#sorry if it doesn't live up to the hype

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Reflection: A Retelling of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves”

The mirror is a gift from the dwarves. Its frame of hammered gold is wrought with delicately-crafted birds and beasts, fruit and flowers. Its silver-backed surface, unlike those created by human craftsman, shows a true reflection.

The queen loves to gaze at herself in the mirror. It tells her that she is beautiful—skin like milk, hair like midnight, eyes as blue as a crystalline lake. She is young, healthy, graceful, charming—perfection in human form. Truly a queen worthy of this kingdom.

Then, one day, the mirror’s message changes. It shows that the queen has lines around her eyes, sunspots on her nose, wicked glints of silver in her night-black hair. The queen does all she can to hide the damage, spends hours before the mirror with cosmetics and concealers. To the rest of the world, the queen is as perfect as ever.

Yet every morning, the mirror tells the truth.

Worst of all, her husband has a little daughter—barely fourteen years old—who grows lovelier by the day. Every morning, the mirror says that before long, those who worshiped the queen’s beauty will transfer their devotion to the princess—and will be right to do so.

The queen's beauty would not seem so tarnished if the princess were not there for comparison. The queen tries to send the princess to an isolated estate—tells her husband it is better for the girl to grow up away from the corrupting influences of the court. But the girl is too dear to her father. She wastes away with homesickness, until her father the king orders her to come home for the sake of her health.

The queen tries neglecting the girl in ways the king won't notice—refusing to let her wash with good soap, denying her a maid, forbidding her fashionable clothes and hairstyles. Through it all, the mirror tells her that the girl’s beauty shines out brighter than ever.

Before long, the queen spends hours by the mirror each day, locked in a futile endeavor to restore what is lost forever. One moonlit night, she finds a dagger, and considers plunging it into her heart just to end this ceaseless torment, but the morning shows her a better path.

She will never be perfect, nor make the princess less so—but she can destroy perfection.

It would be easy to take this dagger to where the princess sleeps and shove it through her perfect heart, but the queen doesn't dare to mar her own beauty with blood-stained hands.

She gives the dagger to a loyal huntsman. He takes the girl into the forest—and returns holding a small, bloody heart.

That night before the mirror, the queen's smile makes her glow with a new kind of beauty.

*

People often tell the princess she is beautiful. She believes them, for she has never seen an ugly face. Old Sal’s missing tooth is an open door into her smile. The chambermaid’s freckles make a daytime constellation. The little stable boy’s one good eye glitters green as an emerald. Her stepmother owns a beautiful mirror, but the princess barely gazes at it. Why would she waste time examining her own familiar face in a world with so many other lovely faces to gaze upon?

One day in early spring, she asks to go berrying in the forest beyond the castle, as she once did with her mother. To her surprise, the queen permits it—the queen rarely allows the princess anything that might be a luxury. She even sends one of her huntsmen as protection.

In the eaves of the forest, the princess finds strawberries not far from the path, and she hastens to gather as many as she can. She invites the huntsman to join her, but he stands statue-like at the edge of the clearing, always on guard. Not wanting him to go without, the princess brings the berries to him, and offers him the largest, sweetest one.

As she does, she gazes at his face. Scars make mountain ranges along his cheeks and brow. His hair is edged with silver. The lines of his face are solid as stone. His deep gray eyes hold storm clouds.

“Oh, my,” the princess says in awe. “You are beautiful.”

The huntsman’s face disappears as he hides it in one of his hands. “I can’t,” he says, his voice rough with unshed tears. “I must betray my queen."

His other hands darts to the side, quick as a serpent, and the silver flash of a blade disappears into the undergrowth.

The huntsmen places both of his hands on the princess’ shoulders and crouches to look into her face. “You must run. The queen wants you dead. If you stay at the palace, she will find a way to kill you. You must flee into the forest and never return.”

“The forest?” the princess asks in terror. She has often wandered in the eaves, but she has never dared the strange terrors that are said to lurk in its interior.

“There is nothing there that can harm such innocence,” the huntsman says. “You will find shelter.” He turns her around and pushes her toward the depths of the forest. “Now run! As fast and as far as you can!”

The shadows of the forest embrace her, and the flowers make a path at her feet. She crosses shallow rivers, climbs rocky slopes, winds through twisted groves of trees. She couldn’t return home even if she wanted to.

She had not been blind. She had seen something like ugliness in the queen’s face whenever they were alone. But hatred? Murder?

She nearly collapses with grief, but through the trees, she sees a wisp of smoke. A chimney. A roof over a tumbledown cottage. The princess runs through the open door, collapses on the floor, and is glad to find a safe place to weep.

Her father will think her dead, and she will not be there to comfort him. She will never again see any of the beautiful faces that fill the palace. The hundreds of hidden details that made the castle home are forever out of her reach. The huntsman saved her, but to what end? A lifetime of loneliness and misery? Is this truly a better fate than the quick death of a dagger through the heart?

She opens her eyes. She has looked too long at the sorrows in her heart. She must find solace from without.

She gazes upon the cottage.

And sees seven beautiful faces.

*

The dwarves love their princess. She is beautiful, not only because of her face, but because of the way her soul shines out through it. She is endlessly beautiful because she sees the beauty in everyone and everything.

There never was a girl so selfless. Her every waking moment is spent filling their days with a million small comforts. The cottage has never been so clean. The food has never been so lovingly prepared. There is nothing she would not do for them, and in return, they devote their lives to her service.

She needs their protection. One so naturally kind and innocent can’t recognize when strangers might have ill intent. One day, after being out in the woods, the seven dwarves return to the cottage to find the princess nearly strangled by a set of stays. When they revive her, she tells them of a ragged old woman (with such beautiful hands!) who asked for food and water and then repaid her generosity by giving a nearly-fatal gift. The eldest of the dwarves caught a glimpse of the stranger’s retreat, and saw enough of her form to suspect the queen.

The dwarves keep a closer guard on the princess, but six months later, a few minutes go by when all seven of them are away from home. They return to find the princess nearly killed by a poisoned comb in her hair. The story she tells is similar to the last one—an old woman in need of help repaid their kind princess with a gift meant to kill.

After that, the princess is never alone. The dwarf on guard duty always has the envied task, so lovely is it to be in her presence. A year, then two, go by with no signs of danger.

Then one winter morning, after a night of birthday feasting, all seven of the dwarves sleep late. The princess rises at her usual time, hoping to fix them a holiday breakfast. By the time the dwarves stumble out of bed, they find the princess sprawled across the kitchen floor—cold, pale and lifeless, with a poisoned apple in her hand.

They despise themselves for having failed her, but their love for the princess drives them to serve her the only way they can—by laying her body to rest. The cold, hard earth won’t take her, and they can’t bear to hide her away in the realm of death. Knowing that decay will not touch one so innocent, they place her in a coffin of glass and lay her in their garden, where her beauty can brighten the world in death as it did in life.

They keep a constant vigil, lost in loving grief. They ought to have known she would end this way. This is the fate of all innocence in this dark and sinful world—to be destroyed by wickedness. Even as they see this truth, they know that it is wrong. The world should not be this way, but what can they do? They wish and pray for better, but they can’t hope. How can innocence ever overcome such evil?

In the spring, when the last snow melts and the first snowbells bloom, the dwarves see movement in the woods beyond their cottage. A prince approaches on a snow-white horse. He is ruler of this forest and its mysterious ways—a king of kings, even more beautiful than their princess. His face shines with a wisdom that does nothing to defile the innocence of his heart.

He leaps from his horse, approaches the coffin, raises the lid, and takes the cold hand of the princess between his.

“Beloved,” he says, “arise.”

In his words and actions, the dwarves find the answer to the riddle they have pondered in their long vigil of grief. In a world of wickedness, the salvation of Innocence is Love.

The princess opens her eyes. Takes a breath. Sits up and gazes upon the world she loves, upon the one who loved her back to life. Something of the prince’s wisdom is reflected in her, so that her beauty is almost painful to behold.

The dwarves rejoice, and the princess rejoices with them. She kisses each one atop the head, but does not release the hand of her prince.

Eager to serve one who served them so well, the dwarves cook her breakfast, and she eats with even more enthusiasm than she showed in her former life. Yet when the meal ends, she stands with her prince at the threshold of the cottage.

“I must return to my father,” the princess says.

The dwarves protest. What of the queen? What of the danger?

The princess looks at her prince with eyes full of love. “I have nothing to fear.”

*

The king rejoices at his daughter’s return—he has thought her dead for so many years. Grief has aged and weakened him, but there is beauty in his face that grows brighter with every minute he spends in the presence of the princess.

The princess tells him of her troubles since she went away, and the king is horrified by her words. “I knew my wife had lost her reason,” he says, “but not her heart! She must pay for her crimes!”

He moves toward the door as though he will administer justice this moment.

The prince stops him with a gentle hand upon his chest. “There is no need.”

*

The queen gazes at herself in the mirror. She never looks anywhere else. If there is a world beyond the edges of its frame, she has forgotten it. She sees only her own face, searches for the remaining scraps of beauty, tries desperately to erase the blemishes that grow ever more hateful with the passing of years.

Another face appears in the reflection—a face the queen thought she had destroyed long ago. It is lovelier than ever. The queen hides her face in her hands so she can not see the painful beauty of the princess.

“Come away from there,” the princess says. “Gaze with me upon the other beauties of the world.”

“And lose myself?” the queen shrieks. “That is what you have always wanted—to destroy my very self! To take all the honor and beauty that should be mine!”

“I wish to save you,” the princess says. “Come away.”

“Never!” the queen screams, clutching the mirror in two white-knuckled hands. “I have everything I need right here! You can’t take it from me!”

The princess touches the queen’s shoulder. The queen screams and shrinks away, hiding her face once more in her hands.

A man’s voice—painful in its beauty—says, “Beloved, she has made her choice.”

At long last, they leave. The queen looks in the mirror and sees no face but her own. No greater beauty remains nearby to shame her.

In the confines of her world’s silver surface, she is fairest of all.

*

The queen is locked away in the prison of her choosing.

The king stays to do what good he can for his kingdom, and the princess promises to return for him after he has fulfilled his purpose.

The prince places the princess on his snow-white horse, and they travel once more past the cottage of the dwarves, who are glad to see her so beautiful and beloved.

At last, the prince brings the princess to his kingdom at the heart of the forest.

The beauty she finds there is beyond words.

[yan-randomfandom]

I've been reading the fanart. You have a natural talent for creating a more distinctive personality for the Saja Boys from the bits and pieces they gave us in the movie!

Ever since that fanart where the Saja sneaked into the reader's room, I couldn't stop imagining what they would be like sleeping alone with her, as if every day of the week except the weekends they will take turns sleeping with the reader or something like that.

And again, I love your writing. I hope you like the idea. Have a nice day!!!

Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; anon thank you so much heheh!!! this one isn't too accurate to your idea, but i love it and i hope it's still okay!

summary; physical touch with the boys and why they wanna go to your bedroom :))) (touch starved. written separately but they all live in the same housing)

warnings; stalking (watching you sleep), body curious, touching w no permission, nothing sexual tho!

— 🍃 [Monday]

Here's the thing, guys. The boys don't actually need sleep. They're demons. Sleep isn't something their bodies need—instead it's something they want. They are still aware and can feel through touch, which is exactly why they'd prefer to sleep with you.

You're warm, so alive, and they don't know it yet.

Surprisingly enough, Jinu is the first one to knock on your door.

"Jinu?" you drawl, voice laced with sleep. He stands awkwardly by the doorway, patiently waiting for you to process what's happening. Glancing idly at your sleepwear and dimlit room.

You yawn, widening the door. "What's up? Need something?" You pause, raising a lazy accusing finger. "Wait. You're not here to suck my blood, are you—?!"

"What? No!" Jinu gasps, almost offended. You sigh out of relief anyway.

"...We're not interested in physical bodies. Anyway, uh, sorry for waking you up. I just need to see how our socials are going," he explains as he steps into your room. "You can power your computer and go back to sleep."

As soon as you heard the word 'social', you were already turning it on. "'kay, buddy. You sure you don't need help, though? I know I taught you a bit but I understand it can get confusing—"

"No, no," Jinu huffs, denial flooding his form. "I can do it."

"You remember how to turn it off?"

"Yes. Don't worry."

Then you fall asleep next to him, your body slightly pressing against his. His eyes slowly drift away from the glow of the computer screen to your sleeping form. He stares for a moment.

Soft, warm. It reminds him of the past on how he couldn't sleep with his own fam—

Jinu pulls the computer plug off and teleports away.

—💐 [Tuesday]

Baby made you piggyback him. A lot. It was sort of your fault.

You saw the Saja Boys taking turns carrying him—it was a pretty funny ordeal. Then you jokingly offered to piggyback him to see what the hype was about.

He accepted it all too eagerly. As soon as his full weight falls on you, you're genuinely surprised at how light he is. It's probably equivalent to a box full of volleyballs.

"You're lighter than I thought," you say, adjusting your arms behind his legs.

Baby suddenly lets his head rest on yours. "Why are you so..." Warm. He buries himself into your shoulder, his arms tightening around you.

"Why am I so what?" you ask, turning your head, only achieving to tickle him more.

He doesn't let you go for the rest of the day.

And by extension, night.

You tried to complain at first. "Didn't we agree to—"

"Just this once, please?"

You folded.

He snuggles all comfortable within your arms, acting as the little spoon, greedily content in your warmth and breathing.

But then you wake up with his mouth on your skin. He wasn't biting, sucking, or anything. It was just.... there.

Still, though, you assumed the worst.

"I thought you said demons don't suck blood, Jinu!?!"

"We don't!!?!"

—🪷 [Wednesday]

Abby wanted you to touch his abs for some mysterious reason. Yapping about how "no one else will have this chance," or "you might not live long enough to feel it!" and "I actually haven't let anyone touch my artificial abs yet" — it was really weird, but you shrugged it off and agreed anyway.

Like hell yeah. Sure, why not?

So he unbuttons his shirt, all giddy, and watches as you reach for his skin.

You make contact with his abs. Caressing it gently, it feels normal in texture — but you suppose it's a little too cold. The fact didn't totally sound weird at the time.

Looking up, you flinch at Abby's expression. You thought he'd be smiling, like he was the whole time, but he looks so serious that it's actually concerning. He's not looking at you; his eyes were down and fixated on your hand.

You notice, pulling your hand away from him, and snapping your fingers. "You okay?"

He blinks. "Uh."

Later that night, Abby welcomes himself into your room.

He stares at you from the corner. From the center. From the edge of your bedframe. On your bed.

Sometimes, he'd gently let his hands roam over your exposed skin. Mostly your warm hands. And your warm face.

You wake up to find his face in front of you.

Screaming, you unintentionally kick him in the abs.

"Ow, my perfectly crafted abs!"

— 🪻 [Thursday]

Mystery almost lost it when you pat his head.

You did it voluntarily. It's a nice, comforting feeling as you pat his shoulder, his arm, and his cheek. He utterly melts under your casual touches without a single word.

He loves it. You leave him demanding for more. So, Mystery decides to linger around you like a guard dog. Who hopes to be spoiled, who wishes to be held.

But, then, night comes.

"You're not exactly allowed in my room," you say, only to pause when he straight up whimpers.

... You folded. With a sigh, you step away from the door and give him space to walk in.

He happily skips into your room, flopping face-first on your bed. You stare at him for a moment, thinking about how despite them not being human — they really love to rest.

You lie down, feeling Mystery move around under your blanket, closing your eyes when he finds himself comfortable against your chest.

Your chest rising and falling with every breath—Mystery simply can't help but feel envious.

— 🌺 [Friday]

Romance is confused.

There's a buzz between his band members — apparently, they visited your bedroom? Didn't they agree to avoid that specific place in this house?

He doesn't realize he's been staring blankly at nowhere. Reality hits him hard when something gentle touches his hair.

"Might wanna style your hair again, Rome," you chuckle, brushing his hair with your fingers. He shivers when your skin grazes his forehead. "You got the bed head. Though I guess you just snap your fingers and it'd be all okay."

You leave right after that, but Romance keeps staring at the last place he saw your figure, his fingers fidgeting with the hair you just touched.

Okay. He gets it now.

Next day, you woke up with him hovering over your head.

You suddenly grab his shoulders, push him back against your bed, breathing heavy from the shock. The bed sinks under both your weight.

Romance stares immensely up at you.

"You guys," you breath, "will be the death of me."

He smirks. "I can only imagine."

— krazy

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

little comforts with the lads li’s

(a self-indulgent imagining of them with a neurodivergent MC)

✨ xavier & overstimulation

(not the sex kind, sorry. but probably that too) Xavier completely understands when you get overwhelmed by existing. he gets the same feeling sometimes. you develop a code for it eventually, a combination of eye contact and eyebrow-raising that signals to the other person that you need out, whether from a Hunter’s Association party or a grocery store with way too many people. back at home, you’ve created a haven together- eye masks and soft blankets for him, headphones and fidgets for you, whatever makes you feel peaceful and calmed. the ceiling lamp is absolutely not allowed- Xavier drapes the walls with soft spheres of light or swirls a firefly-glow of sparks along the bed in a warm canopy.

🎨 rafayel & hyperfixations/jumping hobbies

you might as well consider collecting hobbies a hobby in itself. crochet needles and yarn, jigsaw puzzles, a wood burning setup, a console and video games- whatever brings you joy, Rafayel is enthusiastically behind it. he doesn’t judge you for wanting to learn a new art style out of the blue- he’ll sign up for a pottery class with you and buy you pounds of clay. he loves your passion and enthusiasm and matches it with his own. he loves being creative with you, in whatever form it happens to take that day. plus, with the amount he spends on paint and canvas, he’s not about to judge you for getting boxes of new supplies for something. he’s hyping you up every time! even if it isn’t an interest he shares, he’s happy you’re happy.

🩺 zayne & health anxiety/ocd

no matter how many times you ask for it, Zayne is happy to give you reassurance. yes, that chicken was cooked all the way. you have a weird flutter in your chest? of course he'll listen to your heart. he listens to every symptom, every worry with unfailing patience. after all, he wants to be your protector, your safest place- this is just one way to be that for you. he never makes you feel irrational for your fears, just steadily helps you face them each and every time. he doesn't judge your compulsions, but he offers his expertise whenever you ask- he lets you take your temperature ten times a day but also explains the normal range and when to actually worry.

💭 sylus & overthinking

okay hear me out, this goes both ways: he helps ground you when you’re overthinking negatively but also supports you when you’re being enthusiastic about literally anything. he’s all in- if you have a favorite tv show he’s watching every episode and reading every analysis of it so you can discuss. he’s fully invested in your office drama, your gossip, your made-up stories about the bird family that lives outside your apartment window. but he also soothes you when you spiral into worry or fear. he happily goes through what-if scenarios with you, most of them ending in him spectacularly defeating anything that could ever threaten you. he makes it clear over and over again that you’re completely safe with him, physically and emotionally.

❤️‍🩹 caleb & insecurity

his life mission to make you feel adored. he makes a point of worshipping every part of you, especially anything you consider a "flaw". nothing is too much or too little- you're perfect exactly as you are. if he overhears you complaining about your thick thighs on a call with Tara, he's going to be buried in them later that night, pressing kisses to every inch. he loves working out and training with you. if you want to get healthier he's gladly cooking fresh ingredients into nutritious meals and helping you build up a fun fitness routine- but if there's even a hint of it being because you don't like the way you look in the mirror? he's going to benchpress twice your body weight in front of you just to prove he can. or better yet, he flings you over his shoulder easily and brings you to the bedroom to "work on your confidence".

[taasgirl]

i like me better - franco colapinto

summary: franco and driver!reader seem to be getting closer, through their shared social media interaction. once y/n gets her first fp1 drive, everything falls into place.

a/n: everything is fictional, and there is no face claim! enjoy :)

liked by landonorris, alex_albon, and 563, 982 others ynusername trading four wheels for two this weekend 😉

mercedesamgf1 Please get off the bike y/n

lilymhe IS THAT A BABY Y/N PIC I SEE

ynusername hehe maybe

landonorris I know toto died seeing you post this liked by ynusername

motogp Fancy a weekend with us?

ynusername OH MY GOD I THOUGH YOU'D NEVER ASK team_toto_wolff No Y/n.

lewishamilton 🩷

ynusername hey dad!

liked by francolapinto, oscarpiastri, and 3, 872, 440 others landonorris Summer break you will be missed

danielricciardo Mate you're so ugly

landonorris Smd old man

mclaren Pls tell us that you didn't actually go dirt biking

landonorris Don't worry I was with y/n mclaren That makes it worse

ynusername I'm on a mission to take the whole grid on a dirt biking adventure, who's next bitchessss

francolapinto Me me me I volunteer landonorris Someone's eager 😏

view ynusername's story...

caption: track limits at turn 7 stewards go get their asses

liked by francolapinto, lewishamilton, and 711, 923 others ynusername excited to take lewis' car out for a spin in fp1 #justiceforreservedrivers

lewishamilton Don't pull a Kimi

kimi.antonelli What the hell Lewis

landonorris awww baby y/n

landonorris Still hasn't achieved her goals of racing in f1 hehe ynusername just for that i'm running u off track tomorrow xx

francolapinto Congratulations Y/N! I'm excited to see you out there

ynusername thanks franco!!

patriciooward I agree #justiceforreservedrivers liked by ynusername

liked by ynusername, lewishamilton, and 5, 720, 816 others mercedesamgf1 Celebratory hugs between Y/N and Lewis following Y/N's superb FP1 drive!

tagged: ynusername & lewishamilton

ynusername Maybe like I can replace the dinosaur or something aha...

francolapinto My favourite driver as a child and my favourite driver as an adult together 🤗

ynusername wow thank you franco! landonorris Boy you are NOT slick

lewishamilton The 🐐

lewishamilton And Y/n.

liked by lewishamilton, landonorris, and 142, 674 others ynusername some funny photos from a very fun weekend

francolapinto Come on you post my teammate but not me?

ynusername maybe you should visit me often then 🤷‍♀️

georgerussell63 Is that Toto...

ynusername affirmative

landonorris Trust in y/n to expose the grid hmmm

alex_albon Wow @/georgerussell63 looking sexy

lilymhe Stop hitting on GEORGE

lewishamilton ⭐ liked by ynusername

francolapinto Penalty for eating ice cream during race week

ynusername booooo someone throw tomatoes on him

user53 DOUBLE FRANCO COMMENTS

liked by alex_albon, ynusername, and 1, 448, 925 others francolapinto Good weekend 😁

tagged: williamsracing & alex_albon

alex_albon Mate does not live up to the hype sorry Franco

ynusername what the actual hell are you doing to that car in the second photo

francolapinto I can show you later if you'd like This comment was deleted

ynusername also you expect me to post you but you don't even post me smh

francolapinto You go first then

landonorris holy shit I saw that comment franco

williamsracing We're pretending that we didn't!

view ynusername's story...

caption: fine I'll go first @/francolapinto

view francolapinto's story...

caption: She clearly doesn't like paparazzi

liked by oscarpiastri, paularon, and 2, 630, 727 others francolapinto I might fall off but at least a pretty girl can give me CPR

tagged: ynusername

landonoriss FUCKING FINALY

lewishamilton I'm keeping my eye on you Franco

francolapinto 😅

ynusername awww you think I'm pretty?

francolapinto I'm happy to repeat myself francolapinto You are the prettiest girl I've ever met

williamsracing Please do not fall off

view ynusername's story...

caption: how is he a formula one driver and still so uncoordinated

how did we like this guys? ALSO why the hell are there no new photos of franco on pinterest like damn. Let me know if you like this and as always reqs are open!

[azzibueckers5]

take another drag (turn me to ashes) (pt. 2)

synopsis: part 2 of my messy fwb pazzi! i would call this fluff and smut. your cws are alcohol and sex as always. uhh idk what elese ngl. azzi and paige are idiots but it works-- capiche?

wc: 10k (ao3 link) (part 1 link) (my masterlist)

a/n: welcome back to my attempt at a porn without plot oneshot that is now 17k and 2 parts <3 enjoy <3 sorry this took longer than expected i got scared of all the people who were waiting on it lmfao </3 hope it lived up to the hype if not don’t lmk please <3 um i tried to make azzi’s inner monologue a bit nonsensical because she’s drunkyyyy so if it got difficult to follow i apologize <3 this is extremely unedited btw i'll go back and fix stuff later but my eyes are closing and i want to sleep <3 ok bye

when azzi trudges back into the kitchen, she finds that the environment in the apartment has mellowed considerably since she slipped away, and it makes her even more aware of how long she must’ve been in the bathroom. 

she eyes the handle that has miraculously been transported from the floor in between a circle of teammates to the kitchen counter, and how the line of liquid has mysteriously dropped even further. typical. 

and lucky, considering this means the likelihood someone noticed her extended absence, and more alarmingly, paige’s absence in addition to hers, was slim. 

she surveys the room further, and tries to keep herself from immediately looking for a mop of blonde hair, but nonetheless frowns a little to herself when she fails to lay eyes on paige, a little disappointed she left without saying goodbye. even though she’s mad at her.  whatever. 

there are a few others missing, too, most noticeably, azzi’s roommates nika and olivia, and she groans to herself in annoyance that she’ll have to walk back alone. 

caroline notices her then, standing on the edge of the kitchen, and motions for her to come join her on the couch, pulling away from her conversation with amari to pat the cushion next to her. azzi debates finding an excuse to duck out– she really would rather be in her room right now to wallow in sexual frustration– but she hasn’t spent any time with caroline tonight and owes her a quick chat. 

she immediately regrets this choice. 

because as soon as she sits down on the ugly brown suede of the couch, caroline is dragging her eyes over azzi’s flushed face and most likely swollen lips and saying “when are you two gonna get your shit together?”

azzi blinks. “i have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

she panics a little– annoyed that caroline would allude to paige in such a populated environment, but when she looks around she sees nothing but teammates who are extremely drunk and paying no attention to their conversation. which is good, but also doesn't give her the out of not wanting others to listen in on this conversation. 

caroline tilts her head and looks at azzi. “really? so paige was in the bathroom helping you- what, pee? giving you emotional support while you took a shit?”

azzi glares, tipping her chin up in defiance. “how do you know even paige was in the bathroom with me–” she pauses for a second, realizing that sounds almost like a confession, and adds “-i mean. why would you think that. that’s ridiculous.”

caroline raises her eyebrows. “okay, azzi. totally believe you right now.”

“good,” azzi huffs. “you should.”

goddamn caroline and her penchant for staying mostly sober and preying on young, innocent, emotionally vulnerable people like azzi. nika and her should start a club. 

the girl in front of her sighs, and nudges their legs together, in what is probably an attempt at comfort. “i just don’t want you to get hurt, az. or paige.”

and that. makes azzi pause for a second, not because she thinks it's truly a possibility, but because she’s surprised at the genuine worry in caroline’s tone. 

she knows that messing around with your best friend on mostly undefined terms doesn’t exactly have the highest success rate in the world, but, well. it was paige and azzi. and even though she was aware that she sounded a little naive in believing that they’d be fine no matter what, she knew that neither of them would intentionally hurt the other. 

paige would probably rather lose every basketball game she ever played again than hurt azzi on purpose, and though azzi was loath to admit it, she felt the same. it might be strange to say that she wasn’t worried for their future, knew that they would always be alright, but azzi felt it in her bones. and not even in a drunk way either. 

caroline might not get it, but as long as her and paige did, they’d be okay. 

“carol, we won’t, i swear” she states plainly. 

caroline eyes her, disbelieving, but azzi knows this isn’t something she’ll be able to explain, certainly not in tonight's brain state, and decides that this conversation is over. she pats her leg, before standing up shakily and stumbling around the room to say her goodbyes. 

it’s at least a little bit nice knowing that everyone she’s leaving behind is definitely more drunk than she is, and she doesn't even have to convince evina that she needs someone to walk her home beyond rolling her eyes and saying “it’s literally one building- i’ll be fine.”

the trudge upstairs is quiet, and azzi lets her conversation with caroline wash over her. a year ago, she’d probably have freaked out at the reminder that her and paige meant as much to each other as they did, and that they weren’t anything more than best friends. 

but now, even with her anger still simmering towards paige, the thought is vaguely comforting. they’re not dating– won’t be for a while azzi’s sure– but it worked for them, in a twisted, irrational way. 

she smiles to herself, and then immediately frowns at how ridiculous she is, stumbling down a dark hallway by herself and grinning about the girl who’d just left her wet and aching with no remorse. the annoyance at paige comes back in full force.

she’d always been a touch emotionally unstable when drunk.

she climbs the final set of stairs thinking about how supremely excited for the solitude of her room she is, as the nights events have tested her sanity, her libido, her liver, and many more things that she can’t be bothered to name, but her plans to march straight into her bedroom and dive under the covers to take the edge of the night off are derailed when she opens the door to their suite and her eyes immediately catch upon nika and paige splayed out across the couch, game controllers in hand. 

because of course. of course paige was in her home, just to torment her. 

they both look up at the sound of the door, and paige’s face lights up before schooling it into a more reasonable expression, and azzi hates herself for flushing. 

“what are you doing here,” she accuses, beginning to toe off her shoes. 

“oh i’m sorry, i didn’t realize i wasn’t allowed to hang out at nika’s place,” paige tosses, so visibly relishing in getting under azzi’s skin that it made her want to throw something.

“nika’s place is also my place. and olivias.” she retorts, regaining her balance from a brief stumble caused by her mistake of trying to balance on one foot to untie her stubborn right sneaker.

“you and olivia aren’t the only ones who live here,” paige says loftily, controller slack in her grip, even through nika’s nudges to get her back in the game.

“yeah well me and olivia don’t need to hear you guys playing video games all night.” azzi shoots back, beelining towards the kitchen to get herself a much needed glass of water. 

nika puts her controller down in defeat, accepting the derailment of her plans to continue playing their game. 

paige doesn’t even seem to notice, eyes following azzi as she walks across the room, the open floorplan making it too easy for her to watch. “olivia’s not here. she went to her boyfriend’s ages ago- said she wasn’t coming home.”

and.  “oh.” 

that’s why paige was so blatantly trying to piss azzi off. nika says something about how it’s probably because liv got horny at the questions she was asking, but azzi’s focus is on the fact that paige had probably known that azzi’s suite would be free from people who were unaware of their dynamic, had probably planned to come back here before she’d even followed azzi to the bathroom. it meant she’d always had plans to finish the job, just with a little teasing to prove her point.

she refuses to let that thought soften her annoyance but her subconscious– who looks and sounds a lot like the whiny blonde in front of her– puts up a valiant fight. now is not the time to focus on that. because she has angry appearances to uphold. 

she also does not mentally acknowledge how obsessed with her paige is when she stands up off the couch and comes to plant herself across from azzi, leaned up against the counter and arms crossed.

she watches azzi fill up a glass with sink water, and azzi hates that she can feel her eyes like a physical sensation. she swallows down the cool water gratefully, hoping it will cool her down.

“so you didn’t miss me?” is the tactic paige decides to go with when azzi finally looks in her direction, expectant and glaring. 

honestly. 

“no,” she bites out, icily. “i miss the peace and quiet of not being around you.”

paige’s smile only grows. “you’re bein’ mean, baby. you mad at me or somethin?’”

and dear god why is she pulling out pet names right now. except. azzi knows why: it’s always impossible for her to be annoyed with paige when she’s calling her baby. which is manipulation. she contemplates dumping her water over paige’s head. 

“yeah, i’m fucking mad at you- take a wild guess as to why.”

paige smirks. “prolly cause i called you out on your lie.”

“no, because you’re a fucking tease,” azzi spits. 

somehow this is the wrong answer, because paige cocks her head. “aw, is she cryin’ for me? bet she is. should've just admitted i’m you best, and i woulda take care of you, hmm?” she pouts, as if she isn’t spewing pure filth in the light of azzi’s kitchen with nika still sort of in earshot.

sometimes, it was hard to reconcile this paige– confident and cocky and so sure of herself– with the paige that had once bashfully admitted to practicing how to drive with only her left hand in the off chance azzi would let her hold her right; the paige whose hands had shaken so badly the first time they’d kissed that she’d knocked her phone off the ledge of the pool they’d been sitting on. 

azzi loved every version of paige, always, and knew that at least almost every version of paige belonged to her in some capacity, but the way she was acting right now, so much like the lothario version of paige that so many people thought of her as, was fucking with her head. 

she was aware that it was a direct reaction to her own declaration that charlie had been her very best, and that paige was putting on this show just for azzi, because she was jealous, but the nagging idea that she’d picked up this persona from sleeping with other girls had azzi fucking pissed, even if it was irrational.

and also, paige like this was really, really hot. which made azzi angrier. and meaner. and, well. wetter.

“i can take care of myself,” she glowers, and she doesn’t mean for it to come off as suggestive as it does– doesn’t mean for paige to know that she has every intention of getting herself off– but the thought slips out before she can catch it and paige’s eyes darken. god damnit. 

azzi can see her hands clench around her upper arms, like she’s trying to stop herself from reaching out. 

“yeah? you don’t want my help?” 

“no,” azzi grits out, even though she kind of does. 

paige goes to respond, leaning forward off the counter, but nika beats her to it, a touch of exasperation and disgust in her tone. “get out of our kitchen and go have this fight in your room, i don’t want to hear it.”

azzi scowls at her, knowing that’s exactly what paige wants, and sure enough, the blonde smiles, sharp and pleased, and spins on her heel with an overdramatic flip of her hair, sighing exaggeratedly. “if we must.”

“no, paige it’s not your room,” she calls, but it’s no use. 

paige flips her off without looking back and smacks a loud, messy kiss to the side of nika’s arm. “nighty night twin, sleep with a pillow over your head, yeah?” 

azzi might actually jump her. and not in the fun way. 

“paige,” she shrieks, vowing to refuse any and all attempt by paige tonight to get in her pants. 

nika groans at the same time and hits paige across the shoulder. “i’m going to kill myself.” her grumbles fade as she disappears down the hallway, and azzi is left to follow paige’s retreating figure into her bedroom, slightly dazed and extremely pissed, as any normal person in her position would likely be. 

she stops short when she gets to the doorway, however, because paige has somehow deemed it necessary to strip down to her sports bra and boxers. because of course she has. 

such a presumptuous idiot.

azzi stops and stares for a split second, before trying to get her fuzzy brain to ignore the miles of skin now exposed, including but not limited to: the pale meat of her thighs, her biceps from where she’s tucked her hands behind her head, the ridges of her abs, the muscle on her– azzi needs a gun. 

so she can kill herself. 

actually. scratch that, kill paige, and then kill herself. in like. a romantic, shakespearean way. 

paige’s eyes flick to where azzi is sure her cheeks are flushed and grins, self satisfied and stupid, and then she interrupts azzi’s mental designation of herself as romeo (much more romantic) and paige as juliette (long luscious locks)(she knows paige will disagree with these role assignments and she makes a mental note to bring it up later so they can argue about it) with a lazy “s’hot in here, hope you don’t mind,” and azzi is reminded of why she’s thinking about shakespeare plays in the first place. 

murder. she wants to murder paige. lounging on azzi’s bed, like she hadn’t left her high and dry without a single apology only twenty minutes prior. 

what a fucking asshole. azzi hates her. 

she huffs, spins around to shut the door, perhaps with a little more force than usual, and then stalks to the edge of the bed. she’s too drunk to be dealing with this. it’s hard enough to stay mad at paige sober, but drunk, with a half naked paige on her bed? she’s fighting an uphill battle with 50 pound weights on each shoulder. 

“put your clothes back on, dickhead. i already told you, we’re not-” she cuts off her response, squinting. “is that my bra?”

paige blanches. 

“no,” she blurts, voice in that high pitched tone she uses whenever she’s lying, “it's not.” her face is crimson. liar.

paige is absolutely wearing her sports bra, the white, faded garment doing terrible, terrible things to azzi insides as it emphasizes the lingering tan of paige’s skin from summer. the added knowledge that paige had chosen one of azzi’s to throw on does nothing to help the heat in her stomach.

“paige,” she scolds, trying not to let affection of all things at the act of thievery well up inside of her. “that’s totally mine. it has the stain from when you spilled wine all over me last summer.”  

that had been a delightful accident. 

paige had tripped, knocked azzi’s cup all over her, and then had had a perfect excuse to drag her inside and away from prying eyes to change. 

twenty minutes later, they’d rejoined the bueckers’ family barbecue with flushed cheeks and giddy eyes, because paige had deemed a make out in the laundry room an extremely necessary addition to her apology.

paige appears to be relishing in that exact same memory, and she grins, cocking her head to the side. azzi was hoping she’d show at least some remorse. she should’ve known better. 

“want me give it back?” she taunts, arms coming down from where they’d been behind her head to start tugging the flimsy fabric up. “can do it right now, if you want.”

“no,” azzi all but shrieks, lunging forward onto the bed and halting paige’s hands. 

which is. extremely stupid for two reasons. one, the fact that it actually probably does serve her best interests if paige takes off her bra, and two, she’s somehow landed astride paige’s hips, knees on the mattress on either side of her torso, and hands gripping paige’s wrists.

their eye contact is heavy, and paige’s hips shift beneath azzi, searching for friction even when she knows she hasn’t earned it. 

“kinda seems like you want me to take it off, hmm?” 

azzi tries to stop herself from grinding down on paige’s torso, but is woefully unsuccessful. 

“i don’t,” she moans. how she got here– when five seconds ago she swore she was standing on business– was beyond her. reason and logic never applied when it came to paige. 

in a flash, paige frees her wrists from azzi’s hands– that have gone slack from her focus elsewhere– and flips them, pinning azzi’s hips to the bed, and then just looking down at her for a second, wild and turned on. 

“i think you’re lying,” she breathes, gaze focussed on azzi’s lips. 

azzi’s too distracted by paige’s eyes above her to process the words for a split second, but by the time they register, paige’s mouth is already crashing down on her own, swiping a tongue in almost immediately like she’s been dying without it in the last thirty minutes. 

and azzi- azzi lets her deepen the kiss, lets her press azzi back into the bed, even lets paige tug off her t-shirt and suck a hickie into the sensitive skin below her chest as she arches into it, because she has a plan forming. 

paige mouths down azzi’s stomach, smug and stupid but still so, so good at ready azzi’s body, knowing exactly what she needs, and when paige hooks a finger in the waistband of her shorts and boxers, azzi nods approvingly, lifting her hips to let paige tug them off. 

humiliation burns a little at how wet her boxers are, how slick is already glistening on the inside of her thighs, but paige’s gaze is hungry, intentional, and azzi smiles to herself. 

just as paige ducks down to lave a kiss on the skin of azzi pelvis, azzi wiggles out from under her, the process made easier at paige’s surprise. 

she settles a few inches away on the mattress– still on her back and legs spread wide, exposing her dripping hole– and paige’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, like she’s trying to taste the brief glimpse she got of azzi’s skin under her mouth. 

in a trance, paige crawls over trying to resume their previous positioning and reaches out to touch, almost mindless, like she can’t help it. azzi bats her hand away. 

she’s aware that this might against her self interest– paige above her and inside her and all around her was eons better than her own hand– but she knows there’s no better way to make paige suffer than to show her exactly what she wants and not let her have it, and the desire to make paige feel as desperate as azzi had felt in the bathroom wins out over her own desire to get off fast. 

“you don’t get to touch now. you had your chance earlier,” she rasps, eye contact steady even as her breath hitches at the neediness in the dark blue of her gaze.

paige makes a wrecked, disbelieving sound in the back of her throat, but her hands still on the sheets, not making another attempt at touching, and azzi tuts approvingly before slowly gliding her own hands down her abdomen, tracing at the mark paige’s mouth had only just made underneath the swell of her breast before dragging down to ghost over her cunt.

“azzi” she moans, eyes fixated on the movement of her fingers, gathering the abundance of slick on two digits before dragging them back up to nudge at her clit. 

azzi’s back arches at the feeling, and at the piercing intensity of paige’s gaze, pleasure curling in the base of her spine at how good it is, and she feels herself clench around nothing. 

if it were paige’s hands, azzi knows she would drag it out, would wait to press inside and only give her light touches until she were incoherent, but it's her own hands on herself, so she simply dip her fingers down again, but this time, instead of tracing the edge of her hole, she slips one in and relish in the pleasure that curls hot and wet. 

they both gasp at the act of it– paige’s more of a longing whimper– and azzi needs more.

one is not nearly enough– not when paige is moaning next to her like she’s the one being fingered and azzi is already worked up from their bathroom encounter earlier– and azzi immediately slips a second in with the first, choking back another moan at the pleasure that pools in her stomach again, and trying to angle her hand so she can thumb at her clit in the process. 

it’s all wrong though– the angle’s a little off, and azzi can’t get the right stimulation on her clit and inside at the same time– and this is all heightened by the fact that paige is watching beside her, jaw slack and eyes hooded, and. 

and azzi wants to cave so badly, let paige replace the heat of her gaze with the heat of her mouth, but she hangs on a little longer, determined to make paige suffer. 

but then. then paige starts talking, slurring about how good azzi looks, how good paige could make her feel if only she were allowed to touch, how badly she needs a taste, and azzi feels her remaining control start to slide away, despite herself. 

“you’re so wet- just havin’ me watch you finger your pretty little pussy, hmm?” paige chokes out, hands twitching at her sides and eyes wild, gaze tumbling over the pink of azzi’s cunt in between her thighs and dragging upwards across the rest of her body. 

azzi’s too turned on by the filthy words to disagree, whining out an affirmative instead, and her head falls back against the pillows when she increases the pace of her fingers, trying to curl them into that spot that paige always seemed to find on the first go.  

paige must be encouraged by her reaction, must know azzi is close to relenting, because she doubles down. “look so pretty for me, wanna touch azzi.”

azzi stutters out a moan, and twists her fingers harder. it feels good, great even, but the knowledge that it could be paige’s fingers is making her frustrated at her self, and it turns out being frustrated makes it hard to focus on pleasure, even with paige’s voice in her ear. 

“you’re not doin’ it right, baby, know i could do it better, please let me do it better,” paige breathes, and azzi can see her hands lift in the corner of her eye before falling back down onto the mattress in defeat. 

and paige is right, she’s not doing it right, too fast paced, she can’t get the angle quite right, her mind is scattered, and she huffs a sigh. paige being right– being able to read her body so well just by looking, watching, makes azzi angrier, and she doubles down in her resolve, even if that means not coming for the next twenty minutes. 

but then. but then paige starts begging, “please azzi, need to touch- can i please touch,” and azzi is undone at the desperation in her voice.

before she can process her agreement, she’s moaning out “yes, yes, paige,” and in a heartbeat, the blonde is on top of her, licking into her mouth for an open mouthed kiss, hands knocking away azzi’s to take their rightful spot between her legs.

immediately, she nudges her own two fingers inside azzi, and she swallows her moan at how much better it feels, how much fuller she is, how much better paige is at curling just right, and she nearly cries with relief. 

she’s close from her own fingers and paige’s words, and she’s sort of expecting paige to finish the job in under a minute, seeing as she’s extremely capable and also has a point to prove. which is why she’s surprised when paige’s ministrations are just shy of enough, not quite their usual finesse. 

she whines in frustration, kissing paige harder, trying to coax her into giving azzi what she wants, but paige pulls back above her and smirks. “you can come when you admit i’m the best you ever had.”

and oh my god. why was she still on that. 

defiance wells in azzi, sharp and bratty, and she glares at the cruel vision above her. “you’re not-” her voice cuts off when paige curls her fingers exactly right, and paige laughs– laughs– above her. 

“you sure, baby? sound so needy for me, just gotta say it, then you can come.”

azzi chokes on a moan, before gasping out “don’t need you to come.”

paige drags her fingers out and circles, punishing her for that sentence. “you sure? cause two minutes ago you were begging me to come finish it, couldn’t do it without me, huh baby” 

jesus fuck, her words were messing with azzi’s head, and she only has the ability to whine in protest, beyond words. she was letting paige edge her twice in one night. god help her.

“know i could make you come so good, baby, you just gotta tell me,” paige continues, breathing all of this into azzi’s ear, sending her shuddering. “just say it, say paige, you’re the best i’ve ever had, baby, and i swear i’ll get you right- just gotta remind you who you belong to.”

and it’s almost embarrassing how fast azzi folds. but paige had paired that last sentence with a grind of her palms against azzi’s clit, relentless, and. azzi never really stood a chance.

“okay, paige, paige, feels so good, best i ever had i swear, please make me come,” she babbles, hands digging into paige’s back and tears forming at the corners of her eyes from how desperate she feels. 

paige shushes her, soothing, and quickens the drag of her fingers, finally in that rhythm that always has azzi gasping for breath. it’s immediately so good, and azzi really doesn’t stand a chance when she drags her thumb up to rub at azzi’s clit in time with the thursts of her fingers, whispering “good girl, you just had to say it baby,” into the skin of her shoulder. 

“you can come, az- want you to, just for me,” paige breathes, mouthing at azzi’s neck, and that’s what does it, snapping the band in her stomach.

she comes with a drawn out moan, thighs clamping together and hands clawing at paige’s back, and she’s too far gone to be embarrassed by the tears she releases in pleasure.

but then, instead of coaxing azzi through her climax like she normally would, paige’s face is suddenly gone from above her. azzi’s head is too delirious with pleasure to catch up to where she’s going, and she misses paige all around her immediately, but then she feels her presence in between her thighs, licking azzi through it, and she genuinely might die here, in this dorm bed in fucking storrs connecticut. 

and jesus christ it’s too much, pleasure and pain warring for attention in azzi’s mind and making her already fuzzy head even more so, and it’s so much and she feels like she’ll explode, and.

“paige i cant, i cant–”

but she gets cut off by paige’s “you can,” her fingers wrapping around azzi’s thighs to hold her still and diving in, drinking up the remnants of azzi’s orgasm and then continuing on, as if her first one was simply the appetizer. 

“s’to make up for the one i didn’t give you earlier,” she rasps, hands still keeping azzi’s body steady as she ducks back down for another taste. 

azzi doesn’t have words anymore, and resigns herself to the pleasure-pain, twisting her fingers into paige’s hair in a way that is sure to be painful, and will also probably get paige even wetter, the freak.

and there’s. a reason paige is the best she’s ever had, and she seems determined to prove that all over again, relentless with her tongue as she sucks azzi clit into her mouth. 

her back arches, drawn taught from overstimulation, and she’s sure she’s making all kinds of pathetic noises but all she can focus on is how she’s already at least half way to coming again, heat curling tight and thighs trembling. 

paige looks up at her from between her legs, looking reverent even in her determination to remind azzi of how wholly paige’s she is, and smiles sharply. “‘member what christyn asked me earlier?”

and. what. azzi’s brain is a lot fuzzy and entirely confused on why paige is bringing anyone else up right now, let alone one of their teammates. 

she whines in confusion, trying to drag paige’s head back down where she wants her, hands grabbing at her hair, but paige holds steady, letting her chin rest on the soft skin of azzi’s pelvis, moisture glistening on her mouth. 

“in the game. she asked me what my favorite sex position was.”

azzi has some vague recollection of this, but she’s not exactly focused on anything except for paige’s mouth right now, and she’s rather insulted that paige is so coherent. 

her head dips back again, against the pillow and she gasps out “uh huh,” wiggling her hips to trying and speed this intermission up, remind paige of what’s right in front of her, but instead of reattaching her mouth, paige smacks at her hip, just enough to sting, and grunts “be good, baby, focus.”

fucking hell. 

azzi is trying to focus– focus on the feeling of her impending orgasm– but she chokes out a gasp at the pain and makes eye contact again, shuddering at the desire on paige’s face. somehow the hit to her hip made it even harder to not writhe under her gaze, but she lets paige’s words wash over her and tries to focus. 

“s’always gonna be this, baby,” paige slurs once she has azzi’s attention, “always wan’ my mouth on you, best place in the whole world, best pussy in the whole world and it’s mine to taste.” 

azzi somehow, impossibly feels herself get even wetter, her ability to think of anything but paige melting entirely, slipping through her veins and leaking out from her cunt, surely dripping onto the sheets by now with nothing to lap up the slick. 

distantly, azzi remembers that she was right– that the first thing her brain had gone to at the question had been how much paige loved eating her out– but she can’t even relish in that small victory, too busy trying to be still and good for paige and not spontaneously combust.

“tastes so good- azzi- would die here, swear,” paige continues, voice husky, and even though she’s not physically touching azzi– not where she needs her at least– azzi can still feel her words winding the coil in her belly tighter, pushing her closer to the edge. 

“paige, please, need it, need it so bad,” she cries, and she actually feels like she might die if paige doesn’t touch her. 

and then, finally, finally, paige is dipping her head back down to azzi’s neglected cunt, teasing the edge before slipping inside, and azzi has to fist a hand over her mouth to muffle the strangled cry. 

if paige was ruthless before, it’s nothing compared to the pace she sets now, switching between laving her tongue across azzi’s clit and diving into her hole, and azzi is back on the edge in seconds, trying not to thrash her legs at the overwhelming pleasure. 

she can hear herself babbling– a jumble of paige and please and fuck– but her ears are ringing and all she can focus on is the growing spark in the base of her spine. 

and then paige pauses for a second, one hand moving from azzi’s hip to rub at her clit, and she gasps “wanna see you come again baby, come for me,” before dipping her head back down, and azzi shatters completely, hands tugging at paige's hair and thighs tightening around her head.

her first orgasm had been loud, crashing down around her, but this one washes over her more gently, like she’s surrendered entirely to the feeling. 

she shoves paige’s head away when she can feel her arms again, and tries to get her breathing under control, reeling from how hard she came.  

immediately, paige is crawling up her body to kiss her. 

azzi’s limbs are buzzing, pleasure curling in every nerve of her body, and she lets herself be moved onto paige’s chest, her mind in that blissed out, malleable place and her gasps muffled into the bare skin of paige’s shoulder. 

she stays like that, floating, for an undetermined amount of time, and then she leans back to press their mouths together in a gentle thanks, smiling against paige’s lips. 

they kiss for a bit, slow and lazy and perfect as azzi comes down from her high, and she’s warm, and still a little drunk, and so perfectly sated that she could absolutely fall asleep like this, trading kisses with paige's hands stroking down her back until her eyes fall shut. 

but then paige, wonderful, lovely paige who’s just taken azzi apart piece by piece and then put her back together again, makes a soft, needy noise when azzi’s hands move gently across her stomach and she’s reminded that the other girl has yet to come. 

which is, like, surely a crime, and one that azzi has the power to rectify. 

she rolls on top of paige and deepens the kiss, sliding a knee between the blonde’s and bracketing her face with her arms. paige exhales sharply at the change in position, hands moving with azzi to stay fixed to the dip in her spine, and when azzi moves down to press an open-mouthed kiss to her throat, paige’s hips shift up involuntarily. 

her head dips back against the pillow, blonde hair splayed out across the pale blue of the sheets, and azzi wishes, desperately, that she could suck a mark into the alluringly pale skin of her neck that’s revealed with the motion without having to deal with the consequences. 

instead, she moves down to paige’s collarbone, encouraged by the stutter in her breathing and the flex of her fingers against azzi’s back, and finds a spot she hopes will be hidden under the collar of her shirt come morning to leave a mark, sucking at the skin and relishing in the arch of her body beneath her and the bruise she knows is already forming. 

her only coherent thought when she leans back to look at the mark on her breastbone is mine. 

which. paige isn’t hers, not technically, not in the ways you could label definitively, but she also definitely, assuredly is, in the same way azzi belongs to paige, in the unspoken but not unacknowledged way that many things with them are. 

she looks back up at paige’s face for a moment, and is struck, yet again, by how achingly beautiful she is like this, soft and needy and entirely azzi’s. it makes her heart crack open in her chest at the thought, and she presses their mouths together again in hopes of distracting herself.

she blames the earnestness of her thoughts on the vodka still sliding through her veins, even if that simmer has started to fade away and she thinks these thoughts multiple times a day. 

azzi deepens the kiss, as if she can press her sentiments of care and impossible fondness and mine into paige’s lips, and she responds twofold, like she can hear azzi’s thoughts of you mean so much to me in the way she drags their tongues together and reciprocates them right back to her, nipping at azzi’s lip gently, a you mean so much to me too. 

eventually, they’ll have to start using the actual words, but for now, with the upcoming season and the team dynamics looming above them, this will have to be enough. azzi will force it to be enough.

she drags one of the hands next to paige’s head down, skimming over the fabric of her sports bra to brush at her nipples through the material and then moving lower, nails scratching lightly over paige’s abdomen in the way she knows drives her a little crazy. 

sure enough, paige whines in her mouth, but when azzi’s hand dances under the waistband of her boxers, she pulls back for a second, breathing hard. 

“you don’t gotta- like- i know you’re tired,” paige says, pupil blown wide and lips slick. her eyes are dazed but steady, and azzi knows the buzz of vodka has started slipping away from her too, taking the desperation with it and leaving only tenderness. 

she smiles, half at paige’s expression, and half at her unflinching selflessness. “just wanna make you feel good, that’s all.”

paige tilts her head back, eyes flicking around the room so she doesn’t have to make eye-contact. “you don’t have to, like- swear we can just sleep.” 

her cheeks are red, and azzi’s smile grows at her shyness. 

honestly. she just had azzi spread out before her, begging and incoherent, mumbling the filthiest things in her ear, and a simple wanna make you feel good has her blushing and squirmy. affection blooms in her chest, pooling sticky and sweet, and she presses a kiss to paige’s cheekbone. 

paige has never been one to shy away from reciprocation, so azzi’s a bit confused, but she’s still joking when she teases, “what’s wrong, baby, worried you’ll come too quick?”

paige’s guilty hesitation is an unexpected confirmation, but delightful all the same. 

“no- that’s not- m’not-” her voice cuts off in a whine when azzi cups her over her boxers, and azzi smirks, tries not to be affected by the feeling of how soaked paige is even through the fabric.

“really?”

paige’s hips twitch against her palm, fingers scrabbling against her back.

“azzi,” she moans, and that’s all it takes to have the younger girl slipping her fingers underneath the waistband and pressing at her clit. 

“i know baby, need it so bad, hmm?” she coos, mentally reeling at how wet paige is– all from working azzi up again and again– and the fact that she would’ve gone to sleep anyways without release had azzi wanted that. 

god. 

paige whines in affirmative, and normally azzi would try and draw it out, try and build paige up slowly to prolong her pleasure and selfishly prolong her view of paige falling apart, but tonight, paige is already too keyed up, and she rubs immediately at her clit in firm circles, the way she knows works her up quickly. 

she’s rewarded with another moan, and paige’s hands move from the base of her spine to her face, tugging azzi in for a messy kiss as she begins to grind against her hand. 

her fingers dip down to paige’s entrance, and she groans into her mouth when azzi slips two fingers inside, the glide almost too easy with how wet she is. she pumps paige slowly, curling her fingers into the spot she knows like the back of her hand, and paige breaks the kiss to let out a broken sound, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. 

“doing so good for me, baby” she breathes, cataloging the way her praise cause paige’s eyes to flutter; her hands to grasp azzi’s shoulders; her cunt to clench down on her fingers. 

she loves paige like this, loves even more how they can go from rough and messy to soft and reverent in a matter of minutes, and she tries to savor every sound that rolls off of paige’s tongue, every twitch of her hips. 

her fingers continue their slow, unyielding rhythm, with paige a mess below her, and when she can feel her start to get close, making all sorts of delicious sounds high in her throat, azzi pauses her ministrations. 

not to be mean and drag it out like paige had done earlier, not tonight, but to rid her of the boxers that she’s being constrained by and tug off her sports bra so as to see all of paige spread out before her to touch, to admire.

and god is it a sight. paige is too gone to make fun of how beyond love sick azzi probably looks, thank god, so azzi hovers above her and just takes it in, scouring over every inch of paige: the jut of her hip bones; the blush of her nipples; the taut muscle of her thighs.

she must take too long simply observing, because paige whines, hands pulling azzi back down so their skin is flush together, and the older girl moans into her mouth when azzi dips down to kiss her again, one of her hands coming up to hold at the base of her neck, claiming. 

azzi can feel the flutter of her pulse beneath her palm, and it’s more erotic than she was expecting.

she breaks the kiss, suddenly hit with the greedy urge to taste paige everywhere, to feel her tip over the edge on her tongue, but when she goes to crawl down paige body, she’s stopped by paige’s hands on her back and a whine in protest. 

she pulls back in confusion, just as paige whispers, high a needy, “can you- want you to stay up here, need you close.” 

god. if azzi malfunctions a little bit, no one can blame her. 

she doesn’t have a verbal response right away, just surges into to kiss paige again, wet and needy, and when she pulls back, paige’s pupils are blown so wide her eyes are nearly black, cheeks flushed, and azzi wonders if its possible for her heart to physically leap out of her chest. 

“‘course, baby. whatever you want,” she chokes, and she wonders if paige knows how true that statement is, how azzi would give her anything in the world if she only asked. if her voice is rougher than it usually would be, paige is too desperate to point it out.

she shifts them on their sides, so she has both hands free, and uses one to pull paige back into a kiss by the back of her head, trailing her other hand down to her previous position in between the blonde’s thighs, rubbing circles on her clit and swallowing her gasp, before dipping back down to her hole and slipping two fingers in. 

if paige was worked up before, it’s nothing compared to how wet she is now, and azzi fights to keep her composure and not melt into her own puddle of slick at the tangible feeling of paige’s desire. 

she curls her fingers, working up to an unforgiving rhythm inside of paige, pressing as deep as she can and curling her fingers. paige arches into her with a cry, babbling out a string of incoherent words and azzi’s name, and though she’s not usually this vocal, something about the sacredness of the moment must have opened the floodgates, because paige seemingly can’t stop the words from spilling out of her mouth. 

“god, azzi, please, fuck-, please don’t stop-” 

azzi would never dream of it. a different time, perhaps, she might remind paige of that, make a teasing comment about how she’s never not gotten paige off before, but something about how delicate the blonde looks beneath her stops that thought before it materializes.

“i know, baby, i’ve got you, doing so good for me,” she breathes instead, and is rewarded with a choked off moan, paige’s hands gripping azzi’s shoulders like they’re the only things grounding her to earth.

azzi tilts her head down to rest on paige’s shoulder, watching her fingers move in and out, and continues curling her fingers repeatedly, making sure to grind her palm against her clit in the process, and relishing in the desperation she can feel radiating off of paige. 

she knows paige is close, can feel it in the tremor of her thighs, the pulse of her walls around her fingers, and she leans up to rasp “come just for me, paige, all for me,” into her ear, pairing it with the addition of a third finger.

it does exactly what she expected, and paige writhes against her hand, mumbling “just for you azzi, only for you,” before breaking off into a high pitched gasp and tensing, coming all over azzi’s fingers. 

azzi kisses her to try and swallow the rest of her cries, and pumps her fingers slowly, working her through it, before pulling away when paige mumbles “too much” into her hair, breathing labored and hands tugging at azzi’s back. 

paige’s thighs are shaking. azzi resists the urge to make a smug comment, but only barely. 

she licks her fingers clean, chasing the taste of paige dripping down her hand, and paige makes a soft, wrecked sound in the back of her throat, pulling azzi even closer.

she then kisses paige on her temple, sweaty hairline be damned, and presses as close as she possibly can, relishing in how needy paige is right now.

they lie there, curled together for a couple minutes in contented silence, basking in this version of each other that they only get occasionally now, before azzi decides she’d really rather not wake up hungover and sticky, and gets up to grab a washcloth. 

they should probably shower. that is one hundred percent not happening tonight. a washcloth will have to do.

paige grumbles sleepily at the separation, but lets azzi go with a kiss to her temple and a swat of her ass, and azzi pretends to be scandalized when she bends down to grab a shirt off the ground so as to not walk in the hallway naked and paige whistles behind her at the view. 

she doesn’t bother with pants, and as she shuffles to the bathroom across the hall– noting gratefully that there’s no light coming from under nika’s door– she feels the beginning of an ache in her thighs and she grins to herself as satisfaction wells in her stomach. she hopes she feels it for days to come– hopes rather possessively that paige does too. 

the lights of the bathroom are brighter than she was ready for, and she squints in annoyance as she wets a cloth and wipes carelessly at the mess between her legs, before dropping the cloth on the edge of the sink to wash her hands. 

absentmindedly, she thinks to herself, a little ridiculously and definitely still a little drunkenly, that she misses paige. it’s been maybe a minute max. she has got to get a grip. 

but then, as she’s reaching to turn off the water, she feels two arms snake around her waist and the familiar weight of paige curling into her back, tucking her head into the crevice between azzi’s neck and shoulder and pressing a kiss, as if summoned by her needy thoughts. 

sometimes she thinks their brains are synced up on, like, a telepathic plane.

“your legs stopped shakin’ then?” she says as a greeting, and paige folds herself further into azzi, almost bashful. azzi fucking loves when she gets like this, in that possessive, greedy way that comes with the knowledge that she’s the only one who’s ever gotten to see this version of paige. 

“shut up, bro.”

azzi just giggles. 

paige is also in only a large t-shirt– no doubt stolen from azzi’s drawer– and it’s inside out, the tag sticking up against the collar and the faint, backwards outline of st. john’s basketball is just barely visible through the material. it hangs loose and oversized, hitting mid thigh in a way that should not be as sinful as it is, and she looks rumpled and soft and azzi thinks she might possibly drown in affection.

she spins them around, leaning paige up against the sink, and moves to wipe the washcloth gently between paige’s thighs, mourning the unblemished skin and the missed opportunity to leave her mark and return the favor that paige had given her earlier. 

next time. (not that- not that there’s going to be a next time. or anything.)

paige must feel the heat behind her gaze, because she shoves at azzi shoulder and rolls her eyes. “you’re insatiable.” 

azzi simply hums in agreement and spins them back around, curling into paige’s side to face the mirror and grabbing her tooth brush. 

she brushes as efficiently as possible, rolling her eyes at the faces paige makes at her in the mirror, and then forces paige to use her toothbrush too. 

paige protests this until azzi says she’ll withhold morning kisses, and paige almost knocks the toothbrush out of azzi’s hands in her haste to use it.

azzi ignores the urge to say something entirely stupid like we should do this always and then you could have your own toothbrush here. from paige’s lopsided grin around in the mirror, foam lingering on the corner of her mouth, azzi thinks she probably understands the unsaid words anyway. 

they pad back to azzi’s room with their fingers intertwined, trying to step on each other’s toes to be as annoying as possible, and paige’s hand smacks over her mouth when she laughs too loudly in the silence of the hallway at a near stumble when they trip over each other's feet. 

paige flops onto the bed unceremoniously when they return, denying azzi’s offer of boxers while the brunette throws on a faded pair of her own, and she only moves from her face down position when azzi worms up next to her, nudging paige over until they can curl up under the bedsheets chest to chest, azzi tucked up under her chin.

it warms her heart to an impossible level that it wasn’t even a question if paige would sleep over. she prays that when they wake up, they can stay in their bubble for a little while longer, and then decides to voice that thought aloud. 

sort of.

“if you’re annoying about this in the morning i swear to god-” 

“-oh if i’m annoying– were you not the one who made me sneak out at the ass crack of dawn last time?” 

that had absolutely happened. but in azzi’s defense, both nika and olivia had been home, and had interrogated her when they got up about who she’d brought back from the bar, because they’d heard that she’d had someone over. she’d nearly killed herself of embarrassment. 

instead of admitting to this, she wriggles closer and says, pettily, “must’ve been one of your other bitches.” she’s joking. definitely. 

paige huffs, annoyed. her hands move further down azzi’s back, gripping her waist, and azzi stays firmly tucked into her shoulder, hiding from her face, but she just knows paige is rolling her eyes aggressively. 

“bruh you’re not serious.” 

azzi is dead serious. she, again, doesn’t really have the right to be possessive, but they’re breaking every other rule tonight– paige put on quite the jealous performance– she might as well indulge too. 

distantly, she’s aware that eventually, when they’re not being stupid and ignoring this whole sleeping-together-and-not-talking-about-it thing, they’ll need to discuss the fact that they’re definitely in love. and she knows that the responsibility of bringing it up will eventually fall on her, that paige will follow her lead, would probably do anything azzi asked of her, but whatever. 

that’s tomorrow, sober azzi’s problem to freak out about and then subsequently ignore. right now, she stays stubbornly quiet, and paige sighs, exaggeratedly loud, making azzi’s whole body move with paige’s chest when she inhales. 

with as much conviction as a girl who’s had seven shots in the last four hours can muster, paige uses the hand not currently on azzi’s waist to tilt her head back so they can make eye contact, and says “azzi, bro, you gotta know i don’t have other girls.” 

her eyes are a little unfocussed, from the sleepiness or the fading drunkenness azzi doesn’t know, but she does know that paige is telling the truth anyways, with that kind of quiet earnestness that only she has ever been able to exhibit. 

she’d known, on some level, that paige wasn’t messing around with anyone else, but there’s a difference between hearing paige mumble confessions in the middle of an orgasm and hearing her assuredness in the after. 

she also knows that exclusiveness probably goes beyond the normal realm of best friends with benefits, but that's neither here nor there, and satisfaction settles in her gut anyways and she smiles, probably disgustingly wide. 

she tucks her head back into paige chest, lest she give away how happy that confirmation makes her and give the other girl an unneeded ego boost. 

“me neither. y’know. if you care.”

paige definitely already knew this, but operating under assumptions and hopeful thinking is very different from a verbal acknowledgement. this isn’t really in the realm of casual. azzi can’t bring herself to care. 

paige hums, and azzi doesn’t know how, but the simple, minute sound exudes smugness. she should’ve kept her mouth shut. 

“yeah, i know. prolly cause i’m the best you ever had,” paige singsongs. 

azzi bites her shoulder. “i never said that. you’re making assumptions.” 

“you literally said that, like, thirty minutes ago.” indignation laces her words, and then she pitches her voice up in a terrible impression of azzi, drawing her words out breathily because she’s a pest, and mocking, “ohhhhh paige, feels so good, best i ever-”

azzi elbows her in the gut to shut her up, and she makes a funny, cut off sound in surprise and (hopefully) pain. good. 

“please just go to sleep.”

“i’m just pointing out the fact that you literally just said i was the best-”

“paige, i swear to god if you don’t shut up-” 

“you’ll what,” paige dares. she probably thinks this is foreplay, and it would be, too, if azzi wasn’t already exhausted and sated.

“or i’ll call charlie.” it’s an empty threat and they both know it, but paige gets huffy anyways, and azzi smiles into her chest. 

“azzi do not play with me right now,” she grunts around azzi’s giggles, hands tightening on her waist, before adding “it is not funny.”

“it kinda is.”

“it’s not.” she grumbles. a beat, and then “never want to hear his name ever again bro, swear.”

azzi just laughs. 

paige is quiet for a second, but azzi knows better than to think this means she’s going to leave it, and sure enough, five seconds later, “s’okay, y’know, that i’m the best you’ve ever had cause, like, you’re the best i ever had too. so like- it works.” 

satisfaction spreads deliciously through her body and azzi resists the urge to say i know into paige’s shoulder, grinning instead, as the other girl continues on loftily with her speech. 

“but like i’m the best you ever had even more than you’re the best i-”

“-paige,” she cuts off. 

“what.” 

“shut up,” azzi grumbles, bringing her hand up to try and find paige’s mouth and cover it blindly in the dark. “sleep time.” 

it’s a cop out and she knows it, but also it’s probably nearing two am and she’s trying to limit how bad her hangover tomorrow will be, and if paige keeps talking like that they’re gonna, like, end up having sex again and not sleeping. or something. 

paige nips the finger that azzi’s placed haphazardly over her mouth and finally quiets, blessedly taking a command for once in her life. 

they settle more comfortably into the sheets, twisting around so paige is pressed up against azzi’s back, legs tangled and hearts beating in sync, and azzi feels her whole body relax into a state of peacefulness that only comes with being wrapped up in paige, cozy and quiet and safe. 

it’s silent for at least a whole minute, so azzi mistakenly thinks paige is done yapping for the day and starts drifting off. but then paige– azzi really needs to get her checked for adhd– whispers “hey azzi” into her hair.

she debates whether she wants to respond. 

the combination of alcohol, post sex-haze, and paige’s arms wrapped around her is making her entire body feel warm and fuzzy, and she was kind of already halfway to sleep, but her unflinching, rather self-sabotaging tendency to humor paige no matter the circumstance wins out. 

“mm,” she mumbles, and tries to make her voice sound as sleepy as possible so paige will make this quick. 

the other girl is silent for a second, and azzi wonders if she’s going to say anything at all, and then her fingers twitch against azzi’s stomach where they’ve wormed under her t-shirt and she whispers “if we wake up drunk can we fuck in the shower?” 

under normal (see: sober; awake) circumstances, this sentence would cause azzi to shriek, and probably pinch paige somewhere she knows would leave a mark. instead, she hums, considering, pretending like she hasn’t already decided the answer is yes, and slides one of her legs further between paige’s.

they won’t wake up drunk; are barely riding tipsy right now. they both are fully aware of this. it’s an unspoken request that they continue their little bubble of paigeandazzi with no rules until later tomorrow– that when they wake up they can mutually pretend the alcohol hasn’t left their system and extend the breach in their precariously constructed facade of a platonic relationship.

“maybe.” 

this means yes and they both know it, and she can hear the smile in paige’s voice when she says “bet.”

azzi laces their fingers together against her stomach, and grins into the dark. “‘night, p, love you,” she whispers. she chooses to ignore how decidedly not casual that is. 

paige squeezes their fingers. “love you too, az,” and she can feel the grin on paige’s face pressing into her shoulder.

her last coherent thought before she drifts off is that their new rules are supremely stupid, but if it takes becoming an alcoholic to break the rules every night, she’d consider it. 

(they do, in fact, pretend to still be drunk when they wake up, and paige doesn’t stop using her comically exaggerated, extremely annoying pretend drunk voice until azzi makes her shut up. they absolutely fuck in the shower. and also in the kitchen. which is where nika finds them, rumpled and glowing, arguing over who would be romeo and who would be juliet. she doesn’t even bother saying i told you so.)

(they last barely ten days before it happens again.)

a/n: badda bing badda boom! sorry for being a whore <3 and sorry for leaving this off without writing them getting together for real…but i think this is a happy ending while still making it feel appropriate for the pace of this story and the trajectory of their relationship :)) pls don’t kill me we all know they’re in love including them!!! as always comments and anons and stuff fuel me like nothing else and i die a miniature death every time someone tells me they liked my work so <3 love you <3

[dreamsteddie]

Eddie gets legitimately upset as the years and decades pass and Steve just keeps getting hotter to him.

Steve at 25 getting fitted with his first pair of glasses causes 26 year old Eddie to miss the bottom step of the stairs in their first apartment.

Steve in his early 30s whose body is starting to show evidence that his metabolism is no longer that of a 20 year old in their prime. He has a soft middle covered in hair and a slightly softer jawline. The image of Steve coming out of the shower to join him in bed makes him want to chew on his own fingers.

Steve at 40 with grey hairs showing up along his temples that unlock an affinity for the Older Man look Eddie had never given much thought before the love of his life was suddenly a DILF.

Steve in his mid 50s with full salt and pepper and wrinkles carving paths around his eyes and in the valleys of his hands. Eddie thinks Steve looks like a damn model, still with that famous Steve Harrington volume to his hair, while Eddie is starting to thin a little at his hairline. (Steve tells him every day how handsome he finds him, but Eddie doesn't think the unfairly attractive get to try and hype him up. He'll take his opinions from the brutally honest, like Erica Sinclair, thank you very much.)

Steve and Eddie getting close to their 70s, their skin is soft and fragile now. Steve has a smattering of age spots that situate themselves happily between his smatterings of moles and freckles and some of Eddie's earliest stick-and-pokes have faded away into distant memory. Eddie loves to kiss every new spot he finds on Steve even when his back protests the reach, and if he forgets which ones he's kissed already from time to time, well, he doesn't mind doing it again. Better safe than sorry.

Steve and Eddie at the end of their lives. They look so different than they did when they started their lives together, both barely over the threshold of their 20s. Some of the details they forget, but luckily they have several scrapbooks chock-full of the best moments of their best years together, so Eddie will never forget how annoyingly beautiful his husband has remained through a lifetime of love.

[deepestdelulu]

How to be confident

Confidence can get you incredibly far in life and make everything a lot easier; I consider myself a really confident person, so here are a few tips that might help you get there! <3

Eliminate toxic people. I don't care if it's your best friend, boyfriend, or mom; if they are stopping you from being the best version of yourself, it's time to say goodbye.

Fix your posture! Confident people have good fucking posture, and sweety, I just know your posture is not it rn, so please straighten that back.

Do what makes you happy. Who cares what people have to say about it? If it's good for you, do it.

Tell yourself you're that girl. Nobody will believe it if you don't do it, so hype yourself up!

Practice eye contact. I can just tell someone is confident if they can look me in the eyes while having a conversation. It seems much harder than it actually is; pick one of their eyes and just focus on it while you talk.

Speak with tone and expression. Talking in a quiet and monotone manner doesn't necessarily make you look insecure, but talking with expression just sounds more confident.

Make your hand visible. When you hide your hands, it makes you look insecure and uncomfortable.

Mind your own business. This one is really simple; I don't think I have to explain, lmao.

Don't tell people your insecurities because 99% of the time, they didn't notice them before you pointed them out.

Accept compliments. If someone says you look good, don't be like, "oh nooo, I look AWFUL" just say thank you and accept the compliment :)

Stop over-apologizing.  Only say it if you actually did something bad or feel sorry.

Visualize the person you want to be. It's pretty simple, think about who you want to be, then think about how that person acts, their routine, how they talk, etc., and slowly start adapting those habits.

Don't be nervous to ask for help. Instead, change your mindset; people want to help you!

Authenticity radiates, be true to yourself, and you will attract good people like a magnet.

No one is out of your league if you act like it. This entire 'league' thing is made up, so don't put yourself in a box.

Trust yourself. You have a bad feeling; you know it and act on it. If you feel like something is not right, it's probably not. Trust yourself.

Stay calm under pressure. It's crucial to not freak out under pressure; even if you do, try acting as if everything is under control.

When entering a room, don't be on your phone. Look around, introduce yourself, greet people, etc.

smile more :)

walk like you know where you're going, even if you don't lol.

Live for yourself. Constantly work on not caring what other people think. If you like it, you post it. If you want to go there, go. If you like that outfit, wear it. Make decisions for yourself, not for others to validate you. It's your world, and every decision you make is because you want to make it yourself!

✩‧₊*:・love ya ･:*₊‧✩

[eyekoninurarea]

Your Idol

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

masterlist | prev | next | cami's live | katz reaction

word count: 9.3k

summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. but the moment the music hit, everything changed.

chapter summary: after the livestream nightmare, you find yourself beneath the shimmer of stage lights and feeling the weight of watching eyes, a glance becomes a question, and a breath held too long turns into a silent confession. you perform like your heart isn’t trembling. she watches like she doesn’t feel it too. but want is dangerous, especially when it's quiet, sapphic, and slipping through the cracks of what should be professional. between rehearsed smiles and accidental touches, the girls learn that longing can hide in plain sight. in choreo. in silence. In the echo of your name on her lips. and when the night ends not in applause, but in flashing cameras and trembling hands, you’ll carry her weight anyway. not because she asked. but because she looked at you like maybe, just maybe, she would’ve.

authors note: CHAPTER 4 IS HERE HELLO EVERYONE!! this is quite honestly shitty angst??? maybe i rushed into this too quickly, or this is poorly executed... i'm sorry- if you're confused, so are they. I love you all, and feel free to send me your thoughts after this!!! ps. did I make this chapter 9k words because I didn't want a side story to be the longest thus far? yes. am i unemployed? yes. our university starts at august 19 so im making the most out of my free time while i still don't have a job or school.

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): mostly fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works, angst, religious themes, sapphic yearning, one sided (?) longing, miscommunication, mild violence, reader doesn't know what daniela wants, daniela also doesn't know what daniela wants,

You didn’t mean for her to see it.

You didn’t mean for anyone to see it, actually.

You didn’t mean to crash Cami’s live.

The livestream was supposed to be Cami’s moment, her chaos, her charm, her way of dragging you into the frame for fun, like she always does. You’d only harmonized absentmindedly, forgetting the camera was still rolling, not noticing Cami had gone silent just as your voice slipped into Daniela’s verse like second nature.

“Élla llegó conmigo y conmigo se va…” Not él, not he—ella. She.

Fuck. 

Fans noticed what you wouldn't let yourself admit: that you sang it like you meant it.

It was the truth you’d been careful to keep quiet, suddenly laid bare in your lower register, crooning her verse like a prayer, when you weren’t even remotely religious. 

The comment section erupted. Edits popped up within minutes, slowed down and sharpened, layered with glitchy hearts and text like “she’s so whipped” and “SYRE’s gay panic is off the charts.” 

You’d turned off your phone that night. You couldn’t bear to look at it. You couldn’t bear to think about the consequences that were bound to follow you now.

It was easy to pretend that meeting her didn’t blur the line between a fan with privileges and something more. It was easy to pretend that the crush you so easily exposed was simple admiration for the older woman. It was easy to play it off as a simple schoolgirl crush. It was supposed to be easy. You were supposed to laugh it off, the way you always do.

The next morning, everything was too quiet. Cami gave you a knowing look over her cereal. Hana didn’t mention it, but you knew she’d seen it too. Sophia chatted you a simple: “I saw your live, I do expect you to call me ate now or I will cry.” And by that, you knew they saw. You knew she saw it. 

You always forget how much the camera sees, how much the internet remembers, how much you give away when she’s involved.

Because Daniela…

God, Daniela.

She walks into a room and it becomes a cathedral. Her laugh stays lodged in your chest for hours after she’s gone, the sound of it reverberating in your soul, so much so that it makes you want to kneel and worship her. Worship her warmth and sharp edges, her softness that’s tucked inside layers of cool confidence. 

You’d memorized every interview, every fancam, every vocal run like it was scripture. So when you finally heard her speak beside you, laugh beside you, it felt like the universe had cheated. How could she be real?

And then, she stayed real.

It didn’t happen all at once.

Feelings never do, not when you’re trying this hard not to have them.

It’s a slow, creeping thing, a slow ache that reminds you of the feeling of anesthesia losing its effect . The kind that settles under your skin during long filming days and late-night voice recordings. The kind that grew heavier after every joint stage rehearsal, every casual voice note shared during late-night vocal check-ins. The kind that tightens around your ribs every time you hear her laugh off-camera, that unfiltered, low, real, screeching laugh of hers that felt like it belonged to a secret version of her, one only you were allowed to see. The kind that grows every time she looks at you like she knows something you don’t.

You tried to be busy, tried to fill the silences with loud dorm antics, dance trends on tiktok that were borderline thirstraps, and chaotic dance practice clips.

The vlog series helped as well. There’s always something to shoot: interviews, behind-the-scenes clips, dance footage. You play your part, chaotic, funny, the "mysterious" one the editors love to frame in shadows and cropped smiles. They didn’t know it was because you were biting back words you weren’t allowed to say.  

But between takes, when the cameras dip low and the crew resets mics, you find yourself searching for her in the reflection of the monitors.

And she’s always looking back. That gaze of hers that always ignites your hunger, your yearning, your longing. Your longing to be the only one she gazes that way. Yet every time, every day, every second you remind yourself of something.

You weren’t allowed to fall in love with someone who told the world she was straight.

So you don’t.

You just think about her. Constantly.

You think about her when she’s around. You think about her when she’s gone. You’ve danced in circles like this for weeks now. Brushed fingers. Shared water bottles. A too-long hug at the end of an afterparty shoot. Nothing concrete. Nothing you could name. 

But you feel it. It was everything you dreamed of.

Daniela started to linger more. Quietly, at first, nothing too dramatic. Dani’s too careful for that. But there were glances. Lingering ones. 

A look across the practice room that lasted too long. A comment during vocal practice: “You have a nice lower register. It suits you.” She didn’t say it like a mentor. She said it as if she’s holding something back. 

Something you couldn’t let yourself imagine, something you couldn’t let yourself feel hope for something that might never exist. 

She tossed the occasional compliment your way with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. And then… longer. You felt as if everything grew more intense. 

In the studio. During practice. Her fingertips light on your elbow, your wrist, your waist, your hips; places that burn after she’s left.

You tell yourself it’s just mentoring. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself to stop hoping.

Because hoping hurts worse.

And still, she looks at you like she’s trying to figure you out. Like she’s afraid of what she might find. Like she already knows what she’ll find and she’s terrified.

You don’t talk about it.

Instead, you keep your distance. Smile less around her. Touch her less. Pull away when she’s too close. You stop catching her gaze across the room and start looking down at your shoes. And it hurts. God, it hurts. But you tell yourself it’s kindness.

You want her to be happy. Even if it’s not with you. Even if it never could be. You’ve been her fan for too long to want anything but her happiness.

But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to be hers. Not her fan. Not her junior. Not her mentee. Hers. Alone. Fully.

You just don’t know if you’re allowed to want that.

But she- God, she does things.

Like that night. That one night.

You’d just finished recording a practice run of “Your Idol.” The others had packed up, voices low, energy winding down. She stayed behind. Said she forgot her water bottle. You stayed too, making sure that none of your members left anything. That’s all it was supposed to be.

Until she leaned too close behind you, breath hot against your ear as she reached for something behind you.

“You killed that last note,” she murmured. “It gave me chills.”

You tried to laugh it off. “I was flat.”

“You weren’t.”

And then, she touched your face. Just… her knuckles, barely grazing your jaw as she turned you to look at her. You felt your face burn, you felt your skin react to her touch, you felt your chin lift up slightly as she tilted your head up with a single long nail.

Then her eyes flicked down to your mouth. Just for a second.

Too long.

Nothing happened. But everything did.

Your chest collapsed inward. You couldn’t breathe.

You stepped back. Left the room without saying goodbye. She didn’t stop you.

You haven’t slept properly since that night. Forced to relive that night, among other moments from your filming of the debut diaries, the memories that haunt you as you lay awake on your bed with “Kahit Di Mo Alam” blasting on your speakers, among the other songs that’s under your “trilingual yearning” playlist. 

You don’t know what that moment meant.

You don’t ask.

But every time she smiles at you now, every time her fingertips graze your shoulder and linger just a second too long, you feel it all over again.

You don’t know what she wants. You don’t even know if she knows.

But you know what you feel.

And you know how dangerous it is to keep feeling it.

Because the moment she says your name a certain way, you know you’re gone.

And you’re terrified you never really had the right to feel these things to begin with.

So you did what you knew best, you kept your distance.

You rehearse until your limbs tremble, you stay at the far end of every mentoring session, and when the KATSEYE girls are visiting the studio, you find excuses to vanish into practice rooms or the bathroom. You joke, you smile, you flirt with Manon and Lara when Cami drags you in. But when it’s Daniela’s eyes on you, that sharp, piercing gaze of hers, it’s like you forget how to be alive. 

Because she’s straight. You always remind yourself that.

She said it on a live before you two even met, before your debut even. Before she knew you existed. 

“I’m not gay guys” she said without hesitation but with a small, amused laugh. “Enough with the gay allegations.”

And maybe she is. Maybe you’re stupid for feeling this way. That allegedly haunted you for weeks. Still does. 

So you shut your mouth, lower your gaze, and pretend your heart isn’t sitting in your throat every time her gaze lingers longer than it should. You pretend it’s not a big deal when you pass each other in the hallway and her fingers almost brush yours. You laugh it off when Cami teases you about “your girlfriend,” because no one knows you mean it.

But still, there’s something different in the way she looks at you lately.

Something you don’t trust. Something you can’t believe in.

You don’t let yourself hope.

As days, weeks pass, you become hyper-aware of the performance looming over you, a monstrous thing. The venue is said to be massive, the crowd twice as large as you’ve ever faced. KATSEYE will be in the front row, and you know she’ll be there, front and center. You’re supposed to be excited. But you already feel the room spinning. The mask you wear on stage is heavier now. Heavier because you know she’ll see it fall; even if only for a second.

And for once, you’re terrified of being seen.

You’ve performed before; small stages, campus shows, pop-up gigs in half-empty malls, but tonight? Tonight, your knees feel like they're made of gelatin. It's your first real crowd. Thousands of faces, lights as harsh as expectations, cameras trained on every second like it’s history in the making.

Deep breaths. Count to 10. Release.

You stood in front of the mirror, fingers hovering near your chest as the stylists adjusted the last of the buckles on your custom stage outfit. All-black, tailored, sharp, and far too expensive to be sweating through, but here you were. You looked like you just stepped out of a movie about a charming art thief. Or a hot villain in a heist K-drama. 

Deep breaths. Count to 10. Release.

You assess the situation again. You’re standing in your cramped dressing room, the door labelled “SIREN5” in bold letters, eyeing your reflection. Sharp-cut pants hugging your hips, a sleek dark vest over sheer black sleeves, your hair swept back but purposefully messy; confident, your stylist had said. Commanding. Bold. You stare, then turn to your members.

“I look like a pimp,” you announce flatly.

"I agree. You literally look like our pimp, or rather… hmm… honestly, it looks more or less like you're about to hand us business cards and ask if we want to be famous" Cami said with a snort, tugging on her pastel corset top.

"I feel like one." you muttered, glancing sideways at Hana, Amara, and Rina, all dressed in glittering, soft silhouettes with rhinestones catching the light.

“You look like a God,” Rina retorts immediately, throwing a hairbrush at your bedazzled fur boots. “A hot, slightly unhinged one.”

“You’re gonna make all of the Sailors combust.” Cami snickers, twirling in her own sparkly halter dress.

“Please don’t encourage her,” Hana mutters while adjusting her earpiece, eyes flicking up from her clipboard of stage cues. She’s been awake since 4 AM. Again. She’s too stressed recently.

You pretend to scoff, but the pressure's sitting heavy in your stomach now, pressing and twisting until your throat tightens. 

It was real now.

The crowd waiting outside wasn’t some studio camera. This wasn’t a rehearsal with the same three sleepy choreographers. This was real. Their first massive live audience.

The moment you caught your reflection again, the nausea hit. Hard.

“I’ll be right back” you mutter, pushing past them with forced calm. No one stops you. They all know what’s happening. You  push past crew members and makeup artists, you dodge multiple boxes of stage equipment. You made it to the sink just in time.

The bathroom mirror greets you with too much honesty. Your cheeks are pale, and sweat beads your brow. You brace your hands on the sink. One breath. Another.

Deep breaths. Count to 10. Release.

A few dry heaves later, you were hunched over, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, your other hand clinging to the porcelain like it’s the only solid thing in the world when the door creaked open.

“Hey,” came a voice, soft, low, steady.

You looked up. Of course it’s Daniela Avanzini. Because nothing else makes this situation better than her seeing you in your most vulnerable state yet.

She stood in the doorway, all perfect curls and calm eyes, her hoodie sleeves pushed up and hands in her pockets, her performance outfit peeking out ever so slightly, her lips held a lollipop between them.

She looked effortless. Like she didn’t even try to look that good and it just happened.

You, on the other hand, look like a deer caught in headlights. Or a deer about to throw up. Or a deer that’s about to be road kill.

You can’t meet her eyes. Not like this.

“I’m okay” you lie.

“You sure?” she asks, stepping in like it’s nothing. Like she always catches junior idols vomiting from nerves.

You nod too fast. “Super okay. Sexy, even. Nothing says charisma like barfing before a performance.”

That earns a soft laugh. “Iconic, honestly.”

She doesn’t leave.

She leans against the sink beside you like it’s normal, like it’s easy. Like your heart isn’t doing Olympic gymnastics in your chest.

There's silence. Comfortable. Agonizing.

“I’m scared” you whisper, too soft to be anyone but yourself.

“I know,” she says. “But you’ve got this.”

You want to believe her. You want to ask her to say it again. You want to pretend her presence doesn’t make your head spin worse than the nerves ever could.

You want to tell her that you’re not just scared of performing. You want to tell her that you’re scared, not of her, but of what’s happening between the two of you. But you settle for the next 6 words instead.

“You always say the right things.” you murmur.

She gives you a half-smile. “Only with you.”

Your breath catches.

Your pulse stutters.

You look away first.

She doesn’t push. She never does.

Instead, she lets the moment settle; heavy, quiet, dense with things neither of you will say. Her fingers don't reach for yours. Her eyes don't drop to your lips. She doesn’t lean in. But God, she doesn’t have to.

Because the way she looks at you, like she’s figuring out a puzzle she’s scared to finish, is almost worse.

So you square your shoulders. Crack a joke that doesn’t quite land. Smile like you’re not unravelling beneath the weight of almosts and maybes. You wear your mask like it was made for you; like you didn’t just spend the night dreaming of a world where you could be hers.

But as she turns to leave, her fingers brush against yours, barely there, just enough to steal the air from your lungs. And in that instant, you feel it again: the illusion of closeness, the echo of something you wish you could name. Something that isn’t yours to want.

You stand still long after the door clicks shut behind her.

Because you know now, things aren’t fine. They haven’t been for a while.

And when the stage lights bleed into your skin and the crowd screams loud enough to drown your pulse, she’ll be there. Front row. Watching. Waiting.

You’ll hit your mark. Drop to your knees, like the choreo demands.

And you’ll look up.

And she’ll already be looking.

And everything you’ve tried so desperately to bury, every shaky breath, every missed beat of your heart when she smiles your way, will rise like smoke and hang between you, impossible to ignore.

Because the truth is, you’ve already fallen. Hard. Quietly.

You’re just pretending it doesn’t hurt.

You let out a soft, bitter laugh at the absurdity of it all. This whole situation feels like something ripped straight out of the digital comics you binge in the dead of night, eyes wide, heart clenching over slow-burn tension and unspoken pining. The kind of trope you’ve always loved: the soft-spoken idol hopelessly in love with her unreachable sun. The magnetic touches. The lingering stares. The space between words that feels louder than anything said aloud.

You just never thought you’d be living it.

And yet here you are. Throat tight. Heart heavier than you’ll ever admit out loud. Because this isn’t fiction. There’s no cut to the next chapter. No narration box explaining her thoughts. No convenient dialogue options or internal monologues. Just this fragile space between you, cluttered with fleeting glances and barely-there touches that feel like everything and nothing at once.

You don’t know what you’re supposed to feel. Hope? Shame? Longing?

All you know is that you’re trapped in a story with no plot; just pages of unresolved tension and no promise of closure. 

And that you absolutely do not have time to spiral in a cramped bathroom you’ve already spent way too long in.

“Shit.” You curse, jolting back into motion as if the air itself is chasing you. Because it is. Time, nerves, the weight of everything you’re not allowed to say.

And the last thing you want is to see the look on Hana’s face when you keep the group waiting.

You brush past her on your way out, fingers grazing hers for half a second too long.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. But the silence crackles like it’s holding something back.

She doesn’t look back. Neither do you. And yet, Daniela can’t move.

As you disappear around the corner, Daniela stares at the closed bathroom door for a moment longer than necessary. She stands there for another beat too long, listening to the silence you left behind. Her heart drums in her chest like it’s a metronome for a song she doesn’t know the lyrics to.

She should go.

Instead, she lingers.

Her hand still tingles from where your fingers barely touched. That shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just adrenaline, pre-show jitters, the kind everyone gets. You’re nervous, she was there, and the rest is just… hormones. Pressure. Whatever.

But even as she tells herself that, her chest doesn’t listen. There’s something stuck there: tight, unfamiliar. And worse than that, there’s a strange ache that she can’t name.

Daniela exhales sharply and finally starts walking. Her heels echo against the hallway tile, the noise grounding her. Mechanical. Rational. Keep moving.

The muffled thrum of bass is already pulsing through the venue walls, the low buzz of pre-show excitement building like static. Every step she takes feels heavier than the last.

She should be focused, mentally taking notes like she always does before a performance, sizing up the stage, observing crowd reactions, gauging lighting and sound. But instead, her thoughts keep circling the same thing:

Your voice, quiet and shaking. The way you wouldn’t meet her eyes. The soft laugh you let out like you were the punchline to your own joke.

She remembers watching Cami’s livestream. It was just a glimpse, just enough. She remembers hearing you sing her part. Not “él.” Ella.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She found herself looping the clip after.

Her stomach twisted. It still does.

There was something in your voice that day. Something real. And maybe she’s a fool, but she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

What does it mean? Why does it stick with her like this? 

She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t feel like this.

She doesn’t get distracted. Not over someone she’s barely even spoken to outside of group settings. Not over a girl who sings her lines like prayers, eyes closed like she’s afraid to be caught.

And yet.

Your voice still rings in her head

“Ella llegó conmigo y conmigo se va.”

Not just harmony. Possession. Intention.

A line Daniela knows by heart, turned intimate in your lower register.

She doesn’t know what to do with that.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. She convinces herself, reminds herself of what you really are to her.

You’re just a junior. A label-mandated mentorship. A pretty face. A pretty voice with uncertain eyes and too many questions. That’s all this is. That’s all it’s supposed to be.

Then why can’t she forget the way your eyes avoided hers in the hallway? Why does she feel like she’s holding her breath every time she’s near you? Why does her hand still feel warm where yours grazed it? Why does she feel like she’s standing at the edge of something she doesn’t have the language for?

She reaches the entrance to the main arena, where light and noise spill out like a tidal wave. Sophia catches her eye from a few rows ahead and waves her down. Megan shifts aside, leaving a seat open like she knew Daniela would take too long.

“You good?” Megan’s voice cuts clean through her spiralling thoughts.

Daniela blinks. Her pulse is still racing. Her thoughts still flicker, like a faulty reel looping in her head: your flushed cheeks, the tremble in your laugh, the brush of your hand against hers like it meant something.

They’re in their seats now. Somehow. The lights have dimmed. The crowd is buzzing louder than ever. She slides into her seat, but her body doesn’t settle. Her mind keeps flickering; your flushed face, the slight tremble in your laugh, the tension humming between you like an open circuit.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” she replies, a little too fast.

Megan side-eyes her but says nothing. Instead, she leans forward, nudging Daniela’s arm and tilting her chin toward the stage.

“They’re up next. You might want to focus now,” Megan says, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Your favorite group’s up next.”

Daniela blinks. Focuses. Looks up.

And then the screen flickers, dissolving into glitchy oceanic blues. A siren’s wail cuts through the air. The crowd roars.

The stage lights flare to life.

And there you are, front and center, clad in jet black, sharp edges and smoky eyes, the siren persona wrapped around you like a second skin. You were the only one in tailored black, sharp lines, low neckline, silver chains glinting under the lights. Masculine. Seductive. Powerful.

The rest of SIREN5: Amara, Hana, Rina, Cami, are radiant in flowing silhouettes, ruffled cloths mimicking waves and so effortlessly fierce. A beautiful contrast to your darkness. The visual says something. She doesn't know what. Only that she can’t stop staring.

And then you move. You all do.

And it’s like the floor drops.

Everything else falls away.

Because you’re not stuttering now. You’re not fumbling or flushing or laughing nervously. You’re now the vision of lethal confidence. 

And Daniela is absolutely, completely ruined before you even started.

The siren wails slowly dissolves into chants. Latin lyrics layered over swelling strings and low synths. The lights dim even more, the select lights shining down on the five of you which created an ethereal glow. Spotlights strike the stage in clean, harsh beams. The five of you emerge like ghosts, silhouettes hidden in the glow. The formation is new. Different. Sharper. She should’ve expected it; KATSEYE stopped attending rehearsals a week ago. Still, the shift feels like something tectonic. Once the spotlight hits your silhouettes, you’re suddenly hidden, like a shadow. The chants grew louder.

“Pray for me now Pray for me now (Dies irae) Pray for me now (Illa) Pray for me now (Vos solve in) Pray for me now (Favilla) Pray for me now (Maledictus) Pray for me now (Erus) Pray for me now (In flamas) Pray for me now (Eternum)”

[Rough Translation: the day of wrath is when you shall be dissolved into ashes, cursed into eternal flames]

Then Hana’s voice cleaves through the chant: sharp, crystalline, violent in its clarity.

“I'll be your idol”

You burst through the four of them like the moon eclipsing the sun, your lips were now opened as the mic picks up your voice, clear and commanding. Your hands are both on Cami and Amara’s shoulders, their bodies bending as you step through them.

“Keeping you in check,  keeping you obsessed  Play me on repeat,  kkeuteopsi in your head”

[Translation: Endlessly]

Daniela swore she felt her spine stiffen, goosebumps rising like a tide, as you sang the very first lyrics. The crowd roared as you smiled charmingly while singing, your body went through the choreography with predatory ease, snapping to the beat, twisting, drawing all eyes toward you. Daniela’s included. Especially hers.

Your hand lifted to tap a finger to your temple, same as the lyrics and she could swear that your eyes found her own before moving away before the next lyrics leave your sin stained lips. 

Her heart stutters.

She could barely hear the harmonies that Rina was layering onto your voice. Because she could swear that that moment of eye contact made her feel something. She doesn't know what it is; anger, desire, maybe confusion. Something clutches at her chest and won’t let go. She feels warm all over. She shouldn’t feel warm at all. And then you look away like nothing happened.

The next beat hits.

“Anytime it hurts,  play another verse I can be your sanctuary”

Fuck. She’s heard this song before. Too many times. On studio speakers. Through demo snippets, playing over half-finished edits and muffled practice room walls. But not like this.

Not when every word feels like it’s being sung at her. For her.

She never paid attention to what the lyrics were before. Now she suddenly feels the lyrics bury deep into her soul. It was as if the words took on a different meaning now that she forced herself not to cross the line she wasn’t sure was there in the first place. Especially now that she’s guilty of repeating a verse, her own verse, yet in your voice, over and over again until it hurts. Until it burns.

“Know I'm the only one right now I will love you more when it all burns down”

Her eyes flick to Hana: poised, deadly. Her voice, a slow storm, smooth and intimate. She commands the center like it belongs to her, and maybe it does. But it’s fleeting.

“More than power, more than gold”

Rina slinks behind Hana, looping arms around Hana’s neck with ease. Their movements mirror each other, Rina’s hands mimicking a heartbeat against Hana’s chest, then tracing a circle around her head like a halo warped into a crown.

“Yeah, you gave me your heart, now I'm hеre for your soul”

Cami then steals the spotlight as she places herself in front of Hana, her voice was hauntingly seductive and deliciously low. She stretches out her hand, fingers spreading wide before curling inward in a slow, beckoning motion, like a spell cast midair.

Daniela could swear that she heard Megan’s voice crack as she screamed at that part.

“I'm the only one who'll lovе your sins Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin”

And then Daniela’s breath hitched as your voice filled her ears, richer now, dripping with intensity, and Daniela’s stomach dropped. You’re at the center again. Of the stage. Of the sound. Of her attention. Dani found herself thinking, debating if you truly wrote this song before she met you or after, because she has this sinking feeling that it was about her.

“Listen 'cause I'm preachin' to the choir Can I get the mic' a little higher? Gimme your desire I can be the star you rely on”

From her position in the crowd, she could hear the thunder like noise your shoes made when you all jumped at the beginning of the chorus. She can’t help but notice that she didn’t hear a difference in sound; it was as if it were one person who jumped and not five. There was absolutely no delay from the time your feet left the stage to the time it landed again. It’s seamless. Terrifyingly precise. No wobble in the vocals. No stagger in the breath. Daniela stares in disbelief. She can’t help but doubt if you were truly singing in the first place.

“Nae hwanghol-ui chwihae, you can't look away  Don't you know I'm here to save you Now we runnin' wild Yeah, I'm all you need, I'ma be your idol”

[translation: you’re lost in my daze]

Hana’s voice took charge this time, the second part of the chorus giving an evident sign that an interlude was about to come. Her eyes drifted to you. From her perspective, she could see the beads of sweat trickling down your face, yet your lips held a permanent smile even when your vocals only add one layer to the hauntingly beautiful harmonizing you all did in the chorus, which by the way in next to impossible to do while dancing.

The dance break crashes down like a prophecy fulfilled.

“Unh! bichi naneun fame, gyesok oechyeo, I'm your idol Thank you for the pain 'cause it got me going viral Uh, yeah, natji anneun fever, makin' you a believer Nareul wae neon jonjaehaneun aidol”

[translation: Shining with my fame, keep on shouting my name, endless is my fever, I was born for you, only your idol]

Amara’s voice was intense, perhaps slightly cold yet it was fluid and sharp. Daniela could still understand the words clearly despite Amara rapping it. She swore she could hear Lara shouting about a british accent yet she drowned it all out, her eyes were trained to you moving like a never ending machine along with the rest of your group, moving like waves crashing into the hull of a creaking ship. The tell tale signs of pending wreckage.

Then

“Don't let it show, keep it all inside The pain and the shame, keep it outta sight”

Cami.

“Your obsession feeds our connection I sungan give me all your attention”

[translation: So right now]

You.

“You know I'm the only one who'll love your sins Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin”

Hana. 

Then all five of you, unified, harmonized, fused like a single organism

“Listen 'cause I'm preachin' to the choir Can I get the mic a little higher? Gimme your desire I can be the star you rely on (You rely on)”

Daniela’s body is still. Her throat dry. Her heartbeat stutters with each line. Her ears ring with the loud noise of the fans screaming.

“Nae hwanghol-ui chwihae, you can't look away Don't you know I'm here to save you Now we runnin' wild Yeah, I'm all you need, I'ma be your idol”

Hana was singing, she thinks. But everything was beginning to blur, as if she’s being pulled into a trance.

“Be your idol”

It was then that the girls heard it, there was a beat of silence, yet the music was still on going. It was short enough to not be damaging to the performance yet it was long enough to prove that there was absolutely no backtrack used, just an instrumental playing in the background. Nothing was faked. The absence is proof.

And then it happened. The floorwork comes like a strike of lightning. All five of you lower, spines curling like fog, arching sensually, fingers splayed across the floor. Your movements are fluid and visceral, nothing soft about it. It’s devotion and destruction. Your vocals overlapped each other with terrifying ease as you sang the bridge. The bridge is a siren’s call: delicate and violent.

“Living in your mind now Too late 'cause you're mine now I will make you free When you're all part of me”

Then you. You take the final chorus, voice breaking into a raw, unfiltered cry

"(Listen 'cause I'm) Preaching to the choir (Now) Can I get the mic a little higher?"

Daniela’s jaw drop as you belted out that line, her breath hitched as you ad-libbed right then and there, It’s not clean. It’s raw, live, unfiltered. And it’s perfect.

Cami carries the melody:

“Gimme your desire Watch me set your world on fire”

Amara closes in once again:

“Nae hwanghol-ui chwihae, you can't look away (Hey) No one is coming to save you Now we runnin' wild”

Then all of you, the final lines crashing down like thunder:

“You're down on your knees, I'ma be your idol”

Daniela doesn’t breathe.

Because when you kneel, right in front of her, sweat-soaked and shining, lips parted, chest heaving, your eyes meet hers.

And Daniela’s world tilts.

She swears her heart skips, she swears the air leaves her lungs.

You’re kneeling right in front of her like some kind of twisted devotion. Like she’s the altar. The storm. The sin.

And you?

You’re the sacrifice.

You’re the storm.

You’re the sin.

And god help her- 

You look delicious.

She’s still looking at you.

Even with the stage lights stinging your eyes and the bass of the final note still thrumming in your chest, Daniela is still looking at you.

You’re still on your knees, your palm planted against the stage floor, strands of hair clinging to your cheek. You don’t dare move. You’re frozen, breathless, kneeling at center stage like a confession you never meant to make. The crowd roars, thousands of voices crashing like waves, but all you hear is the silence between your pulse and the way her stare makes your skin feel too tight.

Your name must be on her tongue. You can feel it. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

A beat passes.

Then another.

And like a thunderclap, the crowd erupts.

The lights fade just enough to remind you you’re not alone, that you’re not dreaming, that this isn’t some delusional daydream you’ve conjured in a midnight haze. Hana’s hand finds yours first, warm and grounding. Cami’s voice shouts something behind you, probably a curse or a cheer, it’s hard to tell with the adrenaline still screaming through your veins. And finally, the five of you fall into a practiced bow, the same one you rehearsed a thousand times, heads low, hearts high.

It takes everything in you not to glance at her again.

When you rise again, Hana’s already stepping forward, clear-voiced and composed as ever.

“Annyeonghaseyo!” Hana’s voice slices through the air, confident and steady. “SIREN5-imnida! Thank you for welcoming us tonight!”

The cheers grow louder, especially from the Korean fans who recognize their native tongue. A few banners with her name glitter in the crowd.

“¡Buenas noches, mi amores!” Cami winks into the camera with a sultry grin, her voice warm and rolling like a flamenco beat. “Muchísimas gracias por todo el cariño. ¡Los amamos!”

(translation: Good Evening, my loves. Thank you so much for all the love. We love you!)

The Spanish-speaking part of the audience goes wild; flags wave, phones shoot skyward, fans scream her name like they’re chanting a spell.

And then it’s your turn.

You inhale once. Then again. You swallow, chest still trembling. There’s a hush that falls in your heart, just long enough for courage to take its place.

You step forward into the light, lips parting, and in the softest yet clearest tone you can muster, you say:

“Magandang gabi po sa inyong lahat. Ako po si SYRE, at sobrang thankful ako sa mainit ninyong pagtanggap sa amin. Mahal ko po kayo.”

(translation: Good Evening to all of you, My name is SYRE and I am so thankful for the warm welcome you gave us. I love you all.)

Your voice wobbles at the end, but the crowd doesn’t care. You hear your name shrieked from the front row. A few “Mahal din kita!”s are shouted back with so much affection, your eyes sting. And then you laugh because you heard a single screeching voice shout: “TANGINA MO MAHAL NA MAHAL DEN KITAAAAA” You laughed harder when Sophia snaps her head to the origin of the sound with furrowed brows and a flabbergasted look on her face.

You don't have time to recover. Amara slips in beside you like liquid silver, bumping your shoulder affectionately as she steps forward.

“Evening, babes,” she beams, her accent curling warmly around the words. “We’re SIREN5, and we’re absolutely buzzin’ to be here. Hope you’ve been enjoying the show.”

The crowd hollers. Someone yells, “I LOVE YOUR ACCENT!” and Amara chuckles under her breath.

And finally, like a soft, unexpected breeze, Rina steps forward. She’s silent for a second, gaze sweeping the crowd like she’s memorizing it.

“こんばんは,” she says gently. “SIREN5です。応援してくれて本当にありがとうございます。”

(Good evening. We are SIREN5. Thank you so much for supporting us.)

A ripple of polite, emotional cheers spreads across the audience, the kind that speaks volumes without needing to scream.

And just like that, the five of you stand in a line, united, shining, trembling just a little bit under the weight of your dreams finally blooming into reality.

But as the lights shift and the music cues for your exit, you risk one final glance into the crowd.

She’s still watching you.

But this time, there’s something different in her eyes.

And this time, you don’t look away.

Even as you follow your members toward the wings, feet moving on instinct, your head turns, just one more glance, you tell yourself. One more look at her.

You’re still watching her. And she’s still watching you.

Which is probably why you miss the last step.

Your foot catches on the edge of the makeshift metal stairs leading offstage, a barely-there lip of cold aluminium that sends your balance tipping just a fraction too far. You let out a small, startled sound, a breath of panic catching in your throat as your sneaker slips, and suddenly you’re stumbling forward, arms pinwheeling for balance. Your ankle twists sideways, the metal edge of the stair scraping against your boot as you lurch forward and slam straight into Amara’s back.

She nearly faceplants but she catches herself just in time. “Oi! Bloody-Darlin'?! What the hell? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” you gasp, stumbling upright, one hand gripping her shoulder. “I…I just…”

But it’s too late. The damage is done.

Rina, already at the bottom, whips around with wide eyes. “Did you just fall?!”

“Almost fall,” you mutter, face heating.

Hana spins dramatically, her mic turned off but her voice deadly clear. “Did someone forget how stairs work?”

Cami’s grin could power a city. “Oh my god. Is she still looking at Daniela?” she whisper-yells like it’s some secret revelation. “She is! I knew it! You tripped because you were too busy making heart eyes!”

“I wasn’t-!” you start, but you’re drowned out by the explosion of teasing that follows.

“SYRE, please, we’re in public,” Amara groans dramatically. “At least wait until we’re backstage to publicly collapse over your crush.”

“She’s gonna trend as ‘Clumsy Siren,’” Rina giggles. “#FellForHerLiterally.”

“Can’t believe our first major performance and this is what you get remembered for.” Cami gasps between laughs.

You bury your face in your hands as the crowd’s cheers continue behind you. You’re never going to live this down. Never. You can already imagine the fancams, the slowed replays, the edits with sparkles and hearts-

And then, against your better judgment, you peek back.

She’s still there.

Still watching.

And this time, she’s laughing.

Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just soft and stunned, one hand covering her mouth, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine amusement.

You stare, completely frozen for a beat too long.

Then Cami slings an arm over your shoulder. “You’re so gone,” she whispers. “It’s actually embarrassing.”

You groan. “Shut up.”

“SYRE,” Hana deadpans, “next time just propose. It’ll hurt less.”

 You try to laugh. Really, you do. But instead, the words slip out quieter than you expect.

“But she’s straight.”

The teasing dies instantly.

Cami’s arm loosens around your shoulders. Amara’s brows furrow, and Hana’s gaze flickers to your face, her expression softening.

You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to. The words hang heavy between you all: awkward, raw, honest in a way that makes you want to disappear into the floor.

Because what do you even do with a moment like that?

When someone looks at you like that. Watches you like they’re trying to find answers you don’t know how to give. When the world pauses just long enough for you to believe, maybe.

And then it keeps going. The lights dim, the crowd screams, the next group gets ready. And you’re left standing at the edge of it, fingers trembling, unsure whether what happened was real, or just a projection of your stupid, lonely heart.

The silence in the dressing room echoes loud in your ears once you’re back. The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and for a moment it’s just the five of you, breathing in the high of your first live performance, except you feel like you’re a beat behind everyone else.

No one says anything. No one pushes. But they’re watching you.

You blink hard and paste on a smile, heading toward your makeup station like you're fine. Like you’re not two seconds away from spiraling over a fleeting look and a stupid slip on a stair.

Then-

“OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU!”

Lara’s voice pierces through the room like a siren’s wail, followed by the thunder of the dressing room door slamming open.

You barely manage to turn when the sound of shrieking laughter and stomping boots floods in.

“THAT WAS INSANE!” Manon yells, diving forward like she’s about to tackle someone.

Behind them, Megan and Yoonchae laugh breathlessly, trying to keep up as Sophia glides in like she wasn’t just part of a stampede, all elegance and glowing pride.

And behind her-

Daniela.

You freeze.

Your stomach flips.

She's slower to enter than the others, one hand still holding her phone loosely, curls a little frizzed from the chaos, her sharp gaze immediately scanning the room, landing on you like it always does.

There’s a flicker in her expression. Something unreadable. But she doesn’t look away.

Your heart does something awful in your chest.

Because you're still reeling. Because you’re not ready. Because you’re suddenly very aware that she’s not yours, and maybe never will be.

But then Lara’s voice cuts through the moment again.

“Cami, I swear to GOD, did you just wink at my camera during the bridge?!”

Cami snorts. “I winked at the crowd, thank you very much. The camera just happened to be there.”

And just like that, the chaos is back. The noise floods in. SIREN5 and KATSEYE blend into a whirlwind of laughter, post-show adrenaline, and overlapping voices, pulling you away from the pity spiral and back into the world.

But even as you try to focus on Amara offering Manon a cookie or Megan asking Cami about the choreo, you can feel it.

Her eyes.

Still on you.

You’re packing up.

Still on you.

The adrenaline is fading now, traded for the ache in your legs and the slow unravelling of the high. Rina’s still giggling over something Lara said. Hana’s focused on organizing your discarded mic packs with militant precision. Amara’s curled up on a beanbag someone dragged in from God-knows-where, munching on post-performance fruit like you didn’t all just give your souls onstage.

It’s easy to pretend everything is normal.

Especially with KATSEYE now blended into your space like they’ve always belonged there; Megan talking choreography with Cami, Yoonchae laughing at something Hana said in half-Korean, half-English, and Manon currently trying on one of Amara’s spare boots just to see if it fits.

Daniela lingers near the doorway. She’s chatting with Lara, a lazy smile on her lips, posture relaxed, but every so often you catch her eyes flicking toward you.

And each time, you act like you didn’t notice.

You keep your hands busy; zipping makeup kits shut, folding the custom jackets you and the girls wore for the encore, smoothing the creases out of Amara’s ridiculous feathered gloves. Anything to look preoccupied. Anything to make sure she sees you being fine. Normal. Harmless.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned from your last mistake, it’s that fans notice everything.

And KATSEYE might be here now, laughing with your members, treating you like equals, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the world has forgotten the way you looked at her.

Or the way she looked back.

So you make a decision. Quietly. Just for yourself.

You’ll perform.

Not on stage, not for the cameras.

For her. Around her.

You’ll wear the crush on your sleeve again like it’s a silly, innocent thing. Like you’re just a fan who lucked her way into idolhood. Just a girl with heart eyes for her sunbae. You’ll blush at the right moments, flinch when she’s too close, smile a little too wide when she teases. You’ll act like it’s not real. Like you aren’t completely, fully, terrifyingly in love with her.

Not because you’ve fallen out of it.

God, no.

In fact, pretending just makes it worse.

Because now that you’ve seen how she looks at you; how her eyes soften like she’s seeing something fragile, now you’re falling harder. Faster. And it’s a different kind of scary.

But she’s not yours. She never was. And if she’s straight, like you believe she is, then it doesn’t matter how she looks at you.

You won’t be the reason she’s uncomfortable.

You won’t make her responsible for feelings she never asked for.

So you’ll give her a version of you she can laugh with, lean on, maybe even adore in her own way, as long as it’s safe. As long as it doesn’t ask for anything more.

It’s a performance.

A well-rehearsed one. A survival instinct dressed up as charm.

And you know it’s working because when you toss Daniela a grin; teasing, bright, a little flustered, she blinks like she wasn’t expecting it. Like it lands wrong.

You retreat just fast enough to make it seem like nothing.

But she watches you again.

Different this time.

Like she’s trying to read through the performance.

She doesn’t say anything. Of course she doesn’t. But something about her expression shifts, a slight narrowing of her eyes, a quiet pinch of confusion, a question that never quite makes it to her lips.

You duck your head and pretend not to see it.

If you let yourself look too long, if you let yourself hope even for a second, you know the mask will crack. And you can’t afford that.

So you smile at Cami instead. You nudge Amara and tease her about hogging the snacks. You laugh when Lara tries to make Rina wear glittery sunglasses and you dance around Sophia when she asks for a selfie with everyone.

And when Daniela walks past you again, shoulder grazing yours; soft, fleeting, electric, you don’t flinch. You don’t lean in. You don’t react.

You just keep performing.

You walk out of the dressing room and into the buzz of the hallway where crew members pack up cables, roll out cases, and call out over radios. You just keep walking, even as something inside you splinters a little deeper.

You just have to keep going even as something inside you breaks.

The night had cooled, but your skin was still buzzing from the performance. You walked in a loose group towards the back entrance, the kind only staff and artists know about, laughter echoing between both teams as stylists, managers, and a few security members trailed behind. KATSEYE and SIREN5 together, a rare sight. A little chaotic. A little surreal. You were still high off the adrenaline, your boots thudding softly beside Daniela’s steps. 

You didn’t mean to end up beside her again.

Close enough to breathe the faint sweetness of her perfume. Far enough to pretend you don’t notice.

You think you’re doing fine. You think you're keeping it together.

Then Daniela tilts her head, laughing at something Cami says in their native language, low and warm and easy, and your eyes flick away too fast. Your heart catches like a frayed wire. You flex your fingers at your side, grounding yourself.

Just until the vans. Just hold it in a little longer.

But the moment of peace shattered like glass.

You don’t realize something’s wrong until it’s too late.

The noise comes first, a low buzz, then rising shouts. Screams. The sound of people running. Your head whips up just in time to see a sea of fans and paparazzi breach the perimeter like a tidal wave, spilling into the pathway, their feet thundering against the pavement.

Cameras flash. Voices cry out. Dozens of hands shoot out with phones, pens, posters, and hastily scribbled letters.

For a second, everyone freezes.

Then instinct kicked in.

Some of the girls instinctively smile, quickly falling back into routine, signing whatever’s nearest. Lara autographs a phone case. Sophia gives a nervous wave. Cami throws her head back and laughs when someone hands her a condom packet; signs it anyway with a cheeky wink. Megan tried to help Lara pose with a fan. You found yourself signing someone's phone case, pen slipping slightly in your sweaty grip.

But it was too many. Too fast. Too loud. The bodies are closer. Rougher. The air was tighter. Sharper.

Someone yanked your sleeve. You jerked back. Someone else grabbed Amara’s wrist. Another fan reaches past you to touch Cami’s shoulder. 

And then you hear it.

A small sound, barely audible, but it slices through everything.

Yoonchae let out a soft yelp, you heard it. You felt it. You glance over and see Yoonchae’s wide eyes and trembling hands, frozen in place as the crowd presses in.

Your stomach twists.

She looked like she was about to cry.

Rina reaches for her but the crowd is pushing harder now, too fast, too much.

“Move,” you said calmly, raising a hand. “Please move aside.”

The crowd didn’t budge.

“Let us through.” Amara snapped, tone cold and clipped. Her arm hooked around Rina and Yoonchae, shielding the two youngest as she started forcing a path forward, pulling them toward the vans now parked ahead, lights on and doors thrown open by staff finally catching up.

Your heart spiked, protective instinct kicking in. You looked around. Cami was boxed in on the left, a fan with a camera dangerously close to her face. Daniela was further back, blinking against the flashing lights, looking just as disoriented.

You don’t think. You just act. 

You push through the bodies, voice sharp as a whip now. “Move!”

You weren’t polite.

You push forward, muscle memory kicking in. You reach Cami first, arms slipping under her with ease. She lets out a startled laugh, gripping your shoulder.

“SYRE?!”

“Hold on, tightly.”

You don’t wait for her response. You twist, eyes locking on Daniela.

She doesn’t protest. Just stares, wide-eyed, as you pull her up into your arms. She’s warm. She’s soft. Her perfume wrapped around you, dizzying even in the chaos. She curls into you without hesitation, face pressing into your neck like instinct.

You adjust them both in your grip like they weigh nothing.

You don’t stop moving.

You bulldozed your way through the mob, cradling them both like they were made of glass. Like the world had no right to touch them. Your feet move on autopilot, muscles taut, teeth gritted, ignoring gasps and shouts. Protectiveness crackles through your veins. You don’t care about the pictures being taken. You don’t care how insane this looks.

Not a single hand touches them.

You care about them. You care too damn much. Maybe one more than the other.

The cameras kept flashing. Voices followed. The crowd roared louder as more staff rushed forward, finally forcing people back.

You didn’t stop until the van door was yanked open by a breathless manager. Amara had already shoved Yoonchae and Rina inside. You followed suit, still holding Daniela and Cami until your knees hit the floor of the van and finally, finally, you let go.

The door slammed shut behind you. All the girls already in the van: safe, breathless, and a little shaken.

Silence.

The dim interior buzzed only with your heavy breaths. The girls looked at you; Daniela wide-eyed, Cami half-laughing, still recovering from shock. Your hands were shaking.

Cami breaks it first, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead. “Holy shit.” she breathes. Then smirks. “You’re built like a tank.”

You manage a small smile. “You good?”

“Never been better.”

You turn to Daniela.

She blinks at you, eyes still full of stunned disbelief. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Thank you.” Her voice catches slightly on the words. You pretend not to notice.

But something in you still aches.

Because your arms remember the way she felt. Because even now, shaking, breathless, your first instinct is still to look at her, to make sure she’s okay.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Even when you’re running on instinct… It's her.

You lean your head back, trying to calm your pulse. But your mind won’t settle. Not when she’s sitting across from you. Not when her scent still clings to your jacket. Not when your chest still tightens at the thought of losing grip.

You’re in love with her.

Hopelessly. Quietly. Completely.

And you know it’s one-sided.

So you do what you do best.

You perform.

Daniela reaches out, hand brushing yours on instinct.

You pull away too quickly.

Then smile, hiding the sting. “Well. That’s one way to impress the ladies, huh?”

Cami barks a laugh, playful. “Impress? Babe, you bridal-carried us. Both of us. I’m buying you a ring tomorrow, and I’m playing Hermanas de leche at our wedding.”

Laughter erupts. Even Daniela giggles, though her smile flickers, faint, distant.

You see it.

And she sees something too. But neither of you say anything.

You lean your head back against the wall again, eyes fluttering shut.

No laughter this time. Just the hum of tires and the sting of truth. Something bloomed too far, too fast, and now has nowhere to go.

Then-

“OH MY GOD WHO TURNED THE HEAT ON-”

“CAMI’S SWEAT IS TOUCHING ME I’M CALLING THE POLICE-”

Lara’s shriek from the back cuts through the tension like a slapstick dream. Manon shouts something unintelligible. Megan and Sophia are yelling over them, and Yoonchae tries to climb into Amara’s lap to escape the chaos.

You blink, startled, then laugh, really laugh.

Because that’s how it always goes, doesn’t it?

You bury it.

Smile through it.

And keep walking beside her like your heart isn’t breaking just a little more every time.

Ngingiti ka nalang araw-araw, mananatili ka nalang sa tabi nya na tila multo habang tahimik na nagmamakaawang makakuha kahit katiting man lang ng pag-ibig nya. Dahil alam mo sa sarili mo, na mamahalin mo sya sa bawat saglit, kahit di nya alam.

(You resigned yourself to smiling everyday, you'll stay by her side like a ghost that silently begs for even just a little piece of her love. Because you know in yourself that you'll love her in every moment, even if she never knows.)

taglist: @awkwardtoafault, @cheerlanader, @kianthegirlkisser, @teenybean, @skittledemon66, @hydrardz, @hotluvlet, @skriri, @ssamachiii, @iamconfusedrightnow, @pizzachicken, @aelien1, @yjiminswallet

[paisleypens]

idk if youve done something like this, but a you posted that with y/n and spencer and theyre having fun but theres an old tweet about how spencer likes y/n!! hope this makes sense <3

winter break stirred up some writing motivation, sorry to everyone who has expected more lol. this is a GENIUS idea anon, tysm <3

yeah, i posted that... | spencer agnew x reader

gender neutral reader, second person, embarrassed spence, real tweets from the boys!!

~~~

You were all in for another shoot on the Smosh Pit set, and today was no ordinary one. The much-anticipated episode of "You Posted That?" featuring Spencer Agnew, Shayne Topp, and you, Y/N, had been scheduled for months. You’d joined Smosh not too long ago after building a successful career as a standalone YouTuber, and this was your first time competing on the popular show. Ian Hecox, as the host, was already hyping up the event with his usual mix of sarcasm and self-deprecating humor.

“Welcome to another episode of ‘You Posted That?’” Ian announced dramatically. “Today, we’ve got three contestants who are about to question their own digital footprint. Please welcome Shayne Topp, Spencer Agnew, and Y/N L/N!”

The small audience on set cheered, and you waved nervously. Spencer, seated next to you, leaned over. “You’re going down,” he teased, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Big words from someone whose tweets are probably all queerbaiting jokes,” you shot back, earning a laugh from Shayne.

“Let’s get started with Round One: ‘You Posted That?’” Ian said with the same exaggerated cadence. “Here’s how it works: we’ll show you one of your posts with a few keywords blanked out. If you can guess the missing words correctly, you get five points. If not, zero points. Got it?”

The first round began with Spencer. The tweet displayed read: “I've had the _____ ____ ___ stuck in my head all day, but only the part where ___ _________ says "___ _ ___ _ ______".” After laughter rang out and a few moments of squirming, it clicked and he guessed “Naked Mole Rat” "Ron Stoppable" and “can I get a booyah” Ian grinned. “Correct!” he exclaimed, as Spencer let out a celebratory “YES!”

Next up was Shayne, whose post read, “______ _____________ > Everything else” Shayne furrowed his brow. “It doesn't fit but... Raisin' Canes?” he guessed, earning howls of laughter when Ian revealed the actual tweet: “Nature Documentaries” Spencer groaned, “Next time just go outside and scream 'I'm smarter than you.”

Then it was your turn. The screen showed, “Me: 'I’m going to bed early tonight.' Also me at 2 AM: Watching _ _____ ______ _ ____ _____” After some thought, you guessed “a woman eating a live squid,” earning you a solid five points. “Weird, but correct!” Ian cheered, as Spencer gave you a playful side-eye. “Real quirky to watch mukbangs,” he muttered. "Look at the year posted!" You laughed back.

The second round of guesses brought even more chaos. Spencer’s next tweet read: “If you _____ ____ _____ while working from home alone, you are a cop” He confidently guessed “wash your hands,” but Ian burst out laughing as he revealed the true answer: “brush your teeth.” Spencer buried his face in his hands as Shayne and you doubled over.

Shayne’s second tweet was equally absurd: “there's no "I" in ____________” He guessed “Unfunny,” but the actual word, “peamupbubber,” had everyone in stitches at the duality.

When it was your turn again, Ian read out: “Why do my plants thrive but not my ______ ______? Asking for a friend.”

"To be clear, this was cute in 2016," and after some embarrassed sighs, you guessed “social life,” earning another five points. Spencer groaned. “Stop being good at this!” he joked.

Then came the final round of tweets. Spencer’s face turned pale as his last post appeared on screen. It read: “If ______ ever gave me a chance, I’d drop everything. Just saying.” The room went quieter, and all eyes turned to him.

“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath.

“Spencer,” Ian said, barely containing his grin. “Care to fill in the blanks?”

Shayne burst out laughing "Dude, don't die on this show of all of them", and you stared at Spencer, your jaw dropping. “Spencer, what is it?” you demanded, though you couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up.

“It was a long time ago! Before you joined Smosh! I didn’t think it would ever come up... its Y/N.” Spencer stammered, his face turning bright red.

“Wait, so you had a little crush on me, huh?” you teased, unable to resist.

“Little is an understatement,” Shayne chimed in, wiping away tears of laughter.

“Well,” Ian said, looking at Spencer with a playful smile, “5 points!”

The room erupted into cheers as Spencer laughed it off, but the embarrassment was clear as day. You kept looking at him, trying to give him the hint, but anytime he saw your bright smile, he turned crimson.

The shoot wrapped up fairly quickly after that, with your other posts being just as recognizable to you. Being the rightful winner you walked out happily, nearly skipping back to your desk next to the games pod. You saw Spencer awkwardly approach your desks before you had a chance to sit down.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about that. I had no idea that tweet even existed anymore... it was just- I don't know. I just hope I didn't make you uncomfortable," He apologized.

You quickly rebutted, "No no not at all, Spence. It was really sweet actually. I have never told you this but I felt the same way when I first joined."

"Wait really?" Spencer looked up at you with surprise and unbelievable relief.

"Might still feel that way now. If you do too?"

"Yes! I mean, yes, I do. I never got over it."

"Your crush on me?"

"Yeah, I posted that for a reason."

[harunayuuka]

Bael: *paid a personal visit to MC because Beelzebub was curious about Asmodeus's "wife" and wanted to see if she truly lived up to the hype*

Bael: Most of His Majesty Asmodeus's wives were undeniably beautiful, but their beauty was only skin deep. Even so, meeting her could be advantageous, as she might persuade him to stop visiting Abyssos.

Bael: ...

Bael: *straightens his posture and knocks on the door*

MC: *opens it*

Bael: !!!

MC: ...What's your business?

Bael: Ah, um, my name is Bael. It’s an honor to meet you, the wife of His Majesty Asmodeus.

MC: I'm not his wife.

Bael: Oh, but-

MC: I.am.not.his.wife.

Bael: I'm sorry...

Ezrin: ...

Bael: ...

Ezrin: *smiles* Your crown is pretty.

Bael: ...

Bael: *smiles back* Thank you.

MC: Here. We’ve run out of coffee, but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a fruit smoothie.

Bael: Oh, of course.

Ezrin: Mom?

MC: Yes?

Ezrin: Can I help you with the talismans today?

MC: You can do the finishing touches.

Ezrin: *giggles* Okay! *runs to his mom's workstation*

Bael: You're making talismans?

MC: Yes, they’re specifically designed to ward off that lustful demon and his minions.

Bael: ...

Bael: Do you hate His Majesty Asmodeus?

MC: ...

MC: Let's just say I'm not fond of him—let's leave it at that.

Bael: ...

WHB Asmodeus: *smiling* How was it?

WHB Beelzebub: Don't tell me she kicked you out too?

Bael: No. She welcomed me into her home.

WHB Asmodeus: ...

WHB Beelzebub: Ooh~

Bael: She also made no effort to hide the fact that she was creating talismans specifically to ward off His Majesty Asmodeus and any demons from Abaddon.

WHB Beelzebub: Awww... She doesn't really want you. *to Asmodeus*

WHB Asmodeus: ...

WHB Asmodeus: *smiles confidently* That can’t be true. She was with me not out of lust, but because she truly loved me. Just look at the way she cares for our child, Ezrin—it's clear how deep her love runs.

Bael: ...

WHB Beelzebub: *chuckles* Well, looks like that's not the case now.

WHB Asmodeus: ...

Bael: ...

Bael: Bel is triggering him.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event and my main card over at @steddiebingo.

Even Strokes

CCF Prompt: Lounge Singer AU || Steddie Bingo Prompt: Chef AU | Word Count: 5430 | Rating: T | CW: Recreational Alcohol Consumption, Language | Relationship(s): Steddie | Tags: Chef Steve, Lounge Singer Eddie, Wooing With Food, First Kiss, Getting Together, Fluff

Also on ao3.

Steve is running the pass, slides two plates forward, and then another two. He wipes the edge of the plate, and straightens a piece of garnish, "Order up."

He waits, and nobody appears. 

"Chris! Order up!" he shouts louder, and Chrissy isn't anywhere to be seen. She's usually right where she's supposed to be, without fail. He's never had any server in this place be as on top of it as she is, and she could be working a white-tablecloth somewhere, making real cash. If such a thing existed out here in BFE.

He's not letting these die on the pass.

"Hands!" he yells. Someone, anyone, will do.

Chrissy pops up, "Sorry, Chef. I'm here!"

He nods. It's fine. He just has higher standards than this casino really, truly allows. It's not even pretending to be fine dining, he's over qualified for the position. But he's not coming down to their level. He'll drag them all kicking and screaming up to his own.

Either way, for now, another four-top has plates down.

Honestly, the casino isn't all bad. Sometimes the tips are great when a whale gets hot, getting generous, even with the kitchen staff. He's a chef, but this place doesn't really have the need for one, so he's working more like a line cook with far too much experience.

He doesn't really mind.

Steve prefers the heat of the kitchen to doing paperwork in an office any day. He's got a good crew, and he doesn't mind rolling up his sleeves and working elbow to elbow with them. Even when they are in the weeds, like they are tonight.

Argyle brings him three more plates.

"Pick up, table three!" Steve announces, wiping the edge of one of the plates, and rings the bell. He hates the bell. But it works better than yelling all the time. Just because they aren't a Michelin star establishment doesn't mean he can't make things look nice.

Chrissy grabs it from the window with a smile, and is off again. She works her tail off, and that's why she easily makes the most on nights like this. They do steady business most nights, but on the nights when the lounge singer is here, it quadruples. Steve doesn't get the hype. He hasn't seen him, but he's heard him, and he's fine. But definitely nothing to bum rush the place about. Music stuck in the fifties and sixties, chosen carefully to please the masses. Straight out of Kellerman's, with no Johnny Castle to shake things up.

Sometimes he has a live band, sometimes he doesn't. 

Steve pauses, listens, and thinks tonight is a solo set. He's singing Be-Bop-a-Lula, and Steve can hear the crowd's drunken hooting. 

Nancy drops off another ticket, and he picks it up, yelling over the constant noise a kitchen brings, "Kill a ribeye, SOS ranch sub, fire!"

He hears the groaning and moaning, but Argyle throws down the cut of meat he's been tasked with cooking to death. Robin is plating the salad, putting ranch dressing in a ramekin on the side, instead of Steve's own homemade house dressing.

Steve's tried to bring up the quality of the place, but he can't make the clientele eat out of their comfort zones. This isn't that kind of establishment. So, a well done steak and passing on a fantastic dressing they're scared to try is par for the fucking course.

Oh well. He'll continue to do what he does best, and accept that that's all he can control. Not being able to grasp that is what made him end up here in the first place. 

He's bullshit. 

A fraud.

Closing his eyes, he counts to five, takes a deep breath, and heads back to his station, grabbing a ribeye roast from the walk-in along the way. 

Picking up his boning knife, he trims the lip off the edge of the roast, getting rid of the excess fat. Then he switches knives, and lets his blade do the work, cutting precise, even steaks.

He looks up at the clock.

Three hours to go.

Steve's finishing up his closing routine, when Chrissy pops her head into the kitchen through the swinging door. She's got a guy he's never seen before at her elbow, and she asks, "Hey, Chef. Is it too late to order something?"

It's absolutely too fucking late to order anything. The kitchen is closed, the crew already long gone. 

But Steve looks him up and down. He's got long, dark hair pulled up on the top of his head, and one dimple as he smiles sheepishly. And it's Chrissy. She's beyond sweet, and if she's found a straggler she wants fed, Steve can wax this table himself. Because if this guy is important to her, then he's important to Steve. They're family. That's just the way this works. 

Steve waves him in, and points to a stool in the corner. 

"Thanks, Chef. This is Eddie. He's the singer," she says, then turns back to Eddie, patting his shoulder, "Steve will take real good care of you."

Steve wipes his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder, "Hey, man. The kitchen's closed, but I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, my van won't start, so I'm stuck waiting for my friends to come help me, and I'm starving."

"You picky?" Steve asks.

Eddie shakes his head, "Not even a little."

Steve smiles at that, and it makes him more willing to fire the grill back up. If he can stretch his skills, use the muscles that are lying dormant in this place, he's thrilled for the opportunity.

Especially for someone that looks like Eddie.

He hasn't eaten either, but usually settles for a PB&J at home after a long day in the kitchen, unwilling to cook for himself once he gets home. But, if he's already doing it for Eddie, adding something for himself isn't a big deal.

Pulling the remaining piece of ribeye loin from the walk-in that he was going to use as a small prime rib roast, he instead hand cuts two steaks. Thick, and perfectly even. He doesn't need a scale to know that. He can feel it these days, see it. He can also feel Eddie's eyes on him, watching his every move.

"So, you're the lounge singer?" Steve asks. They can't just sit in silence. 

"That's me," Eddie laughs.

"You're not what I imagined," Steve admits. 

"Oh yeah?" Eddie asks, and when Steve cuts a glance at him, he's grinning. "What you'd imagine?"

"Older," Steve says, "pudgier. Maybe a toupee."

Eddie tosses back his head, laughing like he's delighted. And Steve can't help but notice that he's gorgeous. He really should have made time to see his show sooner. Nobody told him. He'll have to fire them all.

"Not yet. Maybe in a few more years," Eddie says, and Steve's very charmed by this guy Chrissy dropped in his lap. He won't fire her, he decides.

Steve works while they talk. Chopping lettuce, and tomatoes. Grabbing other prep containers from the walk-in, and when he's done, he puts a salad down on the worktop in front of Eddie. He can at least get started with that. Tide himself over.

"This dressing is amazing," Eddie says, jabbing his fork into the lettuce again.

"Thanks, man, that's my own recipe," Steve says, and someone willing to try it, let alone liking it, is a rarity these days.

"And the croutons!" he adds.

"Homemade," Steve confirms. He uses the leftover bread from the day before and makes them fresh. There's a difference, for sure, and he appreciates that Eddie can tell. Not everyone can, he's learned. Most are just fine with the commercially available bags. 

Steve's not, though.

Maybe Eddie needs to work in the kitchen instead of on the stage. That way he could see him every night.

Once he's done cooking, Steve pulls up another stool, and puts down both plates. Steaks, duck fat fried potatoes and steamed veggies.

"This is amazing," Eddie says, picking up his knife, "I was fine with a PB&J, anything."

Steve grins, "That's what I usually eat when I get home."

"No way! When you can do all this? Blasphemy." 

Fork to his mouth, Steve chuckles, "I do this all day, every day. I don't usually find the energy to do it at home, after. I just melt into the couch, and subside on scotch and cigarettes."

"Sounds familiar," Eddie says with a grin, "I'm glad you decided to eat with me tonight, then. We can both eat peanut butter tomorrow."

And Steve laughs at that. They can indeed.

Eddie's singing again tonight. Steve's been paying close attention, waiting, which is a little pathetic. But he's been thinking about him since the other night. His smile, his kind eyes. 

He's nursing a hell of a crush like he's some kind of kid. And he hasn't been a kid in a long fucking time.

Steve takes off his apron, and picks up the two sandwiches he'd wrapped in wax paper.

"I'll be back to help clean up," Steve tells Robin, and she rolls her eyes.

"Sure you will."

"I will," he stresses, and then he pushes through the swinging doors out to the floor, and makes his way backstage. He's not even sure if Eddie's still around. He may get the hell out of here fast. Steve would if he could.

But Steve stands in the hall outside of the dressing room for the acts that perform every night. When Eddie finally opens the door, Steve holds up one of the sandwiches, an offer. 

"I think peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were mentioned."

Eddie chuckles, and takes it from him, dropping his duffel at his feet. Then they both lean against the wall, and unwrap their sandwiches. The bread is a little fancier than store bought sliced white sandwich, but the concept is the same. Better, even, Steve hopes.

"Damn, this jam is good," Eddie says, licking some off his fingers, which Steve watches intently.

"I made it," Steve says, and he's showing off. He knows that. Trying to woo the cute dude with his jam making skills. He's gotta use what he's got. And kitchen skills are about it.

"Well, I'm impressed," and Steve feels his cheeks flush. He definitely wants to impress Eddie.

The next time Eddie has a set, Steve repeats the process. If it worked once, it's apt to work a second time, too.

When Steve walks into the corridor this time, Eddie has left open the door of the sparse dressing room they let him use.

"Hey! C'mon in," Eddie says, sitting on the couch, like he has nowhere else better to be. Lucky for Steve.

Steve hands over one of the sandwiches, and watches as Eddie unwraps it, and takes a big bite.

"Damn, these are grilled. I've never had anything like it," Eddie declares, grinning, patting the couch next to him. Urging Steve to sit, to stay.

Steve sits, getting a little drunk off Eddie's open palate and easy-flowing praise. He's got a praise kink, one that works even more when it's about his food being good. At least, when the compliments are falling out of Eddie's mouth, that is.

These sandwiches have bacon and caramelized onions. He was definitely trying to impress him by doing something different, something special, he can't lie to himself about that. Caramelizing onions takes a long time, nearly every recipe on earth lies about how long knowing a home cook won't do it if they have that information up front, but Eddie was worth the time he invested in the process.

Steve eats his own sandwich, splitting his attention between it and Eddie. With all the happy moaning and groaning he's doing on the other end of the couch, all Steve can think about is how fucking good it would be if Eddie would just press him back into the cushions.

He doesn't. 

But they talk until Carl the night janitor pauses in the doorway, clearly surprised to find that he's not alone. 

They take the hint and part ways, but Steve will ride the high of Eddie's presence for the rest of the night.

Two weeks later, Eddie's finally back on the schedule, but this time has his full band, and since Steve isn't sure where they actually stand with each other, he just stays in the kitchen. He doesn't want to embarrass Eddie or himself. For all he knows, Eddie has a family at home, and he's just the overly friendly casino cook that keeps feeding him and monopolizing his time.

Steve's wiping down his worktop when the door opens, Eddie peeking his head in.

And he's not alone.

"Eddie really talks your food up," the shortest one says, "I'm ready to be impressed."

"Gareth," Eddie warns, then meets Steve's eyes, "you don't have to cook for him, for any of us. Ignore him. I just wanted to say hey."

"Hey," Steve answers, and smiles, already turning the flat top back on. The one he just cleaned.

Steve will cook for them, he wants to. If he can win over Eddie's friends, well, that can only work in his favor, he supposes.

He goes out to the darkened dining room, and flips over chairs that were already balanced atop a four-top.

"Where's the menu?" Gareth asks, and Eddie cuffs him on the back of his head.

"You'll eat what he makes, got it?" Eddie asks, and Steve wants to kiss him. Eddie needs to work every table, every night, in charge of passing along that message to the rest of the customers. Steve would have a lot more fun if he did.

"Geez, fine," Gareth says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Any allergies or anything?" Steve asks, and they all shake their heads, so Steve turns to head back to the kitchen. 

Pushing through the swinging doors, he realizes Eddie's on his heels.

"Can I help?" Eddie asks.

"Sure," Steve says. He tosses him an onion, "Can you finely chop that up?"

"You betcha," Eddie answers, and Steve starts prepping the rest of the food.

When he looks over, the onion is being butchered. Massacred. It's a crime scene on the bench.

He laughs and walks over, a fresh onion in hand. 

Then, Steve slides up behind Eddie, getting close, probably too close, but reaches around, and brushes the half of the onion Eddie's already chopped off to the side, "Here. Let me show you."

And Eddie nods, hair brushing Steve's cheek as Steve puts both of his arms around Eddie, and picks up the knife, "Leave the root on," he says, cutting the onion in half.

Then he slides one half around, "Let your knuckle be the guide. Don't cut your fingers off."

Eddie laughs, and Steve smiles. He smells good, and his hair is damp, so he must have showered after the show.

"Tip towards the root," Steve says, sliding the knife through the onion over and over, quickly, uniformly. 

"Press it together," he instructs, doing just that, "slide it in halfway," he says, drawing out the words as he's making horizontal cuts, "and then squeeze it all together. Get a good grip on it."

He hears Eddie swallow. Literally hears his throat working, and Steve grins.

Turning the onion, he says, "And then, even strokes. Use the weight of the knife, feel it slide in and out, all the way to the root."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie mutters, and Steve laughs, delighted.

"You try the other half," Steve insists, and he puts his hand over Eddie's, helping him line everything up, and watches as he cuts it. It's not perfect. It's not fast. But it's ten times better than the original onion he was chopping up all willy-nilly.

Once it's all cut up, Steve takes a regrettable step backwards, "That's good. You did real good."

Eddie nods, rapidly.

"Want me to show you how to sauté them?"

"I'm not sure I'd survive it," Eddie admits, and Steve just grins, thankful they both appear to be on the exact same page.

Steve can feel Eddie's eyes on him as he plates each dish, careful with the presentation, even if he's absolutely certain not a one of them is gonna care about what it looks like. Still, he likes Eddie's attention and praise.

He hands two of the plates to Eddie, and carries the other three himself. 

They all oh and ah, and Steve loves this part of cooking for people.

Eddie sits at the table with his friends, and Steve leans up against one of the high tops nearby, and settles in to eat. But Eddie has grabbed another chair from a nearby table, and scooted his own chair over, making room.

"Sit down," Eddie demands. Steve's used to being on his feet, used to eating standing up, but if Eddie wants him to sit, he'll sit. 

"So, you're a band?" Steve asks, but nobody's paying attention to him, all too focused on their plates. He chooses to take it as a compliment, and not a slight. 

Eddie's paying attention, though.

"Yeah, we haven't made it big or anything. That's why we play these gigs, to make ends meet, you know? But someday, maybe."

Steve nods. He gets it. You gotta start from the ground up. You don't just walk into a place and immediately become the head chef, or a famous band, he supposes. But they aren't young. Eddie seems close to his own age, and he feels bad for thinking it's probably not gonna happen for them if it hasn't by now. He doesn't know about the music industry, but he kind of feels like breaking into it is most often a young man's game.

"What kind of music do you play?" he asks, because he assumes it's not what they do here in the casino. 

"Metal," Eddie answers with a grin, "we're Corroded Coffin."

Steve smiles. That seems right. It fits him better than covering the standards for the early bird seniors ever has.

Getting to spend a little time with Eddie is worth all the extra clean-up he's gonna have to repeat tonight.

Steve's bored. He's in a meeting with all the heads of department, and all he's thinking about is the prep he could be doing for tonight's dinner service instead.

The casino is hosting a charity event full of entertainment industry people to promote the soft opening of the new theater at the casino. They're hoping to get more acts, bigger acts, booked and they're dragging everybody out to wine and dine them. That means Steve is catering a charity event. He's done it before. But it'd be nice to be asked, instead of told.

There are three rich, old ladies holding court at the front of the room, talking ideas. He's uninterested. They'll give him a boring, basic menu and he'll follow it. That's how these things always go. He's well versed by now.

"And we're short a band, one of the opener's fell through," one of them says, "we've got feelers out. But if anyone has a connection, let us know."

Steve sits up straighter. He has a connection, and maybe getting Eddie and his band in a room full of industry insiders is just what they need.

He raises his hand.

It isn't until after he's made his pitch and left the meeting that he realizes he doesn't exactly have a way to get a hold of Eddie, unless he waits for him to be scheduled for the dinner theater stage. 

He doesn't have that kind of time.

That's how he finds himself digging through the Rolodex on Gary's desk, Robin holding the flashlight, an accomplice. 

"We're both gonna get fired," she whispers, and well, maybe. But he's not especially concerned. Who else are they gonna get to run their kitchen? It's not as if it's a highly sought after position. 

Flipping the cards, he hopes that it's in here, because taking a number from a Rolodex sitting out in the open on a desk is far less creepy than picking the lock for the personnel file cabinet to find it.

Luckily, it's there.

"He's gonna be so weirded out that you dug up his number," Robin says, and Steve has thought about that. But he's trying to do Eddie a favor. Surely that's a good enough reason.

"Thanks, Rob. That makes me feel great about this decision."

She shrugs, "I'm just saying. He's gonna think you're a big creep."

Well, that's the risk he's gonna have to take. 

Eddie doesn't seem to even question how or why Steve is able to call him, far too focused on the information Steve's just dumped all over him.

"We don't have a manager!" Eddie shouts on the other end of the phone, after Steve's given him the details on how they can book this event, probably pretty easily. The committee women had seemed very interested in having an easy fix, and Steve had offered them a very easy fix.

He didn't provide any additional information that they didn't explicitly ask of him. It's not like they said no to heavy metal, anyway.

"Just pretend to be your own manager," Steve says, that's what he'd do. "Talk your way into what you want. Lie."

"I can't just pretend to be our manager! They'll know I'm lying," Eddie shouts, "I'm a terrible liar!"

Steve smiles into the receiver, "It's gonna be fine. These old broads aren't gonna know or care about the music industry. They just know they need another band, and with the people they're gonna have in the room that night, I think you should be that band."

"Steve, I think this is a little bit above our level. Those are real bands, playing for real industry insiders. We're just a garage band. A bar band."

"You're good! I've heard you play."

"No, you haven't! You've only heard the bullshit we do at the casino. That's nothing like we really are. They'll hate us!"

"Who cares? Maybe somebody in the room won't? Maybe somebody will hear you and want to sign you!"

Eddie laughs, sounding a little hysterical, "Maybe I'll get fired! Ever think of that?"

Steve laughs. He thought this would be an easy sell. He had no idea Eddie was gonna be such a weird chicken about it.

This is only making him feel fonder. 

Steve rolls his eyes, "Fine. I'll call them. How much do you want to make for it?"

"They're gonna pay us?!" Eddie shrieks. 

"Well, I fucking hope so," Steve laughs. "I'll call them. Pretend I'm your manager, I guess. But I don't know what the going rates are. At least give me a ballpark quote. Can you at least do that?"

Eddie laughs, and Steve grabs a pen and notepad off his desk.

It was easy. They didn't even question him. And Eddie's ballpark was so low, it was ridiculous. So, Steve haggled for an even higher appearance fee than their first offer, just to see if he could. He did, and it wasn't even hard.

If he ever wants to leave the restaurant business, maybe he's got a career in being a band manager waiting for him. He laughs at the thought.

"They're gonna pay us what?!" Eddie asks, voice getting loud and high. 

Steve just giggles into the phone, "You're welcome. Just get ready. Don't let your manager down." 

Catering for two-fifty means Steve isn't gonna have the time to see much of Eddie's set, and that kind of sucks. 

The theater is bustling with action, wheeling and dealing, schmoozing. Trying to make sure the millions of dollars they put into this expansion won't be for nothing. It's not a huge theater, it is off a casino, after all, but it's much bigger than the one off the dining room where Eddie usually plays. 

They wanted a place where they could host all kinds of acts from different genres. Be the go-to spot in the community. So, tonight, they've put together a lineup to show what different acts could look like playing in the space. Eddie's band won't be out of place at all, just another option among many.

There's even a small ballet troupe, showcasing that they could put on The Nutcracker at Christmas.

Steve carries out a tray of stuffed mushrooms, looking for a server to hand them to, to swap out for an empty tray. Usually he'd wait in the kitchen for them to come to him, but he can't seem to keep himself from peeking, waiting to see if he'll get a glimpse of Eddie and Corroded Coffin. 

Right now there's a young singer on the stage, just a girl and her guitar. She's brave, Steve's pretty sure. There are a few people paying close attention to her, but the room is mainly filled with the low hum of conversation. Steve worries that Eddie's gonna feel like this isn't what he signed up for, but it's too late now. 

Chrissy sees him, and switches trays. There's one lone goat cheese stuffed date left on her tray. They are going through them at the exact pace he'd imagined, which is good. That means they aren't gonna get in the weeds before the dinner course. 

"He hasn't played yet," she says, smiling knowingly. "I imagine my tray will need to be refilled the moment he does, though."

Steve squeezes her shoulder, and smiles at her, before heading back to the kitchen. If she's gonna give him the heads up, he can get back to work until then. He just hopes it's not when the sit down service starts. He'll definitely not have time to linger around watching if that's the case. 

Steve's checking on all his held dishes, making sure they aren't deteriorating, when Chrissy is suddenly at his shoulder.

"He's going on," she says, and picks up a tray of pigs in the blanket. 

"Thanks," he says, looking at his watch. He only has about twelve minutes before he has to supervise plating the mains. 

But he pushes out of the kitchen and walks across the floor, and slides into the back of the theater. Trying not to stand out in the sea of fancy clothes in his white jacket, inevitable stains on the front. 

The first thing he notices is that Eddie isn't at the mic, Jeff is. When they start playing, he realizes he'd always just assumed that Eddie was their singer, but he's not. He's off to the side, digging deep on a gorgeous, sharp-looking guitar with a red and black finish.

They sound good, and Eddie looks good. Really good. He's in leather pants, and Steve's not sure he was prepared for that. He watches, listening to them, eyes trained on Eddie as his hand moves up and down the frets. 

When Robin appears at his side, he knows he's stayed longer than he'd planned.

"Sorry," he says, looking down at her, "he's good."

She nods, but he knows she's just concerned with getting the food out the door.

He follows her back across the casino floor, the machines chiming and ringing out as players keep feeding their hard-earned money into them.

"Just ask him out," Robin says, as they turn the corner towards the hallway to the kitchen. 

Steve just shakes his head. Eddie's never acted that interested, at least not enough to ask Steve out himself, so Steve's held back, too. It's been nice to have a friend, even if half of their interactions feel sexually charged. At least to Steve.

The onion. He thinks of the onion.

He's probably delusional.

"Did you see him up there? He doesn't want me," Steve says, holding out his hands, his burn-scarred arms. He's a nobody. A chef at a medium-sized casino because he couldn't handle the stress of a big city kitchen. He can cook at that level, he knows that, but he couldn't handle all the other stress and drama that came with it.

He's headed down, Eddie's headed up. It'll never work. 

"Steve. Stop being a dingus. He wants you," Robin says, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen, and the discussion is over. They've got work to do.

Steve is leaned all the way back in his office chair, feet up, a glass of scotch resting on his knee. His feet are killing him, and he's absolutely certain he wasn't paid enough for the extra work that tonight entailed. There was talk of a bonus, but until it's in his hand, he's not counting his chickens before they hatch.

The kitchen is dark, everybody long gone, every last dish done. He runs a tight ship, he doesn't want anybody having to stay longer than he does, not even the dishwashers, so he makes sure nothing piles up. Even if that means he has to help do them himself once his other work is caught up. Being a team player matters. He doesn't want to be the kind of head chef that stands around and yells at everyone. That's what drove him out of the impressive big city kitchen he'd worked so hard to earn his way into, only to find out he couldn't actually hack it.

He hears the door to the kitchen swing open, and then closed, assuming Robin's here to collect him.

It's not Robin.

Eddie appears in the doorway, and Steve smiles. 

"You guys were good, what little I got to see," Steve says, and Eddie strides over, leaning down. Sliding his hand behind Steve's neck, pulling him into a kiss. 

Steve's surprised, but kisses him back. Trying to keep from toppling all the way backwards to the floor.

When Eddie pulls back from the kiss, he's smiling, "I think we have interest, real interest, from a label. Thank you."

"I didn't do it, you did," Steve says, pulling his feet down off his desk, moving to stand. He's stiff. He feels twenty years older than he is. 

He puts his glass down on the desk, and leads Eddie back through the kitchen. The only thing running is one of the warmers, and he pulls out a plate. Eddie reaches for it, and pulls his hand back, "Goddamn, that's hot. How did you just touch that with your bare hands?"

Steve laughs, "Time and experience. Calluses."

"I've got some of those from years of playing the guitar, but they must not be in the right places," Eddie laughs, blowing on his fingers.

Steve uses his foot to drag over a stool, and pushes Eddie down onto it. He'd saved a little bit of everything he could back for Eddie, on the off-chance that he'd show up after he was done playing. This late, he'd assumed he was long gone.

"We had a meeting, and like, we need to get a manager—"

"—what am I? Chopped liver?"

Eddie laughs, "A real manager. An agent. A lawyer, something, but I think we're gonna get offered a deal. A little deal, I'm sure. But a deal. A chance."

"That's great, Eddie. I'm so proud of you."

"You were the first person I wanted to tell," Eddie admits, his big brown eyes looking right into Steve's, and Steve knows he's so far gone on this man that he may never recover.

Steve rests his hand on Eddie's shoulder.

"Are we finally gonna do this thing? You and me?" Eddie asks, reaching up, covering Steve's hand with his own. Thumb brushing against his scarred skin. "I'm tired of tiptoeing around it. Tired of wanting, of waiting, and not having."

Steve's tired, too. Maybe it won't work. Maybe Eddie will leave town with his band, never to be seen again. But for now? Steve wants this. Wants him, wants all of him for as long as he can have him.

"Fuck yes, we are. Eat up, you're gonna need your energy for what I have planned for you tonight."

Eddie grins, a wicked expression, as he picks up his fork and starts shoveling it into his mouth, only pausing to praise Steve's cooking. 

Steve wraps his arms around Eddie's neck from behind, leaning down, hugging him as he eats and talks. He's unsure of what will happen in the future for them, he can't know that. Life changes all the time. What you thought you'd be, you aren't. Where you thought you'd live, you don't. 

But Steve's absolutely certain that whatever happens tonight is another major fork in the road, and one that will change his whole goddamn life.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event! And don't forget to head over to @steddiebingo - you still have time to sign up for card two!

[oneofsookies]

I often see fics of Simon being a dickhead to reader, so, why cant reader be a bitch too?

note: english is not my first language, sorry if this is crap.

Sometimes life isn't easy, and other times, throwing yourself out of a window doesn't sound like a bad option. Moving, for example, made you want to choose the latter after realising you had to move all your things to your new flat on the fifth floor and the lift just happened to be broken.

While the first trips trough the stairs were trying to hype yourself up, thinking and sometimes even whispering to yourself encouraging words, by the tenth trip, the only things that went to your mind were curses to your past self being a fucking rat for renting a van and doing everything on your own instead of getting help.

“Need a hand?” You were aware that you should be thankful for the random acts of kindness; however, at the moment, that question seemed more like a stupid one instead of a solidarity one.

“Oh god no, thanks, as you can see, climbing five floors with a fucking table behind my back is something im actually very capable of” You turned, ready to shot him with the most polite smile you've ever learned after years working as a barista, only to hope a window was near for you to jump off. For the very kind soul, victim of your frustration, just happened to be huge and thick beam pole of a man that looked in fact, capabler than you.

He, however, decided to laugh it off and take his duffle bag, leaving it near you. Before you could even form a thought, the weight lessened and he was already walking up the stairs with a whole desk in his hands. Without many options, you took the bag off the floor and followed him to your door.

“Name's Simon” he says after placing the table following your instructions. You hand him his bag.

“Nice to meet you, Simon” You run your sweaty hands through your pants, screaming at the sky for having to leave your pride aside. “Sorry for the, you know.” You felt him trying to fight a chuckle, and were sure that if you could only see his face, you would punch the smile that is on his face.

“Anyways, thanks” you settle for ending the interaction before another comment went out of your mouth or you received a very much deserved punch. Awkwardly, you fought with your keys to open the door, and struggled to get the table inside under his gaze.

“See you around, neighbour” This was your turn to watch him, cursing the sky for such an embarrassing moment and your stupid mouth that didn't seem to care for your dignity.

What you didn't know was the fact that he had been watching since the moment you arrived with the van, interrupting his peaceful smoke before entering the crowded home he lived in. He observed with a curious gaze, later to find himself amused by the strings of words and actions he caught every time you passed by his side.

For the next months, you occasionally see him. Unwillingly,- totally not because you paid attention to him well enough- you came to learn what days you both got stuck in a deafening silence in the now, fixed lift. And often days, when your schedules didn't match, you just happened to run out of essentials and got to catch a glimpse of him in the lobby.

You were curious, you could not deny that fact. However, whatever glimpse of more, got quickly shut down every time he opened his mouth. You found his whole person distasteful, boring and very easily hateable.

Were you being unreasonable? Maybe. But you weren't hurting anyone, and the thing you sought was eye candy for your boring life, not to uncover a mystery man with the weird hobby of looking like he was about to rob a bank.

“You into all that?” You turn your head, realising he had been watching your phone over your shoulder. Fucking weirdo. Choosing peace, you just nod, closing the tab full of computers and going to any social media.

What you were unaware of was that the deafening but part of the routine silence you shared twice a day was going to be replaced with awkward, questionable and strange fill-in conversations that he insisted on having. And one day, you just had enough of it.

“You don't have to talk to me, you know that, right?” You burst, interrupting him mid-phrase. He stared at you, and you could only wish you had X-ray vision to see his expression.

“You this bitchy to everyone or just the ones trying to be polite?” He fired back. You bit the inside of your cheek, deciding whether to answer or finally give him the punch you've been itching for.

“I am in fact a very pleasing person to talk to when people don't stare at my ass and tits everytime they see me” You lied, knowing that in fact, you were a bitch to everyone. Did not lie about the staring, for it was something you were sure of after a week of running into him.

You got off the elevator, wishing you could just top it off with the punch, but decided not to for the well-being of your hand.

[mia-can-yap-too]

Diamond-less Disaster

What?:- The Blue Lock boys try to ask you out! Except they're in 'Episodes – Choose your Story' and don't have enough diamonds...

Warnings:- Crack, isagi crying from embarrassent (not in front of the huzz tho), rin uses plant flirtation tactics, kaiser is so confident im pretty sure its almost OOC

Who:- Isagi Yoichi, Itoshi Rin, Micheal Kaiser

Isagi Yoichi

Isagi doesn't know how he did it, but somehow, he convinced you to join him on his early morning runs.

It went quite smoothly, actually. He slowed his pace to match yours and occasionally switched to a light jog so it would be easier to hold a conversation with you.

The only downside was that both of you forgot to bring water bottles. Fortunately, you spot a vending machine nearby.

Isagi, ever the gentleman, pays for your waters and sits down next to you.

Still panting, he takes a minute to admire you. Even in your sweaty-hair-stuck-to-your-forehead-and-face-red-from-running glory, you are no less than the sun to him.

Tell her you like her

[15 💎] Ask her out to a date later

[Free] Stand five feet away, wave awkwardly, and say "I respect oxygen"

All of a sudden, Isagi stands up and waves at you, nervously.

Raising your eyebrows and giving your own awkward wave, you ask, "Are you... alright?"

"I... respect oxygen."

"What?"

"I mean... you breathe... good?"

He looks like he's about to cry out of embarrassment, but no, he has to be a man. And real men keep going even in the trenches.

"I uh... meant that oxygen is so useful, like wow, I'm so grateful. I mean... the trees are sure working overtime for us, huh? Go, Mother Nature! O2, wow, couldn't live without it..."

You are weirded out. Like, incredibly weirded out. "I guess... I didn���t know you were so passionate about oxygen..."

He doesn't meet your eyes. He can never meet your eyes again if he wants his dignity intact.

Face as red as the faux tomatos you were throwing at him in his head, he pretends to be shocked as he looks at his watch.

"Oh no...! I have practice with... Kaiser! We're the best of buddies, so I can't leave him hanging, you know? So, I have to go. Like, right now. Sorry for leaving you like this," he starts walking backwards, "Okay? Okay. Bye!"

It's a full-on sprint now. He is definitely crying from embarrassment now.

You've chosen humiliation. Confidence -20

Itoshi Rin

The classroom you're in is quiet, the perfect environment for you to peacefully doodle in.

That is, of course, before Rin enters like a glitchy DLC character that no one paid for. [a/n:- im lying yall would play just for him smh]

Rin has been hyping himself up for this all week. Today, he will confess to you. No matter what.

Okay. Just talk. Be normal. Be cool. Compliment her. Compliments are free, right?

You've never opened up to anyone before. Let her in.

[30 💎] "You calm the chaos in my head."

[Free] "If I were a plant, I'd tolerate you as my sunlight."

Apparently, compliments aren't free.

Rin opens his mouth despite it all and speaks in the most monotone voice you've ever heard.

"If I were a plant... I'd tolerate you as my sunlight."

Oh God, not another one.

Confused, you ask, "... You'd tolerate me?"

He wants to die inside. "Yeah, I wouldn't wither... Immediately. Like I usually do..."

"So... I'm not bad. Just... barely acceptable?"

Okay, now he's in the danger zone. Like, the part where you're sweating nervously and begging God to kill you with lightning or whatever works for Him.

"Some plants thrive on neglect. I could be one of those. You could be... my low-maintenance sun."

"Rin..." Oh no, now you sound worried. "That sounds so insulting and sad. Are you okay?"

"You're like... the right amount of photosynthesis. Not too much. Not too... chlorophyll-ly...?"

Why is he still trying?!

Once he realizes that he's drowing, he tries to fix it and fails miserably because the author of this fic likes chaos.

"Wait. No. Forget I said any of this."

With that, he dissappears.

Well, fuck. He should've just paid the diamonds.

You've chosen Emotional Constipation with Agricultural Undertones.

Michael Kaiser

Desperately trying to get away from all the pathetic-boy-chaos, you slip onto the rooftop to watch the sunset.

The sun is setting, and the golden hour casts a beautiful glow on you. And Micheal Kaiser.

He appears like the ghost of dramatic monologues past, and his hair glints as if he's actively photosynthesizing ego. He walks towards you with the swagger of a man who already knows your heart belongs to him. Except it doesn't.

Sweep her off her feet (not literally)

[40 💎] "The spot as the Empress to my Emperor is forever vacant for you."

[Free] Call her a peasant and throw a rose at her feet.

Nothing can deter him. Not even having a maximum of 2 diamonds.

"Kneel peasant," he smirks.

You're seriously offended. Even though you already know what's happening.

"Excuse me?!"

He dramatically pulls out a crumpled rose from somewhere inside his jacket, and looks at it as if it hold all the wealth in the world.

"This rose... was once blooming and vibrant. But now, it's withered.... just like your charm and charisma."

He drops it at your feet as if he's bestowing unknown luxuries to you.

"I bless thee."

"Did you just throw trash at me?! I bet that came from a gas station, too, asshole!" You scowl at him, and Kaiser can't understand why.

Looking as if you just praised Isagi in front of him, he starts his rant off with, "First of all, it was a roadside convenience emporium...!"

You have chosen Romantic Tyranny. -10 bitches.

a/n:- my goal as a writer is that you read my fics and think "wtf was going on in her head?" LOLOL i have never played this game so this is all based on what friends have said and tbh the choices in the game are probably much worse than this but idc

m.list

@strangergraphics for dividers

[cece693]

Hihi, may I request a Hannibal x Reader where the Reader has NPD and doesn't form a connection with anyone till he meets Hannibal? A bit self-indulgent, but I reckon Hannibal would be fascinated by the prospect of being 'special' to a narcissist.

My Mirror

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: no background info used when writing this, sorry in advance, vain male reader, hannibal indulges him, talk about superiority

You’ve never been one for emotional attachments—an understatement, truly. Where others might feel devotion or longing, you observe a mild, clinical detachment. People, with their petty wants and whining needs, amuse you for a time but rarely hold your attention for long. You’ve grown comfortable in the self-contained world of your own superiority.

In clinical terms, you’ve been labeled with narcissistic personality disorder—NPD. The label doesn’t disturb you. In your eyes, the world is simply out of sync with you; it fails to meet the high standards you’ve set. You don’t consider this a “disorder,” exactly. Yet you recognize that it isolates you. No one has ever managed to breach the lofty gates of your interest…until meeting him.

The first time you hear of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, you’re skeptical. Your colleagues and acquaintances speak of him in hushed, reverent tones: a brilliant psychiatrist, a culinary savant, a polymath of refined tastes. You grow used to overhearing their effusive praise, and it only piques a faint curiosity at best. Everyone extols him so highly—could he possibly live up to the hype?

Yet, from the moment Hannibal Lecter opens the door to his lavish Baltimore townhouse, you sense a shift. The warmth of candlelight glints off polished silver in the foyer. The faint aroma of roasting meat teases your senses. But none of these details hold your attention half as much as the man himself. Dark, composed eyes meet yours—eyes that see you in a way no one else has before. You feel an uncanny ripple of fascination, and it snags you before you can slip away behind your usual polite mask of distance.

Throughout the evening, you watch Hannibal with an intensity you typically reserve only for yourself. He tends to his guests with an elegant flourish, every word precisely chosen, every subtle gesture purposeful. It’s all done with a perfection that borders on artistry.

At dinner, you test him—sliding in a barbed remark about the “vapidness” of certain guests, just to see how he’ll react.

Hannibal raises his glass and murmurs, “You see them as uninteresting, do you?” There’s something in his voice, a mild fascination, that instantly pricks your pride in a pleasurable way.

“Don’t you?”

He offers a small, knowing smile. “Their concerns may be pedestrian,” he allows. “Yet, occasionally, there is merit in observing what they fail to perceive.” His gaze flickers to you, lingering. “And how do you find me?”

It’s a straightforward question, one most people would dodge, but you don’t. “Relevant,” you reply smoothly. “Rarely do I meet someone who isn’t painfully predictable.”

You expect a mild scoff, or perhaps a faint show of offense. Instead, Hannibal’s eyes gleam with a genuine spark of intrigue. “How refreshing,” he says, a gentle timbre in his voice that resonates.

As word of your growing closeness spreads among your acquaintances, it ignites a ripple of scandalized curiosity. After all, you’re you: proud, self-assured, never known to settle on anything or anyone that doesn't meet your standards. Many interpret your relationship to be built on purely superficial aspects—perhaps you're just dazzled by Hannibal's wealth (as if you don't have money of your own) or you seek to climb the social ladder (as if you would desire to spend your priceless time entertaining the mindless sheep for longer than necessary.)

They see your vanity, your precise grooming, your tendency to remark on the trivialities of others’ failures. They judge you for it. But what they can’t see is how Hannibal perceives you differently. He recognizes that your so-called “superficiality” is both shield and sword: you offer praise only where it’s truly earned, and you expect nothing less in return. He praises your refined tastes, marvels at your knowledge of art and culture. Far from dismissing your grandeur, he encourages it. In moments stolen away from prying eyes, Hannibal’s soft voice murmurs the subtlest compliments:

“You wear that suit as though it were designed exclusively for you. Magnificent.”

“Your insights on Baroque architecture are enthralling. Not many people appreciate ornamentation like we do.”

No one has ever spoken to you this way, not without an undercurrent of envy or mockery. Yet Hannibal’s praises feel earnest, almost reverential. His acceptance of your worldview—that you are remarkable—bolsters an unfamiliar warmth within you. You, in turn, find his own superiority mesmerizing. This is what it’s like, you think, to be understood.

If others see only the two of you exchanging indulgent remarks about fine wines, then let them. If they think it’s just a coupling of vanity and pretension, so be it. What truly matters is the inexpressible energy that crackles in the space between you—a reflection of two minds that appreciate the rare delight in one another.

[youunravelme]

reunited

author's note: just a little drabble to make up for my absence. this takes place in the nothing happened in the way i wanted verse about six months after reader and matt get back together (aka stanley cup finals).

summary: you told matt you couldn't make it to the stanley cup finals...and yet here you are

pairing: matthew tkachuk x reader

warnings: cursing? pda?

you heard the disappointment in matt’s voice when you told him you couldn't make it to his playoff games. you'd managed to come to a game vs. the rangers, but when the panthers made it to the finals, it was clear that your schedule might not even allow you a week off. but when you looked at the calendar and saw you had an opening before you summer internship, you immediately booked a flight to miami.

everything was set.

until two days before game seven, the flight was canceled.

“matt, i’m so sorry—”

“baby, it’s fine. you can’t control it.”

“i’m trying to look for flights but they're all full.” you could hear the way he tried to stifle his sigh. but you knew him like the back of your hand, you knew how much this meant to him, how close he came last year. and you wanted to be there. you knew he wanted you to be there.

which is why you took your airplane refund (and a little out of savings) and starting looking at rental cars.

in hindsight, making an eighteen hour trip alone was not the smartest decision you ever made, and it surely wasn't a choice matt would approve of if he knew about it. but maybe he'd be so caught up in the post game that he wouldn't ask how you got there.

when you got into the city, taryn was the one who met you at their hotel. she smiled and gave you a tight hug.

“how was the drive? not too bad i hope?”

you gave her a sheepish smile. “i might need another five hour energy.”

she bumped her shoulder with yours. “i’m sure the game will be hyped enough to wake you up.”

“thank you for waiting for me.”

taryn’s laugh was immediately swallowed up by the sounds of traffic, but you felt it just the same. “matt would kill us if we left you to walk to the arena alone.”

“he doesn't know i’m here, does he?”

she shook her head. “we haven’t said a word. but please believe he's done nothing but mope about it.”

you rolled your eyes. “he doesn’t have time to mope, not when winning the cup is so close.”

and it was.

you couldn't remember a time where you'd screamed as loud as you had. your blood was pumping, heart pounding, you were torn between squeezing your eyes shut from anxiety and keeping them focused on the game. maybe after the game, you'd apologize to taryn for holding her arm so tightly, but she was squeezing yours back just as hard.

you watched as they kept the puck in the corner as the clock ran down. the nail polish you'd painted on your fingernails were in fragmented chips on the floor. your eyes kept darting from the jumbotron to the ice, back and forth back and forth.

but the buzzer went off and your boyfriend hopped onto the ice with his teammates. taryn was pulling you into a threeway hug with brady. before you knew it, you were being shuffled out of your seats, down the stairs, and onto the ice.

you were operating on autopilot, sticking close to taryn and brady. you were in the back, behind his parents and siblings, not really focusing on where you were going, only knowing that taryn’s grip was on your wrist.

people bumped into you, cameras were everywhere, yet your gaze was solely on taryn’s red leather jacket. maybe you should've dressed differently, worn something fancier instead of a jersey and jeans. it was game 7 and your boyfriend just won the stanley cup and you probably looked exhausted and there were going to be pictures that would probably live on the wall of matt’s childhood home for the rest of time.

taryn and brady stopped walking which could only mean that they'd found matt. if you could see over brady´s broad shoulders, you might have been able to see the embrace matt gave his mom, then the massive hug he gave his father. you couldn't hear what was being said, but you a glimpse of a red sleeve hug taryn before brady was next.

matt’s arms went around brady’s shoulders, his head peeking over, when the two of you made eye contact for the first time in weeks. his blue eyes widened in shock before he physically shoved brady off of him and out of the way.

“no way!” matt said over the noise before you were being yanked into his arms, lips pressed against his. it was clumsy and mostly teeth, but who could blame either of you? he’d just won the stanley cup.

you pulled away first with matt still chasing your lips until you placed a hand on his chest. “congrats, baby.”

“what're you doing here? i thought you said you couldn't make it! how’d you even get here?”

you smiled sheepishly. “i drove.”

matt’s smile dropped for a moment as he rolled his eyes. he placed a kiss on your forehead and brought you into your chest. “you're an idiot, but i love you.”

“i love you, stanley cup champion.”

he preened for a moment until he realized you'd successfully navigated the conversation back from yourself. “don’t think we won't talk about that later, baby.”

as the celebrations continued, regardless of who came up to him, matt’s hands never left your body. maybe it was the high of winning or maybe it was because you hadn't seen him since game five against the rangers but he wouldn't let you out of his sight. you tried to sneak away to stand with his family while he was being interviewed, but he never let you get far enough. at one point, you were standing just far enough to be out of shot of the camera, but close enough to where he was somewhat paying attention to the reporter interviewing him. 

“you sure you don't wanna come with me?” he asked after the last interview.

“matt, i promise she does not wanna go into a locker room with you and your sweaty teammates,” taryn chirped. “i’m sure you can survive without seeing her for a little bit.”

he didn’t look convinced.

“whenever you're finished, i’ll be ready to do whatever you want. i’m here for a week.”

his eyes lit up right before he kissed you again. “fuck yes.”

you laughed and pushed him away. “go celebrate with your teammates, we’ll be ready when you are.”

he glanced over his shoulder at his teammates and then back at you. “i love you.” he started moving backwards but kept his eyes trained solely on you, not a care in the world as to who he was bumping into. “and don't think i’m not gonna say something about you driving eighteen and a half hours.”

he knew the time it took?

“how’d you know how long i drove?”

a familiar smirk graced his lips. “baby, i always know how far you are from me.”

“you’re both sickening,” taryn joked as matt disappeared down the tunnel.

“maybe, but i love him.”

[ohcoffeedragon]

The cultural impact of KAJ on Swedish-Finnish relations

I wanted to highlight some positive things that I've observed around the KAJ-phenomenon (Swedish Eurovision entry 2025), while also clarifying a few things about the cultural context to those who aren't from the region - but my small overview got out of hand, so here is an essay-length cultural analysis (sorry about that and hats off to anyone who reads to the end!)

You can read the rest under the cut or on Reddit where there is also lots of interesting stuff in the comment section.

I'm interested in this topic because I'm part of the Swedish speaking minority in Finland, but also because I've lived in the Finnish speaking parts of Finland (Jyväskylä) and in Sweden (Malmö), so I've had a front-line seat to people from all of these communities making assumptions about each other and misunderstanding each other. 

Here are the three geopolitical aspects of the KAJ-phenomenon that I find particularly noteworthy and heartwarming:

1) Sweden is celebrating Finnish culture and it's changing the narrative in both countries 

The fact that a Finnish band is topping charts in Sweden with a song about an aspect of Finnish culture is a bigger deal than you might think, because Finnish culture has not traditionally been held in high esteem in Sweden.

There are some ancient reasons for this, related to the fact that Finland was under Swedish rule from the 13th century all the way up to 1809 with the power dynamics that this implies, but I think the most important reason is probably the wealth gap during much of the 20th century.

In the 1950-70s many Finns emigrated to Sweden for work. They were mostly known to be reliable hard workers, but new immigrants are never highly regarded and on top of that this was the same generation that was on the front lines during the war, with lots of trauma that nobody knew how to treat or diagnose at the time, leading to self-medication with alcohol, emotional detachment, violence and social problems. Being Finnish became associated with a number of negative stereotypes in Sweden (alcoholism, violence, social exclusion, poverty), to the point where children in many Sweden-Finnish families were bullied for being Finnish and people were encouraged to distance themselves from their Finnish heritage.

This is why the hype in Sweden around Bara Bada Bastu - a silly feelgood song about unconditionally loving a part of Finnish culture - is getting so much attention in Finland. Finnish people aren't used to Sweden being this enthusiastic about anything related to their country. Some people in Finland still expect Swedes to look down on them for being Finnish. "The happiest country in the world" should of course have sorted out their self-esteem issues by now (most people have), but sometimes these things can be slow to evolve. 

Finnish culture has actually been getting a lot of positive attention in Sweden for some time now. The love for KAJ is part of a cultural shift that has been going on for years. Some notable music examples are Käärijä doing well on Swedish charts, Swedish artist Markus Krunegård releasing an album in Finnish in 2023 (Nokia & Ericsson) and Swedish artist Miriam Bryant releasing several singles in Finnish in 2024 (Mustelmilla, Otan kii), as well as wildly popular Hooja throwing in some Finnish words in their Swedish lyrics. 

The fact that Melodifestivalen producer Karin Gunnarsson invited KAJ to the competition in the first place probably wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for this phenomenon already being a thing.

2) Finland is showing Sweden some love in return

There is a saying in Finland that goes "it doesn't matter who wins as long as Sweden loses" and yet here we are: Finnish people are singing along to a song in Swedish and many are actively rooting for Sweden to win Eurovision.

The fact that a song in Swedish is topping charts in Finland is very unusual. 

Finland is a bilingual country, with Finnish and Swedish both being official languages, so you might expect the music scene and the general population to be bilingual as well, but they are not. The percentages are 95% Finnish speakers and 5% Swedish speakers, meaning public life is basically 100% Finnish speaking. Swedish speakers have their own schools and radio channels and so on, but if they want to talk with the rest of the country they need to do so in Finnish.  

The same thing is true for the music scene. If you choose to sing in Swedish you have a potential audience of less than 300 000, if you switch to Finnish you have a potential audience of 5,5 million. There are several Fennoswedish artists who are very successful in Finland at the moment, the big names being Mirella and Averagekidluke, but they all sing in Finnish. You would have to be a specific kind of lovable goofball to choose your local Swedish dialect instead.

The Swedish language is also viewed negatively by many in Finland. This is an unfortunate consequence of mandatory Swedish lessons in schools, often nicknamed "pakkoruotsi" ("involuntary Swedish" or "forced Swedish"). The idea to teach everyone the basics of both national languages doesn't sound particularly far-fetched, but many people, especially in the East and North where there are no native Swedish speakers, dislike this requirement to the point where it might do more harm than good.

As for Sweden, the country is seen as a close and reliable friend, but the friendship is somewhat more complicated than it might seem on the surface. The Finnish banter with Sweden is friendly 99,9% of the time but the remaining 0,1% can be surprisingly dark, because it's rooted in feelings of humiliation and injustice that go quite deep.

This is why it made sense for KAJ to do Melfest instead of UMK, beyond the fact that Melfest reached out to them. Gaining a Swedish audience when singing in Swedish is a realistic goal. Gaining a Finnish-speaking audience when singing in Swedish is... not realistic - or so everyone assumed.

In other words: seeing Swedish people sing "yksi, kaksi, kolme, sauna!" in Finnish is surprising, but seeing Finnish-speakers go "bara bada bastu, bastu!" in Swedish is just as unexpected and somehow even more heartwarming, for me as a Fennoswede at least.

As far as I know it's the first time in history a Fennoswedish artist gets nationwide recognition with a song in Swedish. There is more warmth towards Sweden in Finland right now and more curiosity about the Swedish speaking minority than I think I've ever seen.

3) People are suddenly learning about the Swedish speaking minority in Finland 

KAJ getting all this attention is making a real difference in fighting ignorance (mostly in Sweden) and prejudice (mostly in Finland) about the Swedish speaking minority.

Some Swedish people still don't know we exist, which can be a little disheartening to Swedish speaking Finns who follow media in both countries and know everything about Sweden. Fennoswedes trade anecdotes about how Swedish people compliment them on their "really good Swedish" when they speak their native language or how well-meaning Swedes switch to English because they can't tell the difference between a dialect and a foreign accent. The most extreme anecdotes are about Swedish people saying "I had no idea Finnish was so easy to understand" when you talk to them in Swedish.  

In Finland people know we exist, but sometimes mistake us for a small and homogenous group of upper-class snobs - which is fine really, compared to what almost any other minority anywhere has to put up with, but it's also quite far from the truth, so getting some nuance added to the mix wouldn't hurt. Most Fennoswedes are just ordinary people and do not have mansions and old money (unfortunately for us!). Those old money families do exist, but they are not that many. 

The Fennoswedes you see in Finnish media tend to live in the Helsinki area and be perfectly bilingual, which isn't the case for all of us. KAJ is such a refreshing addition to the media landscape because they aren't part of this group: they are from the countryside, their Finnish is a little wonky, and you couldn't possibly accuse them of being upper class snobs.  

And finally, if you read this to the end: Thank you, I spent way too much time on this, so I really appreciate it! Here is your well-earned diploma on Finnish-Swedish relations: 📜👩🏼‍🎓