, but it felt like too much.

The first time, Azzi stood in front of Paige in loose boxers, her hands shaking as they held the counter in a vice grip.

Paige stepped behind her and wrapped her arms around her waist. She rested her chin on Azzi’s shoulder, then kissed the side of her neck slowly.

“Breathe,” She whispered, one hand still pressed to her stomach.

Azzi exhaled. Paige struck.

The flinch wasn’t unnoticed – Paige closed her eyes like she was the one in pain.

“You’re so strong, Mama.” She murmured against Azzi’s temple. “I’m so proud of you. You’re so close to getting little Jellybean.”

Later, when Azzi limped toward the couch and couldn’t quite sit without wincing, Paige didn’t say anything. She just pulled her in, settled her between her thighs, and held an ice pack to her hip until the ache eased.

-----------------------------------

The morning of the transfer was different than others.

There was no panic. No racing thoughts or stomach knots. Just a strange calm, like everything was frozen in exactly the right place. Maybe all of Paige’s prayers had paid off because Azzi went into the clinic with a peace she hadn’t known since this whole process started.

“Good morning, Azzi, Paige.” Liv smiled tiredly as she entered the waiting room. “Ready for today?”

Azzi squeezed Paige’s hand, “Yes. I’m ready.”

“We’re doing three today, right?” Paige questioned.

Liv nodded. “That’s what you still want, right Azzi? You’ll still have two frozen after this.”

“Might as well go all in, right?” Azzi glanced at Paige.

The blonde smiled softly, “Go big or go home.”

Paige helped her change into the pale blue cloth gown, fingers gentle as she tied the back. She smoothed her hair into a loose bun and pulled the hair net on carefully.

Then she leaned her forehead against Azzi shoulder. “You’re amazing, Azzi.” She started, breathing her in. “You don’t even know how much I admire you.” She whispered.

Azzi turned, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“And you’ve been everything I could’ve hoped for, Paige.” She murmured. “More than I could’ve asked for. Thank you so much.” She hugged her tightly.

“Let’s go make this baby, yeah?” Paige smiled.

Just this once, Azzi let herself act exactly like she wanted – like she was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Paige Bueckers.

She held her hand like it was her anchor. She stared at her with warm brown eyes and didn’t look away. Not when the IV was interested. Not when the embryologist went through the checklist. Not when Liv returned to review the post-op instructions. She knew Paige would remember every word anyway.

She kept her gaze on Paige even as the mask was lowered over her nose and mouth, her vision starting to blur at the edges.

And Paige stayed. Whispering steady, soft things into her ear like promises.

“I already told Jellybean to behave. They’re listening already.”

“I got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Just take your nap, Mama. I’ll be here planning when you wake up.”

Even after Azzi’s eyes slipped shut, Paige didn’t stop.

“You’re so beautiful, Azzi. Especially now.”

“You’re doing this, Az. You’re really doing it. I’m so in love with you.”

Azzi couldn’t hear the last things she said, Paige knew that.

But as she walked to the waiting room, hand still tingling from holding hers, a part of her hoped the words had found their way in anyway.

-----------------------------------

The next two weeks passed in a blur.

They were back in the routine of doing the progesterone. Shots every day until day fourteen.

Azzi woke up at 4:23 am on Friday, April 3. And even though she tried, she couldn’t go back to sleep. Her chest felt too tight. Brain too loud.

She slid into Paige’s sweatpants, her Ugg slippers, and pulled on a hoodie. She grabbed three pregnancy tests, her keys, and walked out the door into the dark.

She knew she was supposed to wait. Stewie was letting Paige off shift an hour early so they could test together at 6:30. But Azzi couldn’t wait.

She needed to know.

But she couldn’t do it alone.

Station 22 was quiet, the air thick with sleep and disinfectant. She padded softly through the halls until she found Paige curled in her bunk.

She nudged her gently, “Paige.” She whispered.

Nothing.

“Paige!” She whispered again, a little louder this time.

The brunette cast a quick glance around the room, making sure she wasn’t disturbing anyone else.

This time, Azzi bent over, running her thumb over a pale cheek. “Paigey, wake up.”

The blonde pushed her face deeper into Azzi’s palm, brows furrowing the second time she did it.

Her head popped up, “Azzi?” She slurred, voice full of sleep.

Blue eyes widened at the sight of her best friend.

“Az, what’s going on?” Paige asked, much more alert.

Azzi shifted her weight from foot to foot, heartbeat loud in her ears. “I couldn’t sleep. I brought the tests. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

Paige gave a soft, tired smile. She sat up, slid her feet into her slippers, and dragged Azzi out of the room.

They didn’t talk. Paige too tired. Azzi too scared.

In the bathroom, Paige sat on the counter, head tilted back, eyes closed while Azzi took the test. When the stall door opened, Paige opened her arms without a word.

Azzi stepped between her legs, face tucked into Paige’s shirt. “I’m not scared it’s negative,” she whispered. “I’m scared it’s not.”

Paige blinked awake. “Why?”

Azzi hesitated before answering. “There are so many things that could go wrong. I could lose this one too. I could do something that might hurt the baby. I might be a bad mom.” She swallowed. “There are about a million different ways I could fuck this up.”

Paige’s hand came up to cradle the back of her head. “No one’s perfect. But you? You’ll be the best mom I know. I believe that.”

The timer went off, but neither woman moved.

“Whatever you’re afraid of,” Paige said softly, “I’m here to catch you if you fall. I won’t let you fail, Az.”

Azzi pulled back, eyes glistening. She looked at Paige like she was searching for something…and found it.

She flipped the tests.

Pregnant.

Two thick lines.

Pregnant.

Paige slid off the counter. Her mouth parted, but no words came.

She just pulled Azzi into her arms. Held her.

“You did it,” she whispered.

-----------------------------------

Azzi went to the clinic for bloodwork twice over the next four days.

The first time, her beta HCG was super high. 374. Much higher than it was with Peanut, and Azzi thought, just for a second, that she could relax.

The second time, Azzi was anxious. She knew the numbers needed to be at least double. She wondered if her first numbers were so high because there was something wrong with her baby.

832.

When Liv called to tell her, she giggled with glee. “With numbers this high, it’s looking like twins.”

Azzi’s eyes doubled in size. She was expecting bad news – heartbreaking news.

But twins?

She tried to tell herself not to get too excited, too attached. But what if Peanut sent an extra sibling?

Tears welled in her eyes, choosing to think about the gift of two babies instead of how overwhelmed she’d be in nine months.

“We’ll be able to see if my suspicion is right when you come for your ultrasound in two weeks.” Liv chirps through the phone. “Congratulations, Mommy!”

Azzi decided not to tell Paige about the possible twins until the ultrasound. She wanted to see the look on her face when Liv said that five letter word.

The time passed quickly, and the pair sat in the exam room, waiting for an ultrasound.

Paige was tense, while Azzi’s anxiety had her wound tighter than a trampoline coil.

Instead of an ultrasound tech, Liv was the one handling the equipment.

“Good morning,” She smiled brightly.

She ran down all the basics, making sure Azzi was still getting the progesterone shot every day and taking her estradiol like she was supposed to.

“Any symptoms?” She questioned.

Paige scoffed when Azzi shook her head.

“Her boobs hurt. She’s nauseous until around 4 pm. She’s been constipated a couple times. She’s had a little bit of cramping over the last few days, but nothing bad, and no blood.” Paige listed.

“And sensitivity to smell!” Azzi added.

“Those are all very normal. Your nausea may become actual morning sickness in the next few weeks. And you’ll likely be extremely fatigued, so let the bakery know. Nothing else should change before your next appointment though.” Liv said, looking at her documents.

“Let’s see this baby.” She grinned.

Azzi wore a dress today, so it was much easier to set up for the ultrasound. She winced when the wand went in and held her breath.

Liv tapped away at the machine, her grin growing.

“Two sacs. Two heartbeats.” She said, turning the screen to them.

But Azzi wasn’t looking at the ultrasound.

She was looking at Paige.

Paige’s blue eyes went wide. Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a second, she looked like someone who’d just stumbled into a dream.

“Twins?” she whispered. “We get two babies?”

Azzi reached for her hand, squeezed gently.

Paige turned, eyes full of sudden suspicion. “Wait. You knew?!”

Azzi laughed, her own eyes glassy. “Liv told me it was a possibility. But you can’t be sure until you see them.” Her voice caught. “I just... I wanted to see your face.”

Paige was still staring at the screen, like she couldn’t look away.

“Twins,” she murmured again. “Peanut sent backup.”

“Your little ones should be making their arrival in early December if everything goes as planned.” Liv smiled, handing them a few copies of the ultrasound.

The rest of the appointment passed in a blur. Measurements, questions, Liv’s voice in the background. Paige barely blinked, her hand anchored on Azzi’s stomach the whole time.

Later that night, Azzi was curled on the couch under a fleece blanket, watching Scandal for the fifth time. Paige returned from the kitchen, slid down to her knees in front of her.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just rested her cheek against Azzi’s belly. Eyes closed. Hands gentle. Breath uneven.

Then she whispered, soft and sure, “Hey babies. I’m your Paigey. You don’t know me yet, but I already love you more than anything. And you’ve got the best mama in the world. I promise I’ll be here every step of the way.”

[fazedlight]

Waves

“Why is your hair wavy?” young Lena asked.

It was one of Lena’s earliest memories - one of the few she had of her mother. The realization was sudden and profound for the 4-year-old, that sometimes her mother’s hair was straight, while other times it seemed to cascade down her shoulders in loose spirals.

Her mother had looked surprised, before breaking out into a smile. “You know how mommy puts her hair in braids some nights?” she said, getting a nod from her daughter, “That makes it wavy the next morning.”

“Can I try?” Lena asked back, and her mother nodded.

The next morning, Lena’s hair had waves too.

---

There weren’t waves in the Luthor household. “It looks messy,” Lillian said disdainfully one morning. Lena wondered if she wasn’t braiding her hair right - her clumsy little hands just couldn’t seem to get the tightness and symmetry that her mother had been able to. “I can try again,” Lena replied.

“It looks better straight,” Lillian said. And that was that.

---

It was Andrea that taught her to braid her hair for real.

Lena was 16 years old when she joined Mount Helena Boarding School, and she felt lucky to meet Andrea off the bat. Andrea taught her a lot- she learned how to sneak off for drinks, how to feign cockiness against other snobs, how to roll her r’s properly.

One late night - after doing things parents didn’t want to hear about their teens doing - Lena mulled that she wanted to braid her hair, but didn’t know how. Andrea murmured “easy”, finding a hand mirror and guiding Lena through the motions until she had a tight braid.

The next morning, Lena had waves in her hair, and breathed a little easier.

---

She was drunk. Jack was drunk. Drunk nerds at MIT were a different breed. “You can factor a Yang-Baxter equation in that state,” Jack slurred slightly, “But a quantum state is-”

“Unfactorable,” Lena completed, “Yes, I know how entanglement works. Jack, what are you really trying to say?”

Jack sat down, glancing up at Lena. “I like your braids.”

“You… wanted to talk about topological braid groups to compliment my hair?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

She asked him out on the spot.

---

She was a Luthor again. 

After years together, she left Jack - crossing the country to take over LuthorCorp. She rapidly needed to slough off her MIT years, knowing that nerdery would not help her in a boardroom meeting. She needed to pull from her lessons from Andrea, how to put on a facade in the face of nerves, how to command a room full of misogynistic men to get her way. Poise and class would need to define her if she didn’t want to drown.

She kept her hair straight.

---

Years went on, and she found herself occasionally falling back into the habit - nights here and there where she would braid her hair, letting the waves fall the next day until they straightened out in the shower again. Never too often, never too many days in a row. Just in those moments when she felt a little closer to being herself.

Or was trying to be.

Kara came back from the phantom zone, and somehow their friendship seemed to survive the layers of mutual betrayal. Though it would take time to repair what was broken, their conversations were soft words sitting across from the couch from another - a far cry from the tense moments and harsh words on balconies. For the first time in years, Lena felt she could breathe again. 

Other things changed. She never expected to end up in Kara’s bed, or wake up to her sunny smile. Somehow, that made it easier to drift away from the Luthor facade - to trade her stilettos for comfortable tennis shoes, her fresh-pressed suits for soft cottons, for a lighter touch on makeup that didn’t hide the crow’s feet developing from her more frequent laughter. She’d note the private smile from Kara when she’d show up at her loft for the evening, happy to see Lena more comfortable.

And before bed, Kara started taking to braiding Lena’s hair. “I had wondered why it was wavy sometimes,” Kara said, “It was like that a lot, in your college photos.”

Lena caught Kara’s eyes in the mirror. “Just didn’t seem fitting for a Luthor,” Lena said, “But it feels more right now.”

Kara smiled back, reaching for a small hair tie, finishing the braid. “Ready for bed?” Kara said.

“Ready.”