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azzibueckers5 · 14 hours ago

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take another drag (turn me to ashes)

synopsis: messy fwb pazzi, extremely unserious angst, alcohol usage, sexual content, situationship final bosses paige and azzi but they're like really really chill about it, um. the only hint that i'm giving in terms of the smut is possessiveness. enjoy!

wc: 6.5k (part 1/2)

a/n: title is from lana's diet mountain dew. you gay bitches won you get the first half tonight. enjoy the repercussions (sexual frustration). this was a tad rushed so i could get it out before the weekend so there's bound to be typos i am. Sorry. also roommate pairings are entirely made up #sorry

azzi tilts her head back against the couch cushions behind her and closes her eyes for a second, trying to assess what level of drunk she’s riding in their game of truth or drink in preparation for her next turn.

her teammates are scattered precariously around the room, all twelve of them making themselves at home in evina, aubrey, and piath’s small living room, and the half full handle of titos sits in the middle of the lopsided circle like some sacrificial token, daring azzi to test it.

she’s been spared from any truly invasive questions so far, only having to answer one about her first kiss (a random boy named carlos in the seventh grade after a movie date that had been nothing short of terrible) and what the most scandalous place she’d ever hooked up with someone was (she’d hesitated before answering this one, not because a hotel pool had been that embarrassing, but because her counterpart in that particular rendezvous was sitting directly next to her, fingers fidgeting in her lap and eyes refusing to make contact), so she hasn’t had to drink to avoid anything.

this was a team bonding event though– and the last one before the season officially started– so naturally azzi had been coerced into doing two separate rounds of shots by nika, in addition to sipping on a drink with god knows how many more, and the buzz in her limbs was starting to make tipsy feel like a thing of the past.

it was at least mildly reassuring that everyone around her also seemed to have reached that tipping point as well, and she could feel the atmosphere descending into that loose, rowdy environment that only happened on the rare nights when they didn’t have an early practice the next day.

amari is getting grilled about, like, her ex boyfriend’s dick size or something– azzi’s trying hard not to pay attention– which means azzi’s turn is next. she lifts her head up from the couch and ignores the slight dizziness that accompanies it, focusing instead on the feeling of paige’s hand repeatedly poking her thigh.

she tilts her head towards the blonde lazily and sighs, exaggerating her exasperation, and catches paige's finger in her own, stilling her.

“what.”

paige grins, crooked but blinding all the same, and azzi knows immediately that she is also hurtling towards drunk by the slightly dazed look on her face. she tries to smother the excitement that bubbles up at the idea of what usually happens when they get drunk together, and only halfway succeeds.

“nothin,’” paige says, unashamedly fishing for attention.

azzi rolls her eyes, and ignores the flutter in her chest when paige laces their fingers together instead of letting go.

“you’re an attention whore,” she declares, trying to scrunch her face into something that resembles annoyance.

“don’t act like you don’t love it,” paige drawls, and, yup. definitely a little drunk, because she’s slurring the end of her words a little, in a way that shouldn’t be endearing but always is anyways, and is flirting a little more brazenly than she otherwise would, especially in front of the team.

azzi is spared from having to respond when dorka kicks her right leg that’s splayed out on the ground in front of her and informs her that it’s her turn.

“you ready to drink, princess?”

she blinks away from paige’s face and scoffs, trying to catch up to the rest of the room. the last thing they need right now is for someone to accuse them of flirting again.

she pulls her fingers out of paige’s with a squeeze and says, defiantly, “m’not drinking. hit me with your best, dorka.”

the older girl smirks from across the circle, and anxiety pools in her stomach. she prays this question isn’t about her sex life.

“last person you got with. out with it.”

what a surprise. a sex question.

azzi internally sighs and tries to keep the panic off her face, tries to ignore the flash of memory at the question:

paige, kissing her in the dingy bathroom of ted’s, hands on the back of her thighs under her skirt; paige, dragging them stumbling back to azzi’s dorm, fingers tangled; paige, pressing azzi into her bedroom door, mouth moving down her neck; paige, fingers between her– she shoves the memory away, willing her face to stay unimpressed.

her rescue comes in the form of paige herself, which is, admittedly, a little incriminating, but she’s grateful nonetheless. “ya’ll must be extra horny today. how bout you go get laid instead of interrogating all of us about our sex lives.”

azzi nudges their ankles together in thanks, just as christyn groans somewhere to her left and says “don’t be a loser paige. we tryna make it actually fun,” and piath throws a piece of popcorn at paige and says “of course paige is defending azzi.”

damn it.

there’s a chorus of agreement from the girls around them, and azzi sighs, glaring at the glass handle in front of her and mentally prepping for the shot that’s going to curdle in her stomach.

but then, evina, who’s already properly sloshed, calls out impatiently, “yeah, come on az, last guy you got with. not that hard,” and azzi smiles.

blessed reprieve in the form of heteronormativity.

before anyone can object to the question, she blurts out “last guy i got with was james,” and hopes everyone is too drunk to inquire further.

got with is kind of an exaggeration– they’d kissed at the afterparty at prom and azzi had let it happen for approximately thirty seconds before his hands had started wandering and she’d broken away to run off and find her friends– but it's not her fault if people assume it was more than that.

she knows paige is gonna be sulky about the mere mention of him anyways, but that’s her problem. they’ve agreed to stop the whole messy hook up thing, what with basketball really gearing up and the fear of making things complicated, and that includes getting jealous when other people are brought up. never mind the fact that they’ve been absolutely terrible at adhering to that new rule.

christyn narrows her eyes suspiciously and asks “what do you mean by guy,” just as aaliyah says, rather shocked, “your prom date? as in not since may?”

azzi takes a sip of her drink and smirks. she should probably be a little bit more careful at what she’s insinuating, but she’s giddy at getting away without having to take a shot for a third time and also definitely a little drunk.

“i haven’t hooked up with a guy since may. that’s what you asked. paige’s turn.”

but they aren't letting her off the hook so easy, and olivia’s voice rings out over the rest of them, loud and laced with disbelief. “you brought someone home last month after the bar. nika and i had to sleep with pillows over our heads.”

nika is one of the two other people in this room that knows that that had been paige. azzi expects her to help them out a little bit here.

“yeah, azzi, what was that about?” she says instead, smarmy and annoying and so totally enjoying this.

so much for assistance.

dorka piles on with “liars have to take two shots to make up for it,” and azzi shoots a death glare at nika and sighs.

“m’not lying. evina said who’s the last guy. i answered the question.”

the room erupts again into shrieks of surprise and someone says “the princess is into women?”

azzi just takes a large gulp of her drink, pushes down the feeling of indignation at the thought that it's this shocking she’d be into women, and tries really hard not to look at paige.

she fails.

paige, for her part, is putting up a solidly mediocre performance on how to be nonchalant: lazy smirk, legs spread casually, and eyes refusing to look at azzi for too long. azzi knows her inside and out though, and can see the clench of her jaw and the shift of her fingers on the perimeter of her solo cup, the way her gaze is flitting around the room, cataloguing the different reactions to azzi’s sentence.

she pulls her eyes off paige’s silhouette before she gives them away and fixes her stare instead on aaliyah. “dunno why you assumed i’m straight, that’s your problem. somebody ask paige a question already. i answered mine.”

christyn makes a couple more attempts at getting azzi to spill on who this mystery woman is, but she refuses, and eventually the group moves on to start plotting on how to get paige to drink.

tomorrow, azzi will worry about the consequences of inadvertently revealing that she’s into girls– both because it makes her rather intense friendship with paige that much more suspicious, and because coming out to some of her closest friends via a shitty question in truth or drink is a admittedly a little pathetic. she’s never exactly tried to hide her sexuality though, it just turned out that when you’d only ever kissed one girl and were also trying to keep the fact that you were kissing said girl a secret, things tended to stay under wraps.

azzi breathes out a sigh of relief at her turn being over and shifts her thoughts to trying her best to prepare for paige’s interrogation, knowing that it’s fairly likely the question will pertain to her in some capacity, seeing as the team is hellbent on asking about sex escapades.

honestly. you’d think they were at a sleepover with sixteen year olds.

she hopes everyone around them is drunk enough to miss the tension in her shoulders, and the glances she keeps taking at paige’s face. she pointedly ignores caroline’s knowing gaze from the other across the circle, the only other one in the room besides nika who’s aware of the tangle of something more between them, and again, takes a rather large chug of her drink.

the relief of being out of the hot seat does not last long. because somehow the question that’s almost unanimously decided upon for paige is, in azzi’s opinion, seventeen times worse.

“p, how many bodies you got by now?” calls aubrey from where she’s stretched out against the tv stand, glee evident in her voice, and azzi’s heart sinks into her stomach.

she’s confident the answer is somewhere between three and five, but despite the fact that her and paige have never kept things from each other, azzi has made a point to actively avoid hearing about paige sleeping with other people. it was sort of an unspoken rule– they didn’t talk about the girls paige got with before azzi came to uconn, and they didn’t talk about the boys azzi had gotten with her senior year of high school.

they had a lot of unspoken rules.

they’d been each other's firsts (azzi stops herself from thinking too hard about the fact that she wants to be paige’s last, too), fumbling around in the dark of a hotel room (azzi reminds her self that that had meant more than any rushed hookup paige had sought out since), and though they’d maintained the conviction that the other was allowed to do whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted, they’d never been exactly good at sharing.

as the group around her debates what, specifically, has to meet the requirements for a body when it comes to having sex with girls, azzi racks her brain and tries to remember the last time paige had hooked up with someone other than her.

it had only been three weeks since she’d made one of her more terrible decisions to let the fear that paige had starting meaning more to her than basketball dictate the parameters of their relationship, and she’d initiated the rule that during basketball season (and the few weeks leading up to it), the two of them should halt the rather non-platonic aspects of their friendship for fear of making things too complicated.

she’d been half expecting paige to push back, would have most likely caved with merely a few sentences and a makeout as a counter argument, but paige hadn’t argued whatsoever, and they’d since been mostly successful at pretending everything was fine.

they’d only slipped up once since the implementation of the new rule– a rather heated makeout session in the locker room of all places when they’d been left alone post practice, sweaty and sports bra clad (they’d never stood a chance)– and they had somehow miraculously managed to spend just as much time together as they’d had before, so azzi doesn’t think paige has had time to add to her body count.

(god help both of them if she had, because azzi’s crashout would probably cause world war three)

that left only the ones she’d accumulated over the course of her freshman year, because paige and azzi had been effectively inseparable (and effectively exclusive) since their arrival at summer session workouts in may.

still, this doesn’t halt the twist in her stomach at the idea of paige with anyone else, and she fights the icky feeling in her stomach with a sip of her drink.

but azzi can handle this, definitely, and she’s prepared for paige’s answer when she takes a lazy sip of her drink and drawls out “four.”

what she’s not prepared for is the general disbelief that echoes around the circle, and the insufferable comments from various teammates about how “that can’t be true,” and “it’s gotta be more than that.”

azzi wants to hit someone. preferably all eleven other people in the room.

and then, her irrational anger at the rest of the circle refocusses to just paige because she humors it, leaning back and smirking. “what can i say? i’m picky,” grinning at the comments about how much of a whore she was the pervious year. as if it’s funny.

if azzi believed in things like auras and spiritual colors, hers would probably look like a christmas monstrosity right now– green for jealousy clashing with the crimson of her fury.

she shifts over, removing her leg from where it had been subtly pressed up against paige’s, and tucks her glower into the rim of her cup, plotting several murders as the group around them howls with laughter and continues reminiscing on paige’s escapades like it was a hilarious, wonderful time, and not the root of many sleepless nights for azzi.

she really has enough when evina giggles out something about how “paige needs to get back out there” and christyn agrees, slurring about how they miss “big daddy bueckers.”

azzi coughs. hard.

and then she finishes the rest of her drink in one swig, ignores paige’s searing gaze on the side of her face, and stands up rather aggressively to go fix herself another. if she subtly kicks paige’s foot on the way past, that’s nobody’s business but hers. she’s not doing a particularly terrific job of subtlety right now, but no one is sober enough to notice.

nika joins her in the kitchen, and bursts out laughing as soon as she sees the expression on azzi’s face, contorted into what is probably a rather hideous scowl.

“someone’s jealous,” she taunts, as she watches azzi pour a healthy amount of vodka into her cup.

“i’m not jealous,” azzi hisses. jealousy would imply azzi had a right to care about who paige gets with. which she does not. she adds another glug of tito’s for good measure.

nika eyes the amount of liquid in her cup and raises an eyebrow. “no?”

azzi glares. “nothing to be jealous over. paige can do whatever she wants.”

nika has the audacity to laugh at her. “ooookayy,” she drags out, hands raised beside her head like azzi is a feral animal. she sort of feels like it. “as someone who witnessed paige last year, it wasn’t nearly as crazy as they make it seem.”

azzi wishes this made her feel better, but in all honesty it’s information she already knows, which reminds her of how irrational she’s being, which in turn makes her more upset, at like, the world.

she huffs. “that’s none of my business.”

“uh huh. that’s why you were eye fucking eachother in the living room and are now pouring yourself a triple.”

nika muhl and her psychology degree can kick rocks.

“we told you, we’re not doing that anymore,” azzi muttered, doing a terrifically bad job at keeping the contempt out of her voice.

nika eyes her with exasperation. “and who’s fault is that.”

azzi’s frown somehow deepens at the accusation. “it’s no one’s fault. it’s just the right thing to do.”

nika blinks, disbelieving. “if you say so. when paige walks out of your room tomorrow morning with her hood up i’m going to say i told you so.”

“not happening.”

nika just raises her eyebrows. azzi decides she’d through with this conversation.

drink made, she stalks back to the living room, nika following close behind with thinly veiled amusement. she’s officially been added to azzi’s shit list of the night, directly behind one paige bueckers.

she plops back down next to the blonde, careful to keep the space between their bodies reasonable, and takes a sip of her drink, wincing at how strong she’d made it.

paige looks inquisitively at her, and azzi tries to ignore it, but then her head tilts back against the base of the couch as she sideyes azzi, brows furrowed in an unspoken attempt at asking if she’s good, which exposes the long, pale, extremely biteable column of her throat, and azzi jerks her head away before she does something stupid like lick it in front of their entire team, and ignores her.

she’s still mad at paige. not for having four bodies– that would be ridiculous. just for other, secret reasons. definitely.

she listens intently as nika immediately gets interrogated about the football guy she’s down bad for instead– serves her right for accusing azzi of being jealous– and decides that if the next question she gets asked is about her sex life, she’s going to take the shot. paige doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of hearing an answer that’s probably about her.

but then, when her turn rolls around and olivia’s nosy fucking question of “azzi who’s the best you’ve ever had and why” causes paige to smirk next to her, azzi decides that simply taking the shot would feed paige’s ego far too much.

so, she lets a smirk of her own cross her face and slurs out a massive fucking lie: “this guy i got with last year- charlie- very talented with his tongue,” and lets the room erupt into madness.

the look on paige’s face is delightful.

paige is by far the best azzi’s ever had– by, like, a factor of ten– and charlie had only been a brief fling senior year to (unsuccessfully) distract azzi from paige. he’d been mediocre at best. by the look on the blonde’s, face she knows that too, so the offense and shock laced into the outrage of her expression is beautiful. her eyes bore into azzi’s, drunk and disbelieving and pissed, and azzi swallows at the intensity of her gaze.

serves her right.

she’s forced to tear her eyes away when christyn calls out “i’m sorry, you got with a girl last month and you expect me to believe that the best you ever got was from a guy?”

azzi flushes, but she holds her gaz, shrugging, and then decides to pour metaphorical gasoline on the fire that is currently raging next to her. “wasn’t really impressed with her skills.”

paige honest to god chokes beside her, and the room erupts into hoots and hollers.

azzi lets the drunk commotion roll off her back, and makes the mistake of turning back to paige, feeling heat pool in her belly at the intensity she finds.

“i don’t believe you,” rasps the blonde into the admittedly small space between them, low enough that no one else can hear her over the chaos that’s taken over the room.

azzi smiles sweetly. “too bad.”

paige scoffs, and opens her mouth to respond with something presumably filthy, but then it’s aubrey’s turn to throw popcorn at them, telling paige to “lock in” for her turn.

paige’s anticipatory smile at aubrey is more of a pained grimace, and azzi lets satisfaction settle in her bones for now, knowing she’s gotten under her skin.

she knows better than to think this conversation is over. she’s rather excited about that fact. stupid stupid stupid alcohol.

the older girls convene in front of them for a second whispering ideas, and then they all seemingly agree on one with a chorus of excited yeses and christyn spins back to the rest of the group and grins.

azzi braces herself with a shaky inhale.

“tell the class about your favorite sex position, paigey,” christyn singsongs, and azzi's mind goes blank for a second.

she tries to stop herself from thinking about it, about what position paige might be thinking about, but fails miserably, and then a series of images are flashing through her brain:

perhaps how much paige loves to be between azzi’s thighs, used to beg the brunette to let paige go down on her, or even more so maybe how much she loves azzi between her legs, tongue tracing lines against her clit and fingers dancing inside, or maybe even that one time paige made azzi work herself back onto paige’s fingers, bent over the bed, and paige had come untouched just from watching her, or when they’d put the small bullet vibrator azzi had secretly bought between them, grinding on it and each other until they’d both fallen apart more than once, or when– jesus.

she needs to chill the fuck out.

azzi is not built for the sexually frustrated lifestyle.

she takes a large, large chug of her drink, and tries to focus on the burn of vodka down her throat, and not her absolutely filthy thoughts, nor the flush that’s coursing through her veins and making her skin hot.

beside her, paige smirks– a daring, cocky thing that pulls at the inside of azzi’s stomach– and doesn’t even think about answering, instead pouring herself a hefty shot from the handle in front of them and ripping it back, clearly enjoying the group’s groans at her refusal to answer.

azzi tries extremely hard to ignore the peek of her tongue as she licks the residual vodka off the rim of the shot glass, but her whole body feels hot anyways. she blames it on the mixture in her cup.

“bruh, you just wanted to take a shot,” accuses evina, off to the left, as everyone watches paige wince and grab for a chaser.

when she collects herself, she rasps out “yeah, or maybe i just think some things should stay private.”

she says it to the broader room, refusing to look at azzi, but she knows the words are meant just for her anyways, and as anger rolls off of the set of paige's shoulders and curls in the now much wider space between their bodies, azzi juts her chin out in defiance.

whatever– let paige be mad. that is not azzi’s problem.

she sees amari eyeing them warily, and caroline and nika have switched seats, no doubt so they can giggle to themselves about the tension they apparently think is hilarious, and azzi decides she needs a break.

when the group conversation derails a bit, partly due to the collective level of hammered and partly due to the boredom of the game they’ve been playing for an hour now, azzi decides a pee break is in order, both because she actually has to pee, and because the heated glares paige is sending her from beside her are fucking with her head.

she stands up off the floor– very wobbly mind you, the head rush at her upright position reminding her of the abundance of liquor in her cup– and stumbles down the hallway to the bathroom, trying to ignore how positively sloshed she feels.

the silence of the bathroom is a welcome reprieve from the chaos on the other side of the door, and azzi takes a deep breath as soon as she closes it, leaning back against it and cursing herself for letting paige get under her skin.

she knows she’s being unreasonable– that getting mad about the fact that paige has hooked up with people other than her is entirely ridiculous, one because it's information she already knows, and more importantly, two, because they're allowed to see other people– but she just looked so smug bringing it up. and the team thought it was so funny. and azzi wants to hit someone.

lying as payback had been fun– the look on paige’s face absolutely worth it– but now azzi feels like she’s going to crawl out of her own skin at the tension between them and the inability to do something about it.

she paces the small space for a second (noting in that slightly hysteric, satirical way that only come from drunkenness that evina’s bath mat is a hideous shade of orange), reeling with entirely unwarranted jealousy and fury and trying to pretend that the copious amounts of alcohol have not hit her bloodstream.

she stops short when she catches her own eye in the mirror. she’s flushed, the range of feelings that aren’t hers to have painted across her face, and she looks exactly like a movie character in a melodramatic shitty pg-13 romcom who’s realizing she’s too drunk and too sad in a party bathroom.

stupid stupid stupid stupid.

she spins away from her reflection, remembering that she does actually have to pee pretty bad, and plops down on the toilet, content to wallow in sexual frustration and misery for the remainder of the night.

but then, while she’s washing her hands– rather aggressively scrubbing as if she can wipe away the itch in then that yearns to be on paige’s skin– azzi’s peace and quiet is shattered by the arrival of the one person she’s currently trying to convince herself she doesn’t care the whereabouts of.

because of course paige had followed her.

she doesn’t even knock– the audacity– just barges right in like azzi’s not having a private moment to herself (a mental break).

“paige!” she huffs out indignantly, moving out of the way of the door and doing her very best to glare menacingly. “get out- i could’ve been peeing or something.”

paige looks entirely unbothered by that prospect. she closes the door behind her gently without turning around, arms crossed and jaw tipped down.

she looks infuriatingly good. azzi wants to hit her. like. with her mouth.

“nothin’ i ain’t seen before.” she pairs this aggravatingly calm sentence with a step into azzi’s personal space, and it's outrageous how affected azzi is by simply being in close proximity to her in private.

and how pretty she is. god damn it.

even with the edges of her vision blurring from the liquor, and the fact that her feet feel rather unsteady on the hideous bathmat below her, azzi can tell that paige is mad.

that type of focussed, heated anger that very rarely laces their interactions, not just simple annoyance. it unnerves her as much as it excites her, which is surely another sign that she’s going insane.

she chooses not to respond to the insinuation that paige has seen her in every state of undress, for her own sake, and tries not to think about her and paige in states of undress at all. which is actually a supremely difficult task, particularly when, again, they’re in such close proximity.

she’s starting to deeply regret that last chug of her drink.

the silence hangs around them, tense, and she suddenly realizes that somehow paige has backed her up into the sink. which is odd. considering last time azzi checked they weren’t merely inches apart. so that’s. concerning. or exhilarating. who’s to say? not azzi.

paige’s smirk is a little mean on her face, eyes wild, and she tilts her head, using the measly one inch she has on azzi to try and make her feel small. azzi refuses to let her.

“charlie?” she says, voice unimpressed. her hands coming up to rest on either sides of azzi on the sink, caging her in. “really?”

they’re not touching– not yet– but azzi feels the ghost of her hands anyways.

“what about ‘m,” she breathes. their faces are really close. and paige’s eyes are really blue.

“you expect me to believe the best head you’ve ever received was from a guy named charlie?” the and not me is unspoken, but azzi hears it loud and clear.

she scoffs, spurred on by the fire in paige’s eyes. she delights in this game. “why wouldn’t it be?”

paige’s eyes narrow. “i don’t know, maybe because last time i ate you out you came so hard you cried.”

azzi’s blood gets impossibly hotter at the reminder, but she stays strong, lifting her chin even higher. “was faking it,” she breathes. “like i said earlier, i wasn’t impressed.”

“really,” is all paige drags out, low and dangerous, and azzi feels the tension crackle between them like a physical brand on her skin. they’re not even fucking touching yet, and she can already feel the lining of her underwear growing impossibly wet at paige’s anger.

she refuses to contemplate the implications of that.

she hums in agreement and doesn’t say anything else, and paige just looks at her, lets the weighted silence settle around them.

and. okay. azzi’s not proud of this necessarily, but paige is looking like that in front of her and her mouth is turned downwards because she’s jealous and trying to hide it, and her sweats are slung low enough on her hips for azzi to see the waistband of her boxers, and.

and then they’re kissing because azzi apparently has absolutely zero self control.

her hands come up to grip paige’s shoulders, immediately opening for it, and though azzi was the one to close to gap between them, the one to tug paige down into a kiss, it’s paige that sets the pace, immediately rough and unforgiving, pining azzi hips against the counter with her own and nipping at her lips.

and god is it good, and god has she missed this in the last few weeks.

she’s vaguely aware of their new rules, that there are reasons they’re not supposed to be doing this whole kissing thing anymore, reasons she came up with, but she can’t for the life of her remember why she’s supposed to give a singular fuck about that right now when paige’s hands splay out across the skin of her sides underneath her shirt, and her hips are pressing into azzi’s, and her mouth is doing that delicious thing where she licks into azzi’s mouth and slide’s their tongues together, and.

and azzi decides that this can be an exception.

she groans into the kiss, tangling her fingers in paige’s hair, and lets her press closer, relishing in the feel of paige all over her for the first time in too long.

the kiss is mean, claiming, and azzi knows without a doubt that paige is trying to remind her why she will always be the best azzi’s ever had.

it makes liquid heat pool endlessly in her stomach, and she lets out a strangled cry when paige shifts to press her thigh between azzi’s legs, letting the taller girl swallow her sounds and somehow press impossibly closer.

fuck.

it’s always so, so good with paige. it almost makes azzi angrier, and she lets her hands tug at paige’s hair a little rougher, bites into the kiss a little meaner.

paige must be aware that they’ve only got a few minutes before people get suspicious, because she’s sliding a hand under the waistband of azzi’s shorts and boxers after only a minute or two of making out.

which makes the fact that azzi’s completely soaked all the more embarrassing.

she breaks the kiss to gloat, rasping out “you get this wet for charlie?” against azzi’s lips, and.

azzi’s completely forgotten about why he’s relevant. and then she’s yet again reminded of why paige is insufferable, because why did she have to bring that up. azzi figured the whole kissing furiously against a bathroom sink thing sort of implied charlie didn’t hold a candle.

however. azzi would never be the one to back down from what was clearly some version of a competition, and despite the fact that, no, she’d gotten nowhere near close with him, azzi locks eyes and breathes “yeah, you’re not special.”

her voice gets choked up halfway through because paige decides to slide two fingers down and circle the entrance of her cunt, because she’s a smug bitch, and. jesus christ. azzi is criminally wet.

paige knows that they’re both aware of this.

“is that right,” she taunts, the hand that’s not currently working lazy circles on azzi’s clit coming up to grip the base of the younger girls neck.

self-assured prick.

azzi only has the brain capacity to gasp out “uh huh” in response, and paige smiles at that, wicked and. pretty, actually, even though she’s an asshole.

“want me to prove you wrong?” she pairs the question with the breach of a finger at azzi’s entrance, and.

god help azzi.

she whines out a “please,” before catching herself– this is a game, afterall– and adds “can’t hurt.”

somewhere in the back of azzi’s vodka-and-paige addled mind, it occurs to her that paige is being suspiciously forgiving, but she lets that thought go in favor of the approving kiss paige gives her, their mouths moving together in that delicious, all consuming way that quiets every part of her brain.

she has half a mind to protest when paige pulls away, slipping her hand out of azzi’s shorts and tearing their mouths apart, but before she can, paige is sliding down her body to be eye level with the tops of azzi’s thighs, knees cushioned on that horrible bathmat.

god.

azzi lets out a strangled whine when paige’s hands come up to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. the vision of paige below her is too much, and she has to close her eyes for a second.

“you wan’ it?” she asks, looking up at azzi like a fucking siren, eyes wide and pleading like she wants it just as bad.

and. azzi should say no, considering their entire team is on the other side of what is surely a very flimsy door, and getting eaten out on a bathroom sink that isn’t hers is probably a little distasteful.

unfortunately for said teammates, azzi is despicably wet and paige is between her legs looking like she’ll die if azzi doesn’t say yes, and, most of all, azzi is too drunk to give a single shit if someone hears them.

she chokes out a “yeah, need it” and is too focussed on paige’s answering grin to care about how desperate she sounds.

instead of tugging down her basketball shorts, paige rucks up the material around one of her thighs, and latches onto the inner most sensitive part, sucking hard. she’s merely inches away from where azzi desperately needs her, and the feeling lights azzi on fire, head thumping back against the mirror behind her as pleasure takes over.

paige works on the mark, intent on claiming, biting the sensitive flesh and then laving her tongue over it to soothe, and azzi feels drunk on not only the vodka but the pleasure too, whining quietly when paige presses a kiss to the darkened skin and pulling back with a smile.

and fucking then.

paige breathes “too bad,” matter of fact and smug, into the mark.

azzi’s confused as fuck at her words, has forgotten what they were saying, and then. and then paige just. stands up.

“should call charlie to deal with that, hmm?” she pouts, fake pity lacing her words, and then she fucking pats azzi’s thigh in mock consolidation and walks out of the bathroom.

azzi’s disoriented wail of “wait,” is too late, paige already out the door like she hadn’t been on her knees seconds prior, and azzi is suddenly alone with her muddled thoughts once more, breathing uneven, skin flushed, and rage bubbling up inside of her.

along with, like. intense sexual frustration.

what the actual fuck.

azzi should’ve known paige would be too petty to let that go, and she’s both furious at the blonde for setting a fucking trap, and herself for falling into it. but what an fucking self-inflated egotistical asshole.

god.

azzi wants to march right out of the bathroom, knee paige in the stomach, pour the remainder of her drink on top of her stupidly perfect head, and then maybe possibly lick off said drink from the dip in her collarbone. and the line between her breasts. and perhaps her bellybutton.

being mad at and being attracted to paige were two sides of the same coin on a good day, but on a drunk one? azzi wanted to solve their issues with bitemarks and bruises. which was entirely stupid and counterproductive and irrational, three qualities that seemed to follow azzi around almost as much as paige did.

she inhales, several times, trying to clear the fog from her brain and calm the racing of her heart, and tries to push away the lingering disappointment that she won’t be coming apart at the hands of paige tonight, or anytime in the future really, seeing as– due to most of their roommates not knowing and the fact that azzi was far too prideful– she couldn’t exactly drag paige back to her room and have her way with her.

this, coupled with the fact that it wasn't like she could just stroll in to paige’s room in two days time when they both inevitably got sick of the fight and wanted make-up sex because of the stupid fucking rules, meant that not only was azzi angry at paige for her little stunt, but she was also a little annoyed at her apparent disregard for their limited opportunities to have sex.

paige was wasting extremely precious time in which they were alone and drunk, guards lowered, and neither of them had had a singular orgasm.

what a fucking stupid bitch.

azzi checks her phone, happy to see that it was already past 11:30, meaning an acceptable time for her to feign exhaustion, and, with renewed anger, pushes herself off the edge of the sink and stalks out of the bathroom, intent on socializing for maximum ten more minutes before retreating to the solitude of her bedroom and getting herself off.

to the thought of paige.

which was something she’d unfortunately become quite familiar with ever since she’d had her awful, horrible, no good very bad idea to stop letting paige get azzi off instead, the much preferred but decidedly unavailable option.

whatever. at least paige would probably also die of sexual frustration, and then they could rot in hell together.

a/n: sorry to edge you (paige and i will make it up to you <3) as always pleaseeee tell me if you liked it and i will die of happiness and probably kiss you <3 i hope to have the second part put early next week!

#paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi smut #pazzi #i always feel like im forgetting tags but alas

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kenntoria · 1 day ago

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synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ at a family dinner, nanami watches you cradle a baby—hesitant at first, then heartbreakingly gentle—and sees a future he’ll never rush, but quietly dreams of.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ you dream of that and i’ll dream of you nanamin

the thing about nanami is that he never asks you for more than you’re willing to give.

he never rushes you. not when it came to your relationship. not when you both moved in together. not when the question of marriage hovered between you like an unanswered prayer. and especially not when the topic of children entered the conversation, clumsy and tentative.

not that you ever spoke about it directly.

you weren’t against it, not exactly. but the idea of a child—of diapers and crying and the eternal pressure to be good at something you’d never tried before—was terrifying. there was too much responsibility in the softness of a baby’s head, the fragility of a tiny body. sometimes you’d joke about how you’d probably drop one, or that kids hated you, or that the thought of giving birth was horrifying. and nanami never laughed at you. never called you dramatic. he just nodded, like he understood.

and he did. god, he did.

but he also noticed things.

like the way your eyes lingered when you saw a baby bundled in a stroller. or how you’d go quiet when you saw a toddler waddling with a cookie in each hand. he noticed the way you softened just a little more when children were near—not enough for anyone else to see, but enough that he caught it, caught you, staring before you realized and blinked away like you’d been caught daydreaming.

and you always assumed he didn’t notice. but of course nanami did. nanami noticed everything when it came to you.

that’s why it hits him a little harder than expected when it finally happens.

you’re at one of his family dinners—something warm and rowdy, his relatives laughing too loud and bringing too many dishes. you’re dressed in a little sundress he likes, sipping juice and picking at a plate of fruit, eyes gentle and distant as the evening spins on around you.

and then his cousin, chaotic and overwhelmed, clutches her baby girl to her chest and says your name, breathless.

“can you hold her for a sec? i need to get the cake from the car—i’ll be quick!”

before you can answer, the baby is placed in your arms. warm. soft. gurgling with laughter like the world is nothing but good things.

and nanami watches you freeze.

“uh,” you manage to croak out.

it’s not even a second. just a stutter in your body. your arms hold the baby awkwardly at first, like you’re cradling a bomb you don’t know how to defuse. your brows pinch in confusion. and then—

your arms shift. your body curls inward slightly. and something in your face melts like wax in the sun. the baby touches your face with tiny, chubby fingers, and you giggle—quiet, shocked at yourself, like you hadn’t expected to enjoy the weight of a child in your arms.

and nanami watches you pull her closer. presses your cheek to her soft hair. the curve of your mouth so gentle, so awestruck, that he forgets how to breathe.

the room goes quiet in his head. nothing else exists except the sight of you holding that baby. except the sudden, selfish ache in his chest as his mind races with the what-ifs.

what if it was your baby?

what if you were holding the child you made together?

what if that softness on your face was for a little girl with his eyes and your smile?

he’s still staring when you finally glance up. eyes searching the room for him—and when you catch his gaze, you blink, visibly flustered. your face flushes. you look down at the baby again and then back up at him, almost shy.

nanami smiles. it splits his face slowly, creases the corner of his eyes, lights something deep behind them. he crosses the room slowly, like something sacred is happening and he doesn’t want to disturb it.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice low and fond, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “you okay?”

you nod quickly, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

“you’re good with her,” he leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder.

“i—no, i’m not. she’s just… quiet. she’s not scary like the others.” you look down, like you are still trying to shake it off.

but the baby coos again, snug against your chest, and nanami swears he’d never seen anything more precious than the way you blink down at her like you aren’t sure what to do with the warmth blooming in your chest.

“you look good with her.”

your eyes widen. “don’t say that.”

“why not?” he says, smile lingering. “it’s true, sweetheart.”

you glance down at the baby, then back at him. “don’t get ideas, kento.”

he lifts his hands innocently, even as his heart burns quietly with the image of you both in a home of your own, years from now, with a baby that shares both your blood and names.

“no ideas,” he says. “just… enjoying the view.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t hand the baby back. you don’t push him away when he presses a lingering kiss to your temple, and he doesn’t say anything when he notices you swaying slightly—instinctively rocking the baby in your arms.

and maybe you’ll talk about it one day.

and maybe you won’t.

but for now, he’s content to let this moment exist as it is: quiet, perfect, and full of a future that doesn’t need to be rushed.

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my-castles-crumbling · 3 days ago

Text

identity - @rosekillermicrofic - slightly NSFW - word count: 180

“Oi!” Barty yelped, throwing his hands in the air, shocked to see four wands trained on him as soon as he walked in the door of Pandora’s flat. “The fuck?”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Regulus scowled, wand never wavering. “People are using Polyjuice now. Things are getting bad. We need you to prove it’s you.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to prove my identity with four wands pointed at my junk?” Barty grumbled, but didn’t move.

“You answer a question. A question only Barty would know,” Pandora explained calmly. She looked around. “Someone think of something.”

The room was silent for a moment as everyone thought.

“Have to piss, here,” Barty mumbled, still standing with his arms raised high.

“Oh!” Evan gasped suddenly, face breaking into a suggestive grin. “What’d you say the first time we kissed?”

Barty grimaced but sighed in defeat. “I said if you didn’t fuck me in the next five seconds, I’d cut your prick off,” he shrugged, turning a bit pink.

Instantly, Evan lowered his wand. “That’s Barty!” he announced, smirking triumphantly.

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mooningningg · 12 hours ago

Text

notes, back to the fluff version

genre. fluff all fluff, you're safe here.

★ Roommate!Sukuna when you slip and hurt yourself.

You don’t mean to slip — honestly, you don’t. One second you’re grabbing a bowl from the high cabinet like you’ve done a hundred times, and the next, your foot misses the chair leg, and you go down hard.

Your elbow slams the tile. A sharp, involuntary cry leaves your throat.

You hiss, rolling onto your side, cradling the arm close. Shit. That actually hurt.

And of course — of fucking course — Sukuna bursts into the kitchen three seconds later.

His sweats riding low. Hair a mess like he just got up from a nap, or finished his 3rd rewatch of John Wick for the week. He takes one look at you on the floor, and the attitude’s already cocked like a loaded gun.

“The fuck did you do?” he barks, storming over. “You tryna remodel your bones without tellin’ me?”

“Go away,” you mutter, trying to sit up with your good hand. “I don’t need you.”

“Clearly,” he scoffs. “Fell like a sack of bricks. Smooth, princess.”

But he crouches beside you anyway.

You glance up — expecting mockery. Instead, you catch a flicker of something else in his face. His eyes dip to your elbow. His jaw clenches. His voice lowers, rough and quieter.

“You hit it bad?”

“…Yeah. Maybe.”

“Let me see.” It’s not a question.

He gently — surprisingly gently — pulls your arm toward him. His touch isn’t practiced, but it’s careful. His fingers trace the red swelling forming just under your sleeve. You watch his face tighten, like he’s personally offended by your injury.

“Idiot,” he mutters.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, still bitter. You’re both still mid-cold war after last night’s screaming match about him never cleaning and you "nagging too much."

He ignores you. “Where’s the ice?”

“In the— Sukuna, I said I’m fine—”

“Yeah, well I didn’t ask,” he cuts you off, already grabbing a towel and a Ziploc of frozen peas from the freezer like he’s on autopilot. “Fucking stubborn ass,” he mutters under his breath.

You’re sitting at the counter now, cradling your arm again. Sukuna shoves the towel-wrapped ice into your hand, then leans against the counter next to you, arms crossed.

His voice is lower when he speaks again.

“You could’ve told me you needed help.”

You snort. “And have you gloat about it for the next month?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. His next words come out almost begrudgingly.

“I don’t like seein’ you hurt.”

You blink.

That one hits different.

When you glance up at him, there’s no smirk. No sharpness. Just tired eyes. Quiet tension. His fingers twitch against the counter like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he should.

“I’m still mad at you,” you murmur, voice softer now.

He shrugs, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m mad at you too. Doesn’t mean I want you in pieces.”

Then, after a beat, he turns to you. Really turns to you.

“You gonna stop climbing chairs like a damn toddler now?”

You glare. “If you’d help put things away, I wouldn’t have to.”

“There she is,” he says, dryly. “Back to being annoying.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you lean into him — not fully, just enough for your arm to brush his. And he doesn’t move away.

He lets you sit there like that for a while, eyes flicking to your arm, then to your face, then down to the floor again.

And when you sigh, shifting the ice against your elbow, you feel his hand reach over, low and slow, settling gently on your thigh.

Just resting there.

Like he’s anchoring you. Like even when he’s pissed — he’s still got you.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears. @minasuniverse, @chewiebee @ilovebeansya @drowsysausagedog, @shroomysstuff, @angel4-miba @paperalphys. @eyeless-kun @etsuniiru @inzayneforaj @domainexpansionmypants @bloodb3nders @toesucker59, @qsidrea @spidergirlnr1

#jjk #jjk x you #roommate jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #sukuna #roommate sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna scenario #sukuna imagines #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna drabbles #sukuna ff #sukuna smutt #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut

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returntosunder · 3 days ago

Note

do you like inkmare? IF YOU DO... what if nightmare hide in the paint buckets of Ink in a way of JUMPSCARED him? I think it's funny after the post that he filled him with glitter, a little revenge (also kissies of nightmare on Ink hands as such a platonic lover BC he is the death, always got me)

Ya, he needs his revenge after the glitter incident. This was really fun to doodle. I love these goobers ^^

And to answer your question.

I may have.... an appreciation... for Inkmare...

#sunders asks #utmv #undertale au #au undertale #my art #ink sans #ink!sans #nightmare sans #nightmare!sans #ink utmv #utmv ink #utmv nightmare #nightmare dreamtale #dreamtale nightmare #Im gonna drop my Inkmare art in a bit :)

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cheftsunoda · 2 days ago

Text

novacane — ln4

lando norris x !model reader

smau + blurbs

in which lando and yn, worn thin by fame, pressure, and the weight of always being watched, find comfort in all the wrong places — drowning their loneliness in drugs, sex, and each other's broken promises.

fc : cindy kimberly

(a/n) : no one answered if they wanted this or not so now im forcing it on everyone. sorry if you hate it:( this is based off the song “novacane” by frank ocean so if you don’t know it— definitely recommend listening it it to understand.

❗obviously warnings of drug use, relationship toxicity, angst, minor smut and eating disorder ❗

and i gave you angels a happy ending - ywwww

—

yn_ln

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55 & 5,515,007 others.

yn_ln : don’t let the high go to waste

—

view 225,090 other comments.

username000 : oh great she’s with lando AGAIN.

↳ username00 : what’s the problem with her?? i thought they were together

↳ username000 : no they aren’t confirmed together. THANK GOD. she is just a horrible influence for him to be around.

↳ username1 : you do realize lando is a fully grown adult and the people he chooses to be around and what he does is completely on him, right?

↳ username000 : well yeah but i do not think being around her helps his mindset any. he’s changed.

↳ username1 : maybe has had changed from the pressure and stress. maybe he is just tired. leave them both alone.

alexandrasaintmleux : so pretty angel. hope to see your face again soon!

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mwah mwah

carlossainz55 : ….no comment 😳

liked by yourusername and lando

bellahadid : mother 🧎‍♀️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : my poooooookie

danielricciardo : he better have that hickey covered on media day🤣

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ username7 : nooooo so it is lando again.

charles_leclerc : mon dieu.

liked by yourusername and lando

alex_albon : i am respectfully not looking. (i looked)

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ lilymhe : its okay. i did too.

username11 : lando is ruining his reputation for this woman. honestly, i kind of understand.

lando : always high on you.

liked by yourusername

—

flashback

You still remember the way the air felt that night — thick with smoke, perfume, and the kind of heat that clung to your skin long after you’d left the club. It had been Fashion Week in Milan, and you were already four shows deep into a sleepless spiral of afterparties, interviews, and eyes that didn’t see you so much as consume you. You were tired. Exhausted in the kind of way no sleep could fix. And then there he was. Lando Norris — crooked smile, familiar face, eyes like they knew you. Not knew your name. Knew you. And you hated how much that made you pause. You met him at some rooftop club that blurred together with all the rest — flashing lights, empty champagne flutes, and hands that touched too long without meaning anything. He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Off-season or something like that. But maybe he needed the distraction just as badly as you did.

He bought you a drink. You made a sarcastic comment about hating tequila and drank it anyway. You talked. You laughed. And then somewhere between his fourth glass and your second lie about being fine, things stopped being surface level. You caught him staring at you like he was trying to read between the cracks. So you let him see them. Or maybe you didn’t have the strength to hide them anymore.

“I don’t think I’m built for all this,” you admitted in a half whisper, legs crossed tightly in the corner of a velvet booth, mascara smudged like war paint.

He didn’t say anything. Just took a slow sip of his drink and replied, “Yeah. Me neither.”

It wasn’t flirtation after that. It was something heavier. Messier. The kind of pull that only two broken people feel when they recognize themselves in someone else’s ruin. Back at your hotel room, things unfolded like instinct. You were both too numb and too desperate to question it. The clothes came off easy. The masks came off harder.

His lips trailed your collarbone. Your hands tangled in his curls. The pressure in your stomach growing with every thrust and then after— the air changed. You were sitting on the bed, his hoodie slipping off your shoulder, and you reached for the little orange bottle you never traveled without. He watched you pop the pill with a swig of warm, flat water from the bedside table.

You caught his stare and raised an eyebrow. “Want one?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for you to know he was still trying to be the good guy, even now. Then he took it from your hand and held your gaze like a dare. You watched him swallow it dry. He turned and leaned back into you— closing the gap between the two of you again. You sat until he began to feel that warm and fuzzy feeling you had grown accustomed to but was still brand new for him.

“What even was that?” he asked, voice low and frayed at the edges. You smiled, tired and crooked. The kind of smile that says this is survival, not seduction.

“Don’t let the high go to waste,” you murmured, echoing the line like a mantra you wished wasn’t true.

He didn’t ask again. You laid back. He followed. That night wasn’t about falling in love. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about not feeling like shit for five fucking minutes. It was about losing yourselves in each other’s broken parts and calling it relief. It was about two people too hollow to hold anything real — and still clinging to each other like it might fix something anyway. You didn’t know it then, but that would be the first of many nights like that. And the last time anything between you felt accidental.

—

present day…

f1gossipgirls

2,517,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : F1’s wild child & fashion’s favorite disaster leaving Miami’s dirtiest rooftop club at 4:27AM. Looks like Lando Norris and YN, international model, are taking their rumored situationship coast to coast. The pair were seen stumbling out of RITUAL, the kind of place where the floors are sticky and the bathrooms are sacred. Sources claim Lando looked “glassy-eyed but smiling,” while YN was seen reapplying her lipstick in the back of a black SUV. Oh, and did we mention her heels were in his hand? Eyewitnesses say the duo “couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” and at least one club staffer swears they both entered the same VIP room together. But who needs sleep when your only job is being young, rich, and reckless? We’re not saying they’re the new Bonnie and Clyde, but we are saying someone’s PR team is sweating.

—

view 175,002 other comments.

username00 : the fact that he is doing this when he will be racing in 36 hours is…interesting to say the least.

username0 : someone check on zak brown. mans is probably pacing.

username1 : why are we romanticizing this behavior? they both clearly have a lot of problems that need fixed.

username5 : he is supposed to be a professional athlete. not snorting something suspicious in a club at 3 am. LANDO WAKE TF UP.

username7 : never ever expected this phase in lando’s career but here we are.

username10 : y’all will continue to blame her like he isn’t grown and can’t make his own decisions. like bruh

—

You and Lando always fell into some sort of cycle. Not love. Not quite addiction either — though it came close. Something in between. Something quieter but heavier. A pattern with soft edges and sharp consequences. It started the way it always did — too loud, too fast, too much.

Miami’s air was humid with desperation that weekend — people screaming your name, cameras flashing like seizures, bodies grinding in tempo with the bass. He met your eyes from across the club and that was all it took. You didn’t even smile. Just nodded once, like yeah. it’s time again.You’d both lost something before you even walked in. The music was pounding, the drinks were bottomless, the lines were generous — and by the time he had his hand on the small of your back, you couldn’t tell if your heart was racing from the substance or from him. He leaned down to murmur something into your ear — something stupid and sweet, something that made you laugh even though nothing about the night was funny. And then you pulled out the little bag. Same one you always had. He watched. He never stopped you, not really.

“You sure?” he asked like a formality.

You nodded like muscle memory. He followed. In the bathroom of some overpriced rooftop bar, you did it off the back of your hand while he stood behind you like a shadow, warm and steady and crumbling all at once. His knuckles brushed yours when he took his turn, eyes blown wide and tired even in the mirror’s hazy glow. And somehow, not long after, you ended up tangled together in your hotel bed — hot skin, whispered curses, need disguised as recklessness. It wasn’t sweet. It never was. It was desperate. The kind of touch that only feels good because it silences the scream in your head for a moment. The kind that makes you feel something when you’re numb everywhere else.

But later — after — when your heartbeat finally slowed and your thoughts started catching up, you climbed off the bed and walked to the bathroom without saying a word. You didn’t bother turning on the light. Just stepped under the cold stream of the shower and let yourself cry. Quiet at first. Then harder. Your mascara ran down the drain like ink in water. Your shoulders shook like you were trying to hold your bones together. You didn’t expect him to follow. But he did. Lando opened the door without knocking. Stepped into the shower fully clothed. Didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. He just wrapped his arms around you from behind and held you while the water soaked through his shirt and you sobbed into his chest like a child.

He didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He knew. He was wrong too. You stood like that for a long time. Just water. Skin. Silence. And the ache of being seen by someone who’s just as hollow.

The morning after always hurt worse. The sunlight hit too hard. The hangover hit harder. And then the notifications. Tabloids. Photos. Headlines about the two of you looking “high and handsy” at 4:27 AM. His team texted. Yours called. And all you could do was sit at the edge of the bed in one of his T-shirts and stare at the phone while Lando paced and swore under his breath. It always happened like this. The comedown. The regret. The beginning of the withdrawal. He left around 10AM, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses on, mumbling something about sorting it with his PR team. You didn’t ask him to stay. You never did.

Because you knew how it went. He’d vanish. Ignore your texts. You’d see him on someone else’s story a few days later. Like none of it mattered. But he always came back. Usually around 2AM. Usually with a knock and no words. Usually when your mascara was already running and your hands were already shaking. It wasn’t love. It was a cycle. And God help you, but part of you needed it.

—

But he tries to stop. For real, this time. After the Miami fallout, after his PR team threatens to pull endorsement deals and Zak himself tells him to “get your shit together or get out” — Lando goes quiet. You don’t hear from him for days. No 2AM texts. No half assed apologies. No hotel room knocks. Not even a story view. Silence.

You assume he’s doing what they all do eventually — detaching. Saving himself. Finding some version of clean that doesn’t include you. You’re used to it. You pretend not to check your phone anyway.

Meanwhile, he’s trying. He really is. He wakes up early. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t go out. He trains. Eats clean. Answers his calls. He ignores the aching pull in his chest when he sees your name light up his phone — unread messages stacked like shame. But it doesn’t help. None of it helps. Because when the world is quiet — when the race ends and the cameras go dark — he’s left alone with himself. And he can’t stand himself.

He thinks about the way your laugh sounds muffled against his chest. The way your eyeliner always smudges when you cry in the shower. The way you looked at him that night, like you were waiting for him to tell you it was okay to fall apart. And he wants it back. Not because it’s good. Not because it’s healthy. Because it’s something.

The truth is — the high didn’t just numb the pain. It muted the voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough. That he was wasting his life. That none of it — the podiums, the parties, the press tours — felt real anymore. Being numb was awful. But being awake? That’s unbearable.

He sits in his hotel room one night, a few cities away, staring at the white walls, the untouched food, the silence thick enough to suffocate. He’s alone. And it hits him like it always does — slow at first, then all at once. The ache. The craving. The need to not feel anything. He grabs the bottle. He doesn’t even think. Washes one pill down with cold champagne. Calls your number. You answer on the first ring, like you knew this moment would come. Like you were waiting for it. No words. Just breathing.

And when he shows up at your door an hour later, eyes heavy, hands shaking, hoodie clinging to his skin like regret — you don’t ask what changed his mind. Because nothing did. The truth is, he never wanted to stop. He just wanted to believe he could. Because numbness is easier. And you… you numb the pain. I guess you’re novacane.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,709,112 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well— it seems Lando Norris and YN LN are back at it again after weeks of distance. The two were seen coming and going from each other’s apartments more than 3 times this week.

—

It started slowly. Like most things do. First, it was just a headline. Some blurry pap photo of you walking out of a café in Milan, cropped in all the wrong ways. The caption read—

“Is YN Letting Herself Go?”

And that was all it took. It wasn’t true. You were exhausted, not careless. Bloated from the long flight, hungover from bad decisions and worse wine, caught mid-step with your shirt rumpled and sunglasses sliding down your nose. You hadn’t even known the cameras were there. But they were always there.

Then came the panel show segment. Some middle-aged man with a smug smile and zero credentials saying, “She’s still stunning, obviously, but you can tell the partying’s catching up to her.”

And it spiraled. Your agent texted you later that night — “No more pasta. Milan is watching.”

That’s when you stopped eating. At first it was a conscious decision. Strategic. If they wanted skinny, you’d give them starved. If they wanted hollow cheekbones and razorblade hip bones, you’d serve it on a silver fucking platter. You skipped meals and smiled through shoots. Faked fullness and learned which lies photographers never questioned. But it wasn’t long before you stopped choosing. The hunger became control. And then the control became a high. One you didn’t need to snort or swallow. And Lando noticed. He always did.

It hit him too, differently. Sharper. Publicly.

He couldn’t win a race without the press tearing him apart. Couldn’t crash out without being called immature. Couldn’t smile in an interview without being accused of not taking the sport seriously — and couldn’t look serious without them calling him cold.

“You’re not focused,” they’d said. “You’re wasting your seat.”

Every race weekend became a war. With his car. With the media. With himself.

And in between the races? Endless hotel rooms. Fake friends. Paparazzi flashes that made him feel like prey. Fans who loved the version of him that didn’t exist anymore. Who worshipped the myth and ignored the man.

He started sleeping in his hoodie with the hood pulled tight, even indoors. Started rubbing the back of his neck until it was red and raw. Couldn’t eat before practice. Couldn’t sleep after qualifying. Couldn’t breathe when it all got too loud.

You found each other in that silence.

It was after some gala you were both dragged to. You were wearing a backless dress that made your vision go blurry when you stood too long. He was in a tux he hadn’t wanted to wear, tie loosened, jaw clenched. You ended up in your hotel room again. Of course you did. But this time, there was no rush. No drugs. No sex. Just… collapse. You sat on the edge of the bed, toes pressing into the carpet, trying not to cry. Your stomach was eating itself, but you couldn’t remember the last time food didn’t feel like failure. He stood by the window, staring out like he was somewhere else entirely. Finally, you spoke.

“They said I looked fat in that dress,” you whispered.

He turned, slowly. Eyes dim. Like he’d been waiting for your voice to break.

“They say I don’t deserve my seat,” he answered.

You looked up at him, tears lining your lashes, voice small.

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

And he just nodded.

“Same.”

That’s when he walked over. Sat behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist — too gently. Like he was afraid you’d break. You leaned back into him, your spine pressing against his chest, and for a moment, you both just breathed. No masks. No captions. No noise.

You felt his lips ghost over your shoulder as he whispered, “They only want us when we’re shining. Not when we’re bleeding.”

And you replied, voice hollow but sure—

“Then let them choke.”

You stayed like that for hours. No high. No distractions. Just the quiet devastation of two people being honest. You held his hand like a lifeline. He kissed your temple like a prayer. That night, you didn’t sleep with each other. You just slept. And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,101,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN LN in the paddock this weekend — and all eyes were on her. Rumors continue to swirl about her relationship with McLaren driver Lando Norris, and her surprise appearance in the garage only added fuel to the fire. According to insiders, YN was nothing short of lovely — chatting with fans, posing for photos, and offering a few smiles that made it hard not to root for her. As for Lando? Let’s just say the chemistry between the two didn’t go unnoticed.

—

The nights are quieter now. Not silent — you both still wake up sweating, heart racing, hands reaching for something that isn’t there anymore — but quieter. Softer. You’re trying. So is he.

After the last fallout, the withdrawal that left you shaking and sobbing in different cities, you made a pact — no pills, no blow, no hotel room disasters. Just water. Sleep. Presence. Even if presence meant staring blankly at a wall together in shared misery, at least you were there. You still have the urge sometimes. The craving. The itch in your skin when everything gets too loud, too fast. But you text him instead of reaching for a bottle. And he answers. Always.

He’s been better. Not perfect. Not by a long shot. But better. He’s eating again. Sleeping more. Actually showing up to meetings. The anger in his voice has dulled — not gone, just folded into something quieter, sadder, but realer.

When he texts you that week —

Come to the race. I need you here.

You almost cry. Because he never used to ask.

You fly in Friday, lowkey and quiet. No paparazzi. No chaos. He picks you up in a hoodie and worn out trainers, the circles under his eyes more honest than any headline.

He doesn’t say much in the car. Just rests his hand on your thigh at a red light and squeezes, like he’s checking to see if you’re real.

You’re staying with him that weekend. The bed is cold. No sex. Just tangled limbs and half whispered memories of nights you barely remember. You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and wonder when that started being enough.

Race day comes fast. The paddock is buzzing — too bright, too loud. But he wants you there, so you come. You slip on the pass he gave you, the oversized McLaren jacket, your sunglasses. You keep your head down.

He finds you before the driver’s parade. You’re by the back of the garage, sipping water, watching the chaos unfold.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “Getting there.”

And then, “I’m glad you came.”

And then, “I don’t know if I would’ve made it through this week if you didn’t.”

You don’t say anything. Just slide your fingers between his and squeeze. A photographer snaps a shot you’ll both pretend not to notice.

During the race, you watch from the garage. Nails biting into your palm, eyes on every sector, every lap. You cheer when he overtakes. Your heart climbs into your throat when he locks up slightly at Turn 10. The crew gives you a nod when he comes in for a clean stop. You feel everything. And for once, you let yourself. When he crosses the line — P4 — it’s not a podium, but it’s a finish. A damn good one. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

He finds you after media. Helmet hair, race suit half unzipped, skin flushed from adrenaline and exhaustion. And when he sees you — really sees you — his face cracks open in a way the cameras never catch. No jokes. No press smiles. Just rawness. He pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs ache.

And into your hair, he whispers,

“We did it.”

You nod against his chest, eyes stinging.

“Yeah. We did.”

—

It had been weeks since the race. Weeks since you and Lando swore you’d keep going — clean, sober, together. Weeks of morning check-ins and long, quiet nights. Weeks of avoiding temptation like it lived under your skin.

And it was working. Sort of.

You were tired, but functional. Lando was focused, if a little hollow. You were making it through each day with aching effort and brittle hope. You had even started eating small things again — a banana here, some soup there. Just enough to keep the dizziness at bay. Just enough to convince your manager you were “getting better.”

But the truth was… you weren’t.

The modeling world doesn’t care about “recovery.” It cares about bones and collarbones. It cares about angles and sample sizes. And you were trying — but your body was done trying for you. You were mid-way through a shoot in Paris when everything went sideways.

You didn’t feel the moment coming. One minute you were standing in front of the lights, makeup perfect, spine held straight by willpower and spite. The next, your vision was tunneling and the floor was rushing toward you. You hit the concrete hard.

Cameras flashed. Stylists screamed. Someone dropped their iced coffee and gasped like that was the real tragedy. The medics came. The studio was cleared. Your phone was unlocked by someone who barely knew your last name. They called Lando.

He got the call just after FP2. His race suit was still clinging to him, hair damp, body sore — but none of that registered when he saw your name flash across his screen. It wasn’t your voice. It was someone from the agency.

Words like “collapsed,” “dehydrated,” “not responsive.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He stumbled back into the McLaren motorhome like he’d been hit in the chest. Pushed past press officers. Ignored his engineer. Locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection like it might offer a reason not to fall apart.

You passed out. You weren't eating. He should’ve seen it coming. He wanted to get on the next plane to Paris. But the race was in less than 48 hours. And they wouldn’t let him leave. So instead, he relapsed.

It was slow, stupid. A numbing kind of panic that led to desperate movement. He found the old bottle buried deep in his travel bag. He stared at it for almost an hour. He texted you. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. And the fear twisted into something uglier than grief — helplessness. He cracked the seal. Took two.

When your eyes fluttered open hours later in a sterile white hospital room, the first thing you saw was the IV. The second was your manager pacing outside the door. The third was Lando’s name — 10 missed calls. You could barely lift your head, but you reached for your phone anyway.

And when you saw his last message, your heart cracked open.

If you die, I’ll go with you. I can’t do this without you.

And beneath it, another message, sent hours later-

“I’m sorry. I slipped. I just… I didn’t know if you’d wake up.”

You cried. Because it should’ve been you holding him through the relapse. Because he had been trying so hard. Because this wasn’t recovery, it was survival. And even survival was slipping.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Lando sat on the edge of a pristine hotel bed with his head in his hands, high out of his mind and sobbing. He didn’t want the high. He just wanted the noise to stop. He just wanted you to be okay. He didn’t feel better. Not even numb. Just empty. And it was then — in the silence between his shallow breaths — that he realized…the cycle wasn’t broken. It had just gotten quieter.

—

You wake up to the sound of the door creaking open. It’s been two days since the collapse. Two days of IV drips, quiet nurses, and a blurred timeline of stern lectures and shallow breathing. You’re better, technically. Awake. Alive. But not okay.

The room is pale and too still. It smells like antiseptic and synthetic lavender. The flowers on the windowsill weren’t yours — someone dropped them off this morning, anonymous and beautiful. And then he walks in. Lando.

He’s wearing the hoodie you stole from his Monaco apartment last winter — oversized and threadbare — and he looks like shit. Eyes puffy. Lips dry. He doesn’t have the energy to pretend this isn’t the worst version of both of you. You sit up slowly, instinctively tucking your knees under the blanket like shame can be hidden that easily.

“Hi,” you manage.

He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move closer. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in case it disappears again.

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t. I… didn’t want to say anything until I knew I was okay.”

“You weren’t okay,” he snaps. “You aren’t okay. You passed out, YN.”

The silence is brutal.

“You said you were eating again,” he adds, voice cracking halfway through. “You lied to me.”

You look away, throat tight. “You relapsed too.”

He flinches. “Because I thought you were going to die.”

“You think I didn’t want to die?” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. “You think I fucking wanted to be here?”

His jaw clenches. He walks across the room, grabs the back of the chair beside your bed, but doesn’t sit.

“You’re not allowed to say that to me,” he mutters. “Not when you knew how close I was to breaking. Not when you promised—”

“I was breaking!” you yell. “Every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw was failure. Headlines telling me I was too fat, too messy, too washed-up at twenty-four. I couldn’t eat without hearing their voices in my head, Lando. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them. He’s quiet for a beat. And then, in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard from him-

“And I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer. Slowly. Like he’s afraid of what’s about to come out of his own mouth.

“I used to think you were just the person I used to forget the worst parts of myself. The drugs. The sex. The late nights.” He breathes in. “But it’s not that anymore.”

You stare at him, heart in your throat.

“You’re not something I use to numb the pain,” he whispers. “You are the pain. And the comfort. And the chaos. And the only thing that’s made me feel fucking alive in months.”

His voice breaks. “I think I love you.”

The air is still. He finally sinks into the chair beside your bed, shoulders caving in like the confession took everything out of him. You don’t speak. Because you don’t know how to respond. Because some part of you always feared this moment — feared that the mess you made together might actually be real. That love might exist inside the cycle. That someone could look at you, hollowed and hurting, and still call it love. Lando doesn’t push you. He just stares at the floor, picking at the string of his sleeve.

“Say something,” he whispers finally.

But you can’t.

So you just reach out — trembling fingers brushing over his knuckles — and hold his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. You don’t say I love you back. But you stay. And right now, that’s the loudest truth you have.

—

You don’t have your phone anymore.

Not really. It was taken at intake, handed over with your makeup bag and the clutch of anxiety meds you’d been hoarding in your luggage “just in case.” You gave it up with shaking hands and a hollow chest. Somewhere in the distance, your name still echoed across headlines. But in here, it didn’t matter.

This place is all beige walls and early mornings. You sleep in a twin bed with sheets that smell like lemon detergent, and you sit in group therapy circles with girls who look just like you — too perfect, too thin, too tired.

You talk. Not all the time. But enough. You talk about the emptiness. The perfectionism. The terrifying high of disappearing and the unbearable crash of still being here. You don’t say Lando’s name — not at first. But he haunts the edges of everything. His hoodie is still the only thing you wear to sleep.

Some nights, you cry. Some mornings, you scream. Some days, you just breathe. It’s more progress than you’ve made in years.

Lando’s world doesn’t stop — Formula 1 doesn’t pause for pain. So he keeps racing. But something’s changed in him too. He doesn’t go out after practice anymore. Doesn’t disappear between sessions. There are no new girls, no blurry club photos, no gossip-worthy moments. He’s… quiet. Focused. Haunted. His team notices. So does his therapist.

Yes, therapist. Zak insisted. After Miami. After the relapse. After the look in Lando’s eyes started resembling burnout instead of bravado. And, reluctantly, he agreed.

At first, he sat through the sessions in silence, arms crossed, jaw clenched. But then the woman — her name was Dana — asked him a question that made something snap.

“What would it mean to love someone who might not survive loving you back?”

He cried. For the first time in years. And then he started talking. About the pressure. The fame. The way winning felt empty now and losing felt like the end of the world. About the way you looked in the hospital bed, wrists thinner than the IV line, eyes so tired but still there — still trying.

He talks about the pills. The sex. The high that used to feel like relief and now feels like shame. And, quietly, he talks about love. Not like it’s a promise — more like a wound he can’t stop touching.

They send letters now. Not texts. Not emails. Actual pen and paper letters that get reviewed by staff and delivered like old secrets. He writes to you after every race. Sometimes just a few lines—

P6. You would’ve said the helmet looked cool today. I’m still sober. Still tired. But I’m trying. Miss you. — L

You sends him drawings, mostly. Little sketches of the view outside your window. Notes in the margins—

Today I ate an entire sandwich. It scared me. But I did it. You’d be proud.

I miss hearing your heartbeat when I couldn’t find mine. I’m not ready for “I love you,” but I’m not afraid of it anymore either.

Please keep trying. I’ll meet you there. Eventually.

We are healing. Separately. But not apart. Not really. You count the days until you can leave — not because you want to run, but because you want to live again. To feel again. To see him again, clear eyed and real and maybe finally whole. He keeps showing up to the track. To therapy. To life. And every time he gets back in the car, he whispers before lights out, like a ritual—

For her. For me. For us.

It’s not perfect. But for once — for the first time — it’s not a cycle. It’s a beginning.

—

The world looks different on the outside. Not brighter, not softer. Just… clearer. Like someone cleaned the glass between you and everything else.

You’re not fixed — everyone in treatment made sure you understood that. There’s no magic milestone, no final day that turns pain into peace. But you’ve reached a point where you’re not surviving despite the feelings anymore — you’re surviving with them. And that’s something.

You walk out of the center with a suitcase, a discharge folder, and a goodbye hug from the nurse who used to sit with you when you couldn’t sleep. You haven’t worn makeup in over a month. Your hair is tied back in a bun. You look… human. For the first time in ages. You don’t tell Lando you’re coming.

You’ve rewritten your “I love you” a hundred times in your head — not like a grand confession, but like a careful gift, one you’re not entirely sure he’s ready to open. Or if you are. But you book the flight anyway. One way. To Monaco.

He doesn’t expect the knock. It’s late — nearly midnight — and he’s in one of his hoodies, sitting on the couch, eyes half-shut from a week of racing and back to back therapy sessions. There’s a half written letter to you on the coffee table. He hasn’t mailed it yet. When he opens the door and sees you — real, standing there, smaller than he remembers but glowing in a way he’s never seen before — his breath just stops.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He blinks once, twice, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And then he exhales. “You’re here.”

You nod. Your eyes are already glassy. “I’m okay.”

He pulls you in before he can say anything else — arms wrapping around you like instinct, like muscle memory, like home. You melt into him. You smell like clean cotton and plane air and a life that doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “So much.”

You sit on the couch in silence for a while. Not awkward — just sacred. You hold his hand and trace small shapes into the back of it like your fingers forgot how to stop missing him. Then you finally speak.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, like he didn’t expect it.

You say it again. Slower. Truer.

“I love you, Lando.”

He doesn’t speak. His throat bobs. His grip on your hand tightens, just slightly.

“But I’m scared,” you admit. “I’m scared that if we go back to the way things were, we’ll lose ourselves again. That we’ll drag each other down. That we’ll confuse love for dependency.”

He nods slowly. His voice is low, rough- “I’m scared too.” You meet his eyes — those tired, beautiful eyes that saw you at your lowest and didn’t look away.

“But I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” you say. “And I don’t want to live without you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it for weeks.

“We don’t have to go back,” he whispers. “We build something new. Slower. Smarter. Softer. No highs, no crashes. Just… us.”

You nod. A tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you let it fall. He wipes it away with his thumb, gently.

“I don’t want you to be my escape,” he says. “I want you to be my reason.”

You close your eyes and lean into his palm.

“I want that too.”

That night, you don’t fall into old habits. You don’t numb anything. You sleep curled up next to him, fully clothed, his hand resting over your heart like he’s guarding it. And for the first time in what feels like years, your dreams are quiet.

—

months later...

It’s strange, the way peace can feel unfamiliar at first. Like wearing a dress that used to hang off your frame — now it fits. And that alone feels like rebellion. You wake up most mornings beside him, and the air is quiet. Not heavy. Not desperate. Just calm.

His hand usually finds yours under the sheets before either of you even open your eyes. It’s instinct now. Like breathing. Like choosing to stay. Lando makes coffee the way you like it. You fold his laundry while watching race replays on his laptop.

It’s normal. Uneventful. Safe. But more than anything else — it’s real.

He’s doing well. Not just on track, but off it too. Still going to therapy. Still checking in. Still sober. Some nights are harder than others — you both know that. But there are fewer secrets now. Less shame.

You write again. Sketch. Eat. Exist. You laugh more. You cry less. You look in the mirror and see a person you’re learning to love — not a ghost. Sometimes people ask if the two of you are “still together.”

As if the world only expects passion if it’s breaking things. As if surviving each other doesn’t count. You don’t give them answers. You don’t owe them that. But if they looked close enough, they’d know. The way he looks at you across the paddock — that smile, soft and full of memory. The way your hand always ends up in his before lights out. The way you whisper “I’m okay” and mean it now.

You think about the song sometimes— Novacane. Even listen to it from time to time. The pattern of destruction you used to so closely live to Hell, you used to live inside it. The numbness. The quiet kind of destruction.

You used to need the high to forget how bad everything felt. You used to use sex to convince yourself you are worthy of life— of love. To forget all the little things that built up inside of you over the course of one day. You used to use drugs— pills, cocaine— anything to calm your nerves and rid your mind of all the bad press, the horrible comments, the overall stress of being a person in fame. You and him used to use each other to make some fucked up form of ‘happiness’.

You don’t anymore. Lando said it best a few weeks ago, while you both sat on the balcony of the Monaco apartment, wrapped in one blanket, your legs tangled together as the sun sank into the sea—

“You were never the high. You were what reminded me I deserved to come down.”

You smiled at him, rested your head on his shoulder, and let that be enough. Because you’re not perfect. He isn’t either. But together? You’re present. You’re healing. You’re free. And that’s better than any high you ever chased.

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adoringmha · 1 day ago

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“katsuki…”

he can tell by your tone you’re about to ask one of your random questions again and mentally prepares. “yes baby?”

you’re sitting on the couch while he prepares dinner in the kitchen, a random couple’s tik tok sparking your curiosity.

“what would you do if i killed somebody?”

“i’d kill for you.” he responds calmly but almost incredulously like the question doesn’t even need an answer.

your heart skips a beat but you persevere.

“okay…but what if i killed someone?” you hear his footsteps as he approaches you. “would you help me hide the body?”

he stands in front of you and you look up at him innocently as you ask these crazy questions.

“obviously, i’d take care of it.” he crosses his arms so you know he means business. “i’d take the fall if it came to that too.”

“what? seriously?”

he makes a face like ‘duh?’ “can’t let my princess go to prison.”

you smile and tilt your head, “so your princess can handle killing somebody but not prison?”

he shrugs, “you can but i’m not letting you. simple as that.” he grabs your jaw with one hand and leans down to give you a quick kiss. “now can i get back to making you dinner now?”

you lick your lips and smile, satisfied with the conversation. “i guess so.”

#enjoy this random thought i had #bakugo #bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo blurb #mha #mha x reader #mha fluff #bnha #bnha fluff #bnha x reader #katsuki bakugo

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teaboot · 9 hours ago

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Question that I suspect is autism related

I have, on more than one occasion over multiple decades, been told that I “need to have the last word” and that I “have a response for everything”.

Additionally and in a similar vein, I’ve been told that “everything is an argument with you” and I “always have to say something”.

When I was a little kid I was bad at conversations. People said stuff I had no opinion on or didn’t need follow-up and so I wouldn’t answer and they’d get bored. And eventually through trial and error I figured out that if someone said something to me, all I had to do was say something related back, and the interaction could go on as long as it needed to.

But then as a teen- and now as an adult- a number of people (mostly people I’ve found to be very delicate and particular about things in a sort of need-to-be-in-control authoritarian way) have expressed the identical observation about how I naturally try to converse, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

And the thing is, I have a sibling that talks like this too. We bicker all the time. He changes his own opinions seemingly at a whim for the purpose of being contrary, and it’s impossible to make a statement or observation out loud without him contradicting it, and even when he is demonstrably, factually wrong about something, he will dig his heels into the dirt and defend his stance to the grave.

And like. I hear myself responding, or adding on to people’s comments, but I don’t hear the ‘arguing’ they describe, or the contrarian habits of my sibling. Even when I’m paying attention and being bery careful not to follow up too much or speak too often or disagree or correct something that isn’t important, I get called out for “picking a fight”. They say something, I answer, they reply, I continue, then seemingly out of nowhere they snap. I think everything’s fine until suddenly it isn’t.

And so I guess my question is, how can you tell if you’re a contrary sort of person? How can you tell when to respond or follow up on a person’s statement and how do you know when to leave it in silence? Does everybody see me this way, and is it only people who are already short-tempered who are willing to say it?

I honestly don’t really have that much to say, and half the time I don’t even really want to talk at all, but I’ve been told countless times that I “just seem to like the sound of your own voice” and have to just be “tuned out after a while”. So if it isn’t necessary and I don’t even want to, why am I doing it?

Is there a reason I’m like this? Why is my sibling like this? How do I stop talking when there’s nothing to say, and how can I tell the difference between a conversation and an argument before the other person visibly snaps?

I’m a full grown adult

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lambiconic · 3 days ago

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wait-- we're all into the same barista!?

if you havent, read the first four!!: simon gaz johnny price ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Johnny was the first to bring you up, of course. Slipping it into conversation oh so casually that he’d managed to get a date with a girl he’d had his eye on.

Simon looked up for just a second, brows raised. “You go on dates all the time, mate. What’s special about this one?”

“Flirt with half the population when given the chance.” Price added.

Johnny didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, eyes on the floor for a second too long. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “Nah. She’s different.”

Simon scoffed. “They’re all different, until they’re not.”

“Well, I’m interested! Tell me all about her, mate.” Gaz spoke up, shooting the other two men a glare.

Johnny instantly broke into a wide grin as he stood. “I’ve been hangin’ around that coffee place! Y’know, the one near base? Yeah, chattin’ up the barista—”

He barely got the words out before the table erupted.

“The barista…?” “The cashier?!” “Which one!?” “Wait, what shop!?” “The one with the pretty smile?” “Always recommends weird pastries?”

The questions flew like bullets, all three of them suddenly leaning forward, eyes narrowing.

“Uhh.. I don’t think she ever made me buy any pastries–” Johnny began. “But..uhh,..whats-it-called? The uhh Blue Moon.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. That’s my coffee shop.”

Price instantly frowned. “Your coffee shop? Mate, I’ve been going there for weeks. Doll at the counter always give me the extra stamp on my card.”

“WHICH BARISTA!?!” Gaz, asked again. “The..the one with the big smile? And the eyes–”

“They all have eyes,” Simon grumbled, interrupting him.

“No! MY–The barista there when I go has these.. These eyes!” He rambled on glancing around the table. “And when she smiles–”

“Her nose wrinkles?” Price guessed, jaw tight.

“And her gums show,” Simon throws in.

“What.. what are ye guys talking about?” Johnny’s grin faded slightly. ‘No.. wait. I’ve a pic of her.”

The three men waited with bated breath as Johnny pulled out his phone and carefully slid it across the table. The three men leaned in, crowded around the phone like it held classified intel.

And there, still in uniform and holding a ridiculously large bouquet of flowers, was you. Pretty, charismatic, nose wrinkling, gum-smile you.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Price muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Gaz just stared, jaw slack. “That’s my barista.”

Simon said nothing…just exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze locked on the photo like it had personally betrayed him.

Johnny looked between them, stunned. “Yer all takin’ the piss, right?”

“No one’s takin’ the piss, mate,” Price said, sounding remarkably grim for a man talking about a barista. “That’s her.”

Johnny sat down slowly. “So... what yer sayin’ is... we’ve all been tryin’ to pull the same lass.”

Another silence.

Then Simon finally spoke. “...She’s good.”

Gaz just leaned back, arms crossed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I need a drink. Not coffee.”

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jackdaw-sprite · 3 days ago

Text

This would be used in addition to the danny phantom tag, turning it into a true umbrella tag for everything related to Danny Phantom, while having a few major sub-tags for people to find exactly what they want.

---

After some more discussion with members of the fandom in the notes of my poll asking about a community and elsewhere, it seems like the better option for everyone might actually be a new tag, so I'm making a new poll here!

Some answers to questions I think people might have are below the readmore:

Q: Why are all of these only one word?

A: For the same reason the dpxdc tag is only one word! Tumblr's tagging implementation is Not Good. Tags with spaces don't play well with it, and especially don't play well with blocked tags. If someone wants to block non-crossover Danny Phantom content, we want to make it as painless as possible for them.

Q: What issues were raised around communities?

A: A few! To name some of them:

Limited interactions with posts: Communities only let you react with emoji and leave comments on posts reblogged into them. Not great, if we want to have long reblog chains riffing on one another

Original Posters aren't notified if someone else reblogs their post into a community, even if it's public. So if someone reblogged your post into the community for you, you wouldn't know about it -- or know to look for people interacting with it.

Communities have mods, and therefore would need trustworthy, engaged mods to make it work. Over a short time frame, we could probably manage it! But over a longer one, a community for an entire fandom would probably have moderator drama. That could lead to fracturing, or people leaving specifically because they don't like the mods, etc. A tag is a lot less active maintenance.

A few people also expressed a general dislike for the feature, even if they were willing to move to one. This seems like a much smaller change that will let those people stay away from a feature they don't like, while interacting with the content they do.

Q: What about less-common crossovers? Won't those get excluded from this tag?

A: They will. I'm asking about this poll first because I figured getting the community to make a decision about the other crossovers would be easier if we'd already decided on the non-crossovers.

The current idea is to move those to their own tag as well, so they can get dedicated attention from the crossover enthusiasts who love them. One of the people I talked to about this runs the niche-dp-crossovers blog, so it's on the radar. If you have concerns or suggestions about that, the notes on this post is as good a place as any to suggest them!

#danny phantom

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saintormentor · 3 days ago

Text

tag teamed m. s & c. s

in which . . . matt suggests a threesome with his brother chris, which made you hesitant at first. key word: at first.

content warnings . . . threesome ( zero incest. that’s disgusting. ) dizziness, oral, p in v, roughness, basically hardcore smut

matt brings it up one night, voice barely above a whisper. it’s late—way past midnight—and the sheets are tangled around your legs, his arms warm and clumsy around your waist. you’re scrolling through your phone, half-listening to him mumble, until he says it.

“would you ever… like… i don’t know. like a threesome?”

you turn your head. “with who?”

“me,” he swallows, “and chris.”

you blink. “your brother?”

“i mean—only if you wanted to! you don’t have to, like, it was just a thought i—i don’t know, i shouldn’t’ve said anything, it’s stupid—”

it takes another full week for it to become real. because matt is sweet and soft-spoken, because he second-guesses himself even while kissing your throat. but chris? chris is the opposite. cocky. unapologetic. he hears about the idea and shrugs like it’s already happening.

“you sure you can handle that, pretty girl?” he asks when matt brings it up again in front of him. you can’t tell if the question’s for you or matt.

they don’t rush. you thought it would be fast, wild, messy—but it starts gentle. because matt needs it to be. because he looks at you like you’re made of something delicate, and chris lets him take the lead even if he clearly wants to wreck you first.

you’re on the bed in matt’s room, soft light casting gold shadows over everything. matt’s mouth is warm on yours, tentative, like he’s still scared to do this wrong. chris leans against the door, arms crossed, watching like it’s a private screening.

“you okay?” matt whispers into your lips. you nod. he swallows again. “i just want you to feel good.”

his fingers are slow. familiar. they ghost over your skin like he’s mapping every breath, and when you arch into his palm, his eyes flutter shut. he doesn’t even realize chris is moving closer until you both hear his low laugh.

“you gonna keep her all night, or am i allowed to touch too?”

matt doesn’t answer. but he nods.

chris kisses you different. like he wants to leave a mark, make a memory, brand your body so you know the difference. his hands are everywhere—faster, rougher—and he doesn’t ask permission before sliding your legs apart and mouthing at the inside of your thigh.

“so fucking sweet,” he says against your skin, voice thick. “clearly you’ve got matt wrapped around your finger.”

matt’s behind you, holding your hand while chris works you open. his face is flushed pink, but his eyes never leave yours. he kisses your temple and murmurs, “tell me if it’s too much, okay?” he means it. he would stop. he would ask.

chris doesn’t stop. not unless you tell him to. and you don’t.

you’re on your hands and knees now, the room hazy with heat and sweat and low moans. chris is behind you—in you—and every stroke is deliberate, hungry. his grip on your hips is bruising, but it only fuels the slick heat building in your core. he’s got one hand tangled in your hair, the other spread across your lower back, pinning you exactly where he wants you.

“fuck, you feel insane,” chris groans, hips snapping forward, cock dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you. “makes snese why matt’s always so fucking whipped for you.”

matt’s in front of you, lying back on the bed, flushed and shaky, his thighs spread. his cock is hard and twitching under your tongue, every lick making him whimper. he’s got both hands on your head but isn’t guiding—just holding, grounding himself, fingers trembling as you take him deeper.

“baby,” matt gasps, eyes locked on yours, “fuck—you’re so perfect like this—”

chris thrusts deeper at that exact second and your moan vibrates around matt’s cock. his hips jerk, and he almost pulls away, but you keep him there, hollowing your cheeks, eyes watering with the stretch. spit pools at the corner of your mouth, your throat fluttering around him.

behind you, chris gives a dark laugh. “look at her,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “messy little mouth, taking him so sweet, dripping all over my dick. you like this, huh? being used by both of us?”

you nod, choked moan muffled by matt’s cock. matt’s already close—you can feel it, the way his thighs are tense, how his fingers twitch in your hair. but he doesn’t want to finish yet. he pulls out with a gasp, breathing hard, cock flushed and wet.

“wait,” he pants. “i want—i want to be inside you too.”

you barely have time to process before chris pulls out with a filthy smack and grabs your chin, turning your face up. he kisses you hard—rough, greedy—and tastes the salt of matt’s skin on your tongue.

“switch,” he says, low.

matt kisses your cheek as he guides you down to lie on your back, whispering your name like an apology. his hand strokes between your thighs, tender where chris was rough. he lines himself up and slides into you slowly, watching every inch disappear inside. your walls clench around him, slick and overstimulated, and he groans into your neck.

“still so wet,” he breathes. “you feel even better than i remembered—”

chris kneels beside your head, cock hard and leaking. he rubs the tip across your lips, and you open for him like instinct. his voice is a low growl. “yeah… just like that.”

matt moves gently, hips rolling slow and deep, hitting that spot inside that makes your breath stutter. he keeps one hand on your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, the other gripping your thigh to keep you open. his eyes are locked on your face—watching, memorizing every twitch and gasp as chris begins to fuck your mouth.

they don’t touch each other. (‘cause that’s fucking disgusting.)

but they both fuck you.

your body is shaking. your throat full. your cunt pulsing tight around matt as his rhythm stutters. he whispers your name again, voice breaking.

“i can’t—fuck—i’m gonna come—”

you pull back from chris, gasping for air, spit stringing from your lips to the head of his cock. your nails dig into matt’s shoulders and your hips arch up, crying out as he pushes in deep one last time and spills inside you with a trembling moan.

he doesn’t pull out right away. just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“thank you,” he whispers. “i love you.”

chris chuckles low from beside you. “you done?” he asks matt, already fisting himself. “’cause i’m not.”

your eyes flutter open—exhausted, raw, but greedy—and chris catches your look and smirks.

“that’s what i thought.”

he flips you over like you weigh nothing, presses your face into the pillows, and fucks you so hard your voice breaks.

and still—matt stays close. holds your hand. kisses your shoulder. watches you fall apart again.

between them, you’re everything.

and you’ve never felt more wanted.

a / n . . . nothing to see here

#chris stuniolo x reader #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #christopher sturniolo #fanfiction #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #fanfic #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets p links #matthew sturniolo texts #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader

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idle-vapourings · 22 hours ago

Text

This is so real.

for myself, I've just had to realize when I'm talking to someone who has no desire to understand me.

because yeah, ableist people be ableist, bigots be bigots, selfish people be selfish, and it will be a losing game every time trying to make them come around.

i had this happen with a friend who had hurt my feelings. I kept it very short and polite because I didn't want to be angry with her or make her feel bad. and then she interpreted that negatively and had a lot of questions for me about my feelings. so i tried to take that in good faith, and explained myself in more detail. I tried to be both empathetic but clear, but really explain and answer her questions. she kept asking me to explain my feelings and at some point I felt that I was being asked to justify having an emotion, which I explained why that hurt. She wasn't getting it, so I explained with more words in an attempt to be clear while being honest how what was happening was frustrating and hurtful to me. she took that as aggression and an unwillingness to work things out with her (the precise thing I was attempting to do). and then she blocked me.

that stung and for a while i thought, hm did i fuck up. but the thing is, no i didn't. really, what it was about is that she refused to accept that she had done something hurtful. so the issue wasn't how i was communicating. it was that she refused to accept a world where she hurt my feelings - even if I had told her it was okay and that I know she didn't mean harm and that I had moved on. Instead, she needed to dissect why I was hurt to begin with and challenge it, rather than accepting that she was a human being who made a mistake. that person wasn't interested in my feelings or my take on the situation. they were interested in being right. and when they couldn't find a path to that with me, they just bounced.

I've also had this happen when requesting disability accommodations after getting a job offer. I requested clarity. I got obtuse replies. I gave more clarity. I got more obtuse replies. That was interpreted as me not wanting to participate in a good faith process. The reality was, the process was not good faith, and it never would have been, no matter what I said.

This feeling of no matter what you say it being wrong can be crushing and frustrating. because at least for me, I feel my autistic brain is really set on there being a solution, a right way to say something to get through to someone or to bridge a connection. and a sincere desire and deep need to be understood and heard. what I've had to come around to is that... sometimes people do not want to hear me. and if they don't, yeah, no matter what I choose, it results in misunderstanding.

I give it a genuine good go once or twice but if they're still interpreting me in the worst faith way possible or choosing to not really hear me then, yanno, time to not bother talking to someone who isn't listening and go talk to someone else worthwhile. I just try to remember that the failure is not mine, here. Someone who doesn't want to listen will never hear me. And people who don't actually want to hear me are never, ever worth my energy in the long run.

The people who really want to listen are out there. I say my thing, I be myself, and I see what the other person does with it.

I LOVE being autistic and trying to communicate because every time it’s

#personal log

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gukcnt · 2 days ago

Text

TEDDY & SECRETS ⭒ JJK

in which you discover your shy coworker jungkook, has been leaving teddy bears and plushies with questionable notes on your doorstep to confess his secret crush for you

pairing — secret admirer!jungkook x coworker!femreader

genre — workplace au, friends to lovers, mystery elements, slice of life, romantic comedy, lots of fluff

warnings/tags — shy!jungkook, cozy vibes, teddy bear obession, slowburn, confrontation, adorable gestures, romantic notes, nervous confession, stalker vibes turned sweet, happy ending, no warnings because it's literally the cutest shit bfr

wc — 1.1k

a/n — I decided to write this short oneshot quickly because I was craving some fluff, and I haven’t had the urge to write in weeks TT but I hope y'all love this one! <3

m. list

────🧸────

You’ve always adored teddy bears ever since you were a kid.

Their soft squishy forms always brought you comfort in a way that you couldn’t deny.

They were like your silent friends.

A safe place.

Your apartment was the proof of this obsession—lined with bears and plushies of every size, from a mini one to a massive teddy that takes up half your couch.

At work, you’ve mentioned it during a random talk, gushing about a new bear arrival that you’ve seen at the market.

Apparently someone was listening.

For the past two weeks a new teddy bear has appeared at your doorstep every morning.

Each one unique.

Fluffy pastel ones, simple brown ones, and now you had bears of all unique colors and designs.

The one that stuck out the most

Was the pink polka dotted teddy with a bow tie.

And for some reason it was exactly the one you’ve been eyeing in the market, which confirms that it was someone from your work.

Each teddy came with a note tucked into their paws.

The handwriting was shaky and uneven, almost like the writer's hands trembled while writing.

“You light up my dark” — the first one said.

“I’m closer than you think” — another one.

The one you received yesterday felt like a soft plea.

Like the person sending these was facing a desperation, a need.

“Please notice me”

At first you thought it was a silly prank, maybe a friend teasing you for your love for plushies.

But all your friends denied it and your neighbors—an old couple—obviously weren’t the type to do such things.

The mystery was charming.

A little creepy, yes.

But each bear was tugging at your heart at the same time.

Endearing in some way but making you curious.

Tonight, you're done wondering.

You set an alarm for 3 am, determined to catch the culprit.

You stand by the window, coffee in hand as your eyes scan the quiet street.

The moonlight was the only source of light, your heart racing with anticipation.

After a few minutes or so you see a hooded figure approaching your door with careful steps, and they hold a small teddy bear.

A brown choco colored one with a tiny red bow.

He kneels to place it on your doorstep.

You don’t hesitate and rush to your door, flinging it open.

“Hey!” you shout.

The figure stumbles, and before you could react, he starts running away but you’re quicker, not caring about your bare feet.

You grab hold of his sleeve.

“Who are you? why are you doing this?”

The hood falls, revealing a familiar face—jeon jungkook, your quiet coworker with a shy smile and doe eyes that always seem to find you.

His cheeks are flushed, breaths shaky and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Almost like he got caught stealing

“jungkook?” you gasp.

“You’re the teddy bear guy?”

He cringes, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh… yeah, I—I’m sorry,” he stutters.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

You release his sleeve, stepping back as you cross your arms over your chest.

“What’s with these bears?”

jungkook fidgets, staring at his sneakers like they hold his answers.

“You mentioned it at work. A lot, actually and I thought you’d like them, so I wanted to do something special—“

“But I couldn’t just… approach you.”

Your mind flashes to those coffee break chats and your rants about teddies.

You imagine he’d listened sitting somewhere far.

Nodding quietly, his shy grin hiding how much your words had taken to his heart, valuing your wishes like they were the most precious thing.

“Why didn’t you just… talk to me?” you ask

“I tried talking, I mean. But every time I got near you… I—I don’t know.”

“You’re so…”

He trails off, then mumbles quietly.

“You’re you. And I’m just me.”

Your heart flutters strangely.

jungkook’s always been sweet at work—bringing you coffee when you’re too busy to look after yourself.

Laughing at your dumb jokes.

You never thought much of it, but now looking at his nervous gaze

It clicks.

The notes are starting to make sense.

“The notes,” you say, softly.

“They were about me?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

Doe eyes glassy.

“I’ve liked you—uhm—for a long while actually, and I thought the bears might be… romantic? but then I realized it was probably weird, I didn’t know how to stop without explaining and—“

He rambles and cuts himself off.

He exhales sharply, heart pounding out of his chest.

“I’m an idiot for doing this stupidity.”

You glance at your doorstep, where the brown bear sits, a note in its paw like always.

You pick it up, unfolding the paper.

“I’m scared, but I love you”

Your breath catches, lips parting as jungkook watches you now like he’s waiting for rejection.

You clutch the bear to your chest, heart skipping a beat.

The softness of the bear grounding you just like previous ones given by him.

“jungkook, this isn’t stupid.” you whisper.

A smile on your lips.

“It’s… adorable. Scary at first yes, but adorable.”

“You picked bears because of me?”

He nods.

“I thought they’d make you smile and you always light up when you talk about them.”

“You’re not mad?”

He asked, restless.

His eyes still wide with uncertainty, the fear of rejection still there.

You can't help it—you laugh, shaking your head.

“Oh god, you’re just ridiculous you know that? but I love them, every single one.”

You pause, meeting his gaze.

“And I think maybe… the guy leaving them, too.”

“Really?”

Hope in his voice, along with a slight tremble.

“Really.” you grin.

“Next time, maybe just ask me out instead of leaving stuffed animals in the dark like a little stalker.”

He laughs, a nervous yet joyful sound.

The sound warming you despite standing outside in the cold night air.

“So coffee tomorrow?”

You hum, looking at him while pretending to consider, enjoying teasing him and watching him squirm.

“Is that a yes…?”

His smile fades slightly.

“Depends. Only if you promise to keep leaving me bears.”

jungkook chuckles, the tension calming.

“Sure, but if I bring a bear for every date, you’ll need more space. Think you can handle my teddy bear game?”

His tone now cheeky, his smile bright.

“Bring it on, teddy guy.”

You both share a giggle, and you wonder why you didn’t notice him sooner.

As you invite him inside to escape the cold, you glance at the bear in your arms that you are hugging to yourself even tighter.

And the fluff in your arms feels like the start of something.

A promise

For the future.

────

💌 permanent taglist: @chaelvrx @wintaemoonjen @slutology00 @furioustrashlover @kelsyx33 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @minewlove @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lachesismoonmist @angelfuzzy2 @levisnumber1 @angelsdecalcomania @magicalnachocreator @hynjamkook @koodollylvr @withmuchluv-tannie @istarag @elmarimochi9513 @wtfanu @kooklv @endlesslysassy @nanisblogg @tatamicc @mokaliciouss @armybomb-infires @jiniminisworld @seokjinthescientist @gyeomibearr @xmiaacxio @n0chuprettykook @gizaspicebag @aaclariww @dollytingz @pokalunolino @bunnies-only @cuntygguk

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