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coriihanniee · 2 days ago

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TELL ME, WILL WE SURVIVE? ⋆˚࿔

۶ৎ SYNOPSIS : you're the 4th member of Huntrix, tasked to eliminate the Saja Boys, five powerful demons disguised as idols. However, encountering them face to face brings an achingly familiar pain to your chest.

۶ৎ PAIRING : reincarnated 4th member huntrix!reader x saja boys ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : romance, reincarnation, angst ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of death, use of weapons, slight emotional manipulation, sexy hot fictional men

۶ৎ A/N : asked if I should write this fic with a poll and 434 votes is crazy... so here it is! This will probably be my only kpdh fic 🥹 I hope this satisfies you~ It was tough to come up what to write apart from Jinu's considering the fact we don't have more information about the others T^T

The tension in the Huntrix dorm was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"I still can't believe it," Zoey muttered, pacing back and forth across the living room while clutching her notebook. "A new boy group that just debuted... and they're actual demons."

Mira sat cross-legged on the floor. Her usually perfect hair was tied back in a messy bun. "The way everyone was completely fascinated by them..." She shuddered. "Like they couldn't look away or think of anything else."

"Five guys who came out of nowhere and had everyone mesmerized on their very first performance," Rumi said grimly, her voice still hoarse from the throat issues that had sent them to the doctor in the first place. "That's not normal idol talent, that's demonic influence."

You looked up from lacing your combat boots, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and dread. While your three groupmates had discovered the Saja Boys' true nature during their trip to the clinic, you'd been stuck in back-to-back variety show recordings. Part of you felt guilty for missing such a crucial moment, but another part was almost grateful. Something about facing demons, especially these particular demons, made your chest tight with an emotion you couldn't name.

"So what's the plan?" you asked, trying to push away the odd nervousness in your stomach.

Rumi stood up, her leader instincts taking over despite her vocal strain. "Intelligence suggests they're operating out of several locations around the city. We need to track them down and neutralize the threat before their next public appearance."

"Five of them, four of us," Mira noted. "Not impossible odds, but we'll need to be smart about this."

Zoey stopped pacing and looked at you with concerned eyes. "Are you sure you're ready for this? I mean, this is our first time facing demons this powerful. The Saja Boys aren't like the lower-level creatures we usually hunt."

You nodded, though your heart was racing for reasons you couldn't explain. "I've trained for this. We all have."

"We don't know much about their individual abilities yet," Rumi warned, her voice dropping to a serious tone. "But we know they're organized and powerful enough to steal our fans and mess with the Honmoon. They've been systematically targeting our fans, hypnotising them with some kind of influence we don't understand yet.”

"We split up," Rumi continued. "Cover more ground that way. But nobody engages alone unless absolutely necessary. These aren't ordinary demons, they're organized, intelligent, and extremely dangerous."

As your groupmates continued planning, you found yourself staring out the window at the Seoul skyline, a dozen city lights twinkling like stars. Somewhere out there, five demons who had quickly become the nation's beloved idol group in less than a day were hiding, planning, hunting.

So why did the thought of facing them feel less like preparing for battle and more like... coming home?

"Ready?" Rumi's voice snapped you back to reality.

You grabbed your weapon and stood up, pushing down the strange emotions swirling in your chest. You were a member of Huntrix. You had a job to do.

Even if something deep inside you whispered that this mission would change everything.

JINU ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Three hours after the briefing, you crouched behind a concrete pillar in an abandoned office building, your heart hammering against your ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with the mission. You had tracked Jinu here alone, separated from his group members, conducting what appeared to be private business on the fifteenth floor.

The elevator had been deliberately disabled, forcing you to climb the emergency stairwell. Each step upwards felt heavier than the last, as if your body fought against an invisible current. When you finally reached the target floor, the silence was deafening.

You pressed your ear to the stairwell door, listening for voices, footsteps, any sign of demonic activity. Your weapon felt foreign in your grip, a silver-blessed blade that had never failed you in past hunts, yet now trembled with your uncertainty.

The hallway beyond stretched like a mouth waiting to swallow you whole. Fluorescent lights flickered sporadically, casting dancing shadows that made your vision blur. You moved silently, checking each empty office as you passed, until you reached the corner suite at the end of the corridor.

The door stood ajar.

Through the gap, you could see him.

Jinu sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his profile illuminated by the pale glow of Seoul's skyline through the windows. Even in the dim light, his features were sharp and aristocratic, high cheekbones, a strong jawline, dark hair that fell perfectly across his forehead.

"The contract is simple," his voice carried through the crack in the door, smooth as silk yet cold as steel. "Your daughter's medical bills disappear. Her surgery is guaranteed successful. All I ask in return is a small favour down the line."

"What kind of favour?" The other voice was desperate, broken, a father's voice.

"Nothing that will harm your family directly. You have my word."

You should have burst through that door immediately and struck while Jinu was distracted, before he could complete whatever twisted bargain he was weaving. But the moment your eyes found his face, your entire world tilted off its axis.

Inexplicable pain lanced through your chest. Your vision blurred from the tears suddenly sliding down your cheeks. Images surged and vanished too quickly to grasp : a child's laugh, the strum of a bipa, a soft voice humming, arms wrapping around you beneath a threadbare blanket.

"I'll take care of everything. You'll never have to worry again."

You gasped, stumbling backwards and nearly dropping your weapon. The sound echoed in the empty hallway like a gunshot.

The conversation inside the office stopped abruptly.

"I believe our business here is concluded," Jinu's voice had changed, taking on an edge that made your spine stiffen. "You know how to contact me when you've made your decision."

The desperate father's voice slowly faded as he was presumably escorted out through another exit.

You pressed yourself against the wall, mind racing. You had lost the element of surprise, but the mission remained the same. Jinu was alone now. This was your chance to strike before he could reunite with the other Saja Boys.

You kicked the door open and rushed inside, blade raised and ready.

Jinu stood by the window with his back to you, hands clasped behind him as if he had been expecting your arrival. The moonlight turned his silhouette into an ethereal and angelic vision, a cruel irony given what you knew him to be.

"You're faster than I anticipated," he said without turning around. "Though not as quiet as you think."

"Turn around." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

He complied slowly. However, when his eyes met yours, your soul cracked down the middle.

You could see a brief flicker of recognition cross his face, perhaps even mourning, or maybe grief worn thin over centuries.

You raised your blade higher, just enough to hide how much your hands were shaking.

"You've grown beautiful," he said softly.

Your breath caught in your throat, forcing down a wave of emotions that threatened to break free. You gritted your teeth. "Don't."

He stepped forward.

"I said don't."

He moved closer.

You slashed by reflex. Jinu blocked it with his arm. He didn't exactly attack back. But he parried, blocked, dodged with the ease of someone who'd trained lifetimes for this.

It happened before you could think. Your body moved, like it already knew what to do. Your chest rose and fell too fast, ears buzzing with the rush of your heartbeat. Jinu barely fought back, annoyingly and effortlessly dodging your attacks. However, you refused to stop until the hurt had somewhere to land.

Until he disarmed you, your blade clattering across the floor.

Jinu didn't press the advantage or move to strike.

Instead, he stepped back.

You froze for half a second. Why isn't he fighting back? Was this pity? Mercy? Did he think you couldn’t handle it?

"You don't remember." It wasn't a question.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Four hundred years ago," he said quietly, "I had a mother and a sister. We were starving. I played the bipa on street corners, until I found you, you were the only light we had left. You kept us together, even when everything fell apart."

Images tore at your mind again : your hands mending a child's robe. Jinu's fingers brushing yours. The bipa's music cutting through the dark.

"You were there," you whispered, not understanding why you knew it was true.

"I was." His voice cracked. "And I failed all of you."

"But… you're a demon now. You manipulate people. Steal their souls."

"I offer what they ask for. I offered it then, too. I was desperate and hungry. My family and you were dying in front of my eyes. Gwi-Ma found me and promised me a life of comfort and power. I thought if I accepted it, I could bring you all with me."

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

"But the gates closed behind me," he said, barely audible. "I turned around and they wouldn't let you through. I left you in the cold while I slept on silk."

You shook your head, but the memories were surfacing now,

"I searched for you after. But you died, didn't you? Alone. Like the rest of them. While I lived in luxury with blood on my hands."

The truth settled like ice in your lungs. Your memories were fractured, broken by time and pain, but you remembered enough. Remembered waiting put in the cold and the hunger that ate you alive while he feasted in hell.

"I waited for you," you whispered.

Jinu closed his eyes as if the words were a blade through his chest. "I know."

The admission ignited a fury so pure it burned through your veins like poison. He knew. While you were wasted away in that freezing hovel, praying for his return until your throat was raw. While you'd begged strangers for scraps, sold every precious thing you owned just to buy another day of life, he was feasting in warmth and safety. He knew, and he'd done nothing.

"You knew," you snarled, and the rage in your voice made him flinch. "You knew we were dying and you left us there to rot."

Your hands clenched into fists. Every cell in your body screamed for violence, for justice, for him to feel even a fraction of the agony he'd caused.

You lunged for your weapon again. He didn't stop you.

"I'm going to kill you," you said, raising it with trembling hands.

"Then do it."

However, you hesitated, the blade wavering above his heart. Tears blurred your vision as you stared down at him, this man who had once been your entire world. Your arm shook with the effort of holding the weapon steady, but your body refused to obey. Every instinct screamed at you to drive the silver through his chest, to end his suffering and yours, but your heart betrayed you.

Even after everything, you couldn't bring yourself to destroy him. The realization broke you more than his abandonment ever had.

"Why aren't you fighting back?"

"Because I loved you more than my own soul. And letting you end it is the only way I can repent for what I've done."

Your eyes widened at his words, the blade slipping from your nerveless fingers. It hit the floor with a sharp clang that echoed through the empty office.

Jinu's breath caught in his throat. He stared at the fallen weapon, in disbelief at what had just happened. His composure finally cracked, and tears spilled down his cheeks, the first real emotion you'd seen from him since you'd entered this room.

Why?" he whispered. "After everything I've done to you... why can't you do it?”

"I-I don't know…’ you said, voice cracking. “But… this doesn't mean I forgive you…”

"I wouldn't dare ask."

"And I'm not letting you walk away."

He nodded, tears tracking down his cheeks.

You stepped closer, your heart shattering with every breath.

"This time, we need to talk, about the four hundred years you stole from us."

ABBY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The underground fight club pulsed with sweat, blood, and money changing hands. You pressed your earpiece, static crackling back at you as you tried to reach Rumi.

"Rumi, do you copy? I lost visual on the target."

Nothing but interference.

Intel had tracked two Saja Boys to this district, Abby and Mystery had split from the main group. Following a thorough discussion, you and the other girls decided to split into duos to ensure greater safety. You and Rumi were supposed to stay together, but the crowds and maze-like underground tunnels had separated you. Now you were alone in the bowels of Seoul's illegal fighting scene.

The roar of the crowd guided you deeper into the complex. Through a doorway marked with graffiti, you found the main arena, a concrete pit surrounded by screaming spectators waving fistfuls of cash.

In the center of the ring stood Abby.

He moved like violence incarnate, all muscle and controlled fury as he circled his opponent. Abby was shirtless, his body a map of scars and fresh bruises, sweat making his skin gleam under the harsh lights.

The expression that you caught on his face made your breath catch. Pure, undiluted joy. He was having the time of his life.

His opponent lunged. Abby sidestepped with fluid grace, then drove his fist into the man's ribs with a wet crack that echoed over the crowd's cheers as the man fell to the ground hard.

"Next!" Abby called out, not even breathing heavily. His grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Who else wants to dance?"

Three men climbed into the ring together as the crowd grew wild.

You should have taken the shot then, but watching him move was hypnotic. Every punch and dodge was precise and calculated.

Two opponents were quickly taken down, and the third hesitated to swing.

"Come on," Abby taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Don't tell me you're scared now."

The man reluctantly charged. Abby caught him mid-lunge and slammed him into the concrete so hard the ground cracked.

The crowd erupted as money flew. Abby raised his arms in victory, basking in the adoration.

You waited until the chaos died down, until the crowd dispersed and the arena emptied. Abby was collecting his winnings from the promoter when you finally made your move.

"Good fights tonight," you said, stepping out of the shadows.

He went completely still for a second, so brief you almost missed it. Then he turned around with that cocky grin already sliding into place.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" He looked you up and down, but it wasn't the casual appreciation of a stranger. It was recognition wrapped in careful performance. "You don't look like the usual groupies. Too pretty. Too dangerous."

"I'm not a groupie."

"No kidding." He stuffed the money in his back pocket and grabbed his shirt from where he'd thrown it, but didn't put it on. Still showing off, but his movements were more deliberate now, as if he was buying time to think.

"So what are you? Reporter? Cop? Or just someone who likes watching sweaty men beat the hell out of each other?"

"I'm here for you."

His grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, that's direct. Though I gotta say, most people who want me specifically don't usually start with small talk."

The arena was empty now except for the two of you and the lingering smell of violence.

Perfect.

"You're coming with me," you said, hand moving to your weapon.

"Am I?" He stepped closer, and the playful mask slipped just slightly. "And here I was thinking you might be here for something else entirely."

"This isn't a game."

"Everything's a game, sweetheart. The trick is figuring out if we're playing by the same rules." He was circling you now, but it felt less predatory and more like he was trying to get a different angle, trying to see something in your face. "Though I gotta ask, do you even know who I am?"

You drew your blade. His expression shifted, resignation mixed with anticipation.

"There it is," he said quietly, flexing his fingers. "Was wondering when we'd get to this part."

He moved faster than you'd expected, still testing you. Every move of his was calculated, like he was trying to figure out how much you remembered about fighting.

About fighting him specifically.

"Come on," he said, dodging your blade with familiar ease. "I know you're better than this. You always were."

The words slipped out before he could catch them. You saw the moment he realized his mistake, saw him try to cover it with that cocky grin.

"Always were what?" you demanded, pressing your attack.

"Always were too careful," he said, but his voice was strained now. "Stop holding back."

"I'm trying not to kill you."

"How thoughtful." His voice was softer now, almost fond. "Always looking out for everyone else."

Before you could ask what he meant by that, he caught your wrist and pulled you against his chest. For a moment, you were close enough to see the conflict in his eyes.

"Got you," he said, but it sounded more like a prayer than a taunt.

You drove your elbow back into his ribs and spun free. He let you go reluctantly.

"There we go," he said, rubbing his side. "That's more like it."

You came at him again, blade swinging through the air. This time when he grabbed your wrist and twisted until you had to drop the weapon, his grip was careful, like he'd done this exact move with you before.

"How do you know how I fight?" you asked.

The question made him freeze. His grip loosened just enough for you to break free, but instead of reaching for another weapon, you just stared at him.

"Have we met before?" you asked.

All the pretense drained out of his expression at your question, replaced by rawness and desperation.

"Every day for a hundred and twenty three years," he whispered.

"What are you talking about?"

His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones like he was memorizing them all over again.

"You really don't remember," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "God, I hoped... I thought maybe..."

His touch was so gentle, and his voice was softer now.

"How do you know my name?" you whispered.

"Because I've been saying it every day for over a century." He laughed bitterly "Because it was the last thing you heard before you died."

Images flashed through your mind : rain-soaked streets, a thin boy with kind eyes, the sound of your own scream echoing off alley walls.

You stumbled backward, hand pressed to your temple. "What's happening to me?"

"Hey." He reached for you, movements careful now, gentle. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

"I'm not okay. I'm seeing things that aren't real."

"What kind of things?"

"A boy. Someone I loved." The words came out before you could stop them. "Someone who died because of me."

Abby went very still. "How did he die?"

"I don't know. I can't—the memories aren't mine." You looked up at him desperately. "This is crazy. I don't even know you."

"Yes you do." His voice was barely above a whisper. "You do know me. You just can't remember because dying screws with your head."

"I didn't die."

"Yeah, you did." He was close enough to touch now, hands hovering just shy of your skin. "Hundred and twenty three years ago. In an alley. They put a knife in your back while I watched, too weak to do anything about it."

The memories hit like a tsunami : cobblestones slick with rain, rough hands dragging you away from a thin boy who was calling your name, the burn of steel between your ribs.

"Oh god," you whispered.

"I made you a promise," Abby continued, his voice thick with a century's worth of grief. "On your grave. That if I ever got the chance to see you again, I'd be strong enough to protect you."

You looked at him, and saw past the muscle and scars to the boy underneath. The boy who'd loved you. The boy who'd become a monster for the chance to keep you safe.

"You became a demon for me?"

"I became whatever I had to become." His hands finally made contact, cupping your face gently, as if any more pressure might shatter you into a million pieces. "I don't care what that makes me. I care about keeping you alive."

Footsteps echoed from the tunnel behind you. Rumi's voice called out your name, worried.

"Shit," you whispered. "My partner's coming."

Abby's expression hardened instantly, all the vulnerability vanishing behind that familiar cocky mask. "Right. Back to reality."

"Abby, wait—"

"No, it's fine." He stepped back, putting distance between you, but his eyes never left your face. "You've got a job to do. I get it."

"I can't just—"

"What? Kill me? We both know you're not going to do that." He grinned. "So what's the play here, sweetheart? You gonna tell your partner you found me and just... let me walk away?”

The footsteps were getting closer. You had maybe thirty seconds before Rumi found you.

"I don't know," you admitted.

"Well, you better figure it out fast." Despite his words, he wasn't moving towards the exits. He was just standing there, waiting for you to decide his fate again.

"There's another exit through the back," you said quickly. "Behind the equipment room."

His eyebrows shot up. "You're letting me go?"

"I'm giving you a head start."

"Why?"

Because somewhere in your fractured memories, you remembered loving him. Because he'd spent over a century becoming strong enough to protect you, and maybe you could be strong enough to protect him too.

"Because I remember enough," you said simply.

His mask cracked just for a moment. "This isn't over."

"I know."

"I'll find you again."

"I know."

He started towards the back exit, then paused. "Hey, sweetheart?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to die before I see you again. I'm getting really tired of that particular tragedy."

In a blink of an eye, he was gone, vanishing into the shadows just as Rumi's voice echoed closer.

ROMANCE ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The rooftop overlooked the glittering chaos of Seoul's entertainment district, where neon signs blazed advertisements for idol groups and concert venues stretched towards the horizon. You crouched behind the air conditioning unit, silver blade steady in your grip as you surveyed the empty space.

Wind carried the distant sound of traffic and late-night revelers, but here, twenty stories above the city's pulse, silence reigned.

"Beautiful view, isn't it?"

You tensed, weapon raised when you heard his voice, achingly familiar despite being impossible to place. It wrapped around your ribs like phantom fingers, squeezing until your chest felt tight with inexplicable longing.

Romance emerged from behind the rooftop access door with fluid grace, hands tucked casually into his pockets. Under the city's electric glow, his features appeared sharp and ethereal, pink hair catching the wind as he regarded you with calm amusement.

"Though I suspect you're not here for sightseeing," he continued, taking measured steps forward. "Hello, hunter."

Your blade remained steady despite the tremor in your voice. "You know what I am."

"Of course I know exactly what you are." His smile held no malice, only a strange sadness that made your throat constrict. "The question is, do you know what I am?"

Without warning, you lunged.

Romance flowed backwards like water, your strike cutting through empty air as he spun away from your advance. He moved with practiced precision, dodging rather than retaliating, speaking in that same measured tone even as you pressed your attack.

"You fight beautifully," he observed, sidestepping another slash. "Trained well. Committed."

You snarled in frustration, spinning to catch him with a backhand strike that he avoided by millimeters. "Shut up and fight back."

"Why would I want to hurt you?"

The question threw off your rhythm, long enough for Romance to close the distance between you. His hand found your wrist with gentle firmness, and your weapon clattered across the concrete.

You struck out with your free hand, but he caught that too, holding both your wrists as you struggled against his grip. His touch burned with unnatural warmth, sending sparks up your arms that had nothing to do with his demonic nature.

"Let me go," you hissed.

"In a moment." Romance's eyes searched your face with desperate intensity. "I need you to see—"

He shifted, a small and bright object tumbled from his pocket, a ring that caught the neon light as it fell. Simple silver band, modest stone, nothing extraordinary except for the way it made your heart stop.

Pain lanced through your chest. Your knees buckled as emotion crashed over you in waves, grief so profound it stole your breath, love so pure it felt like drowning, loss that cut deeper than any blade. You didn't understand where these feelings originated, only that they threatened to tear you apart from the inside.

Romance released you immediately, crouching to retrieve the ring with reverent care. "You feel it too," he whispered.

"I don't—" You stumbled backward, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache pulsed with each heartbeat. "What did you do to me?"

"Nothing. This is yours." He held up the ring, and the sight of it made tears spring to your eyes without explanation. "It was meant for you."

"What—that's impossible."

"You taught me what love felt like, centuries ago." Romance said quietly, his mask of casual amusement finally cracking. "Before you, I was nothing. A shadow in my own house, invisible to parents who saw only disappointment when they looked at me. You were the first person to show me kindness, love me without expecting anything in return."

He cradled the ring like it held his entire world. "I saved for months to buy this. Worked every odd job I could find, skipped meals. I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep."

His confession struck a place you didn’t know could still hurt. Your eyes flickered back to the ring again, breath hitching.

"You fell ill a few weeks before I planned to propose." His voice cracked, centuries of grief pouring through the fractures. "I held your hand for seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay with me."

"Y-You're lying." But your voice had no strength behind it.

"Your last coherent words were asking me to promise I'd love someone else after you were gone. You were so worried about me being alone." Tears tracked down his perfect cheeks, and seeing them made your own eyes burn. "I lied and said yes because I thought it would help you let go peacefully."

The pain in your chest intensified, spreading through your ribs like poison. "That's not—"

"I tried to keep that promise as a human. I spent years searching for someone who could make me feel what you had.” Romance's voice dropped to a whisper. “But no one came close to you.”

"You became a demon because you couldn't move on..."

"I made a pact with Gwi-Ma after years of failing to love anyone else. I became something that could create love, manufacture and distribute it to anyone desperate enough to want it." His smile was self-loathing incarnate. "If I couldn't feel real love, at least I could give others a taste of what you gave me."

"You're feeding on people and hurting them."

"I'm keeping my promise to you." His eyes blazed with centuries of accumulated pain and twisted devotion. "Every heart I touch and every moment of artificial bliss I create is all for you. You asked me to love someone else, and this is the only way I know how."

The logic was twisted, but the raw anguish in his voice made your chest tighten with sympathy you couldn't afford. "You're manipulating innocent people."

"I give them what they desperately need. The feeling of being cherished, desired, worthy of devotion. When the illusion breaks, yes, they're disappointed. But at least they got to experience something transcendent." Romance stood slowly, the ring disappearing back into his coat. "Tell me that's not better than the emptiness they had before."

"It's a love built on lies."

"All love is lies in the end." His smile returned, but it held no warmth. "The difference is I'm honest about the illusion I create."

You backed towards the rooftop edge, every instinct screaming at you to flee. The mission was clear, eliminate the demon. However, your hands shook as you reached for a backup blade, and the pain in your chest made it difficult to breathe. Each word he'd spoken felt like a knife twisting deeper.

"This isn't over," you managed, but the words came out weak.

"I know." Romance made no move to stop you as you retreated. "But I won't fight you anymore. I've caused enough damage to someone I—"

He cut himself off, the unfinished words hung in the air between you.

"Someone you what?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

"Someone I loved more than my own existence." His voice was barely audible above the wind. "Someone I'm still failing, even now."

The words crashed over you like a tidal wave. Ring. Proposal. Seventy two hours. Promise. Death. Demon. Love. The pieces swirled in your mind, too many fragments to assemble together, each one cutting deeper than the last. Your training screamed at you to stay, but your heart couldn't bear another second of his confessions.

You turned and ran.

The fire escape blurred past as you descended, taking stairs three at a time until your legs gave out two floors from the bottom. You collapsed on the landing, gasping for air that wouldn't come, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could physically force back the tears threatening to spill.

His voice echoed in your mind : I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep.

Why did that hurt? You were a hunter trained to kill demons, not sympathize with their tragic backstories.

You forced yourself to continue down the fire escape, your movements mechanical and disconnected.

Seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay.

Your back hit the alley wall and you slid down until you were sitting on the cold concrete, arms wrapped around your knees. Hot tears streamed down your face as you grieved for reasons you couldn't name.

This couldn't have happened before. You would remember dying. You would remember being loved with that kind of desperate devotion. You would remember someone saving money for months to buy you a ring.

...

Wouldn't you?

MYSTERY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You lean against the Huntrix dorm balcony railing, watching Seoul pulse beneath you like a neon heartbeat. The city sprawls endless and electric, towers of glass catching streetlight, traffic threading through concrete arteries. Behind you, voices clash over mission prep.

"We should split up and handle each demon individually," Rumi insisted. "Pick them off one by one."

"That's suicide," Mira counters. "We stick together, overwhelm them with combined firepower. Safety in numbers."

"Okay, okay!" Zoey jumps between them with enthusiastic gestures. "What if we compromise? Split into pairs? Best of both worlds, right? Right?"

There are weak spots in the Honmoon barrier scattered across Seoul like broken bones. You've memorized their coordinates, trained for this until your muscles know the patterns by heart. So why won't your pulse settle tonight?

The argument behind you fades to background noise as you stare at the skyline.

Suddenly, a soft and delicate melody drifts across the night air.

It felt like a tune you hum when your hands are full of flowers, when you're dizzy with new love. It shouldn't reach you from this height. Seoul's chaos should swallow such fragile notes whole, but the song finds you anyway.

Your breathing stops. You've heard this melody before in dreams that leave you gasping at dawn.

Across the urban maze, movement flickers near a crumbling rooftop. A shadow that doesn't belong.

You don't hesitate one second.

The balcony railing becomes your launching point. Rooftop to rooftop, your feet find purchase on surfaces that shouldn't hold human weight. The melody grows stronger with each leap, pulling you forward like a current.

Seoul blurs beneath you, kaleidoscope light and shadow, lives stacked in vertical towers. You follow the song through this maze, breath controlled, heart pounding against your ribs.

The tune leads you to an abandoned building that time forgot. Dark windows, cracked facade, studio spaces that once housed art but now hold only dust. You slip through a broken skylight, landing silent on debris-covered floors.

The music comes to a stop.

Mystery stands beside a shattered mirror, fingers turning over what looks like an old locket. He doesn't startle when you drop in. Instead, his mouth curves into a smile that holds too many secrets.

"You've always been good at finding me."

Your weapon clears its holster, barrel trained on his chest, and his smile deepens.

Ice floods your veins. Your grip tightens on the weapon. "Who are you?"

He laughs softly, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "I would tell you now, but where's the fun in that?"

"This isn't a game." Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

“Are you sure?” He tilts his head, studying you with eyes that hold starlight and shadows. "You followed my song across half the city. Left your friends mid-mission. That sounds like playing to me."

Heat rises in your cheeks. He's right, and you hate that he's right. "Answer me. Why do you know me?"

He steps closer curiously, like he's watching a flower bloom in real time. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

"All those summer nights when you'd sneak out just to hear me play." His voice drops to a whisper. "The way you'd fall asleep in my arms while I hummed that exact melody."

Your heart stutters. The exact melody that's been haunting your dreams for months. "That's impossible. I would remember—"

"You would remember me, wouldn’t you?" He reaches out, fingers barely grazing your cheek.

You should pull away, you know you should put distance between you and this stranger who claims to know your past. But his touch feels familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

"You haven't changed. Well, except for the blade." His gaze drops to the weapon still trained on him. "You never needed those before."

"Before what? Before when?" Desperation creeps into your voice.

He smiles again, stepping back. "Don't remember me yet. It's more fun this way."

"Fun?" The word explodes from you. "You think this is fun? I'm losing my mind trying to figure out who you are, and you think it's entertaining?"

"I think," he says, moving towards the broken window, "that some things are worth waiting for. Some mysteries are sweeter when they unfold slowly."

Moonlight catches in his dark hair as he pauses at the window's edge. "Besides, you always did love puzzles. You used to spend hours on them when you couldn't sleep."

Another piece of impossible knowledge. Another fragment that feels true but shouldn't exist. "How do you know that?"

"I know lots of things about you." His grin turns wicked. "You bite your lip when you're thinking too hard. You always eat the corners of sandwiches first. You used to trace constellations on my back with your fingertips."

Your weapon wavers. "Stop."

"Why? Does it hurt to remember what you've forgotten?"

"I haven't forgotten anything. I don't even know who you are." But even as you say it, phantom sensations ghost across your fingertips.

"Liar." He says it fondly. "You remember pieces. Little fragments that visit you in dreams. That's why you followed the melody tonight."

He's right again. You hate that he's right again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, preparing to slip through the window.

"Wait—" The word tears from your throat. "At least tell me your name."

He pauses, half-silhouetted against the night sky. "You'll remember it when you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready? What if I never remember?"

For a moment, his smile falters. Vulnerability flickers across his features. "You will. You have to."

He turns to leave, but moonlight catches his profile at just the right angle. Your breath hitches. Along his temple, barely visible unless you know what to look for, the faint outline of demonic markings. Intricate patterns that shimmer like oil on water, there one second and gone the next.

Your training kicks in before your heart can catch up. The weapon in your hands shifts, finger finding the trigger. He's a demon. You're a hunter. The math is simple.

His hair shifts slightly, and for just a moment, you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the strands.

"You see it now," he says quietly. "The monster I am.”

Your finger hovers over the trigger. This is what you've trained for. What you've dedicated your life to. But something deep inside you hesitates.

Your hand trembles. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.

"Tomorrow," he says again, stepping towards the window. "When you remember who we were, you'll understand why I can't fight you. Why I'll never fight you."

In the blink of an eye, he's gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his voice, that phantom melody, and the terrible knowledge that you just let a demon walk away.

You land back on the balcony, chest heaving. The sliding door opens before you can compose yourself. Rumi, Mira, and Zoey spill out, eyes wide with panic.

"Where were you?! We've been searching everywhere—"

"Can we go tomorrow instead?" Your voice sounds foreign. "I don't feel great."

They exchange loaded glances. Eventually Rumi nods. "Of course. Rest is part of prep too."

You turn away before they can see the cracks spreading across your composure and witness how your hands shake.

That night, your bed feels like a battleground. The melody plays on repeat behind your closed eyes. Each note carries weight you can't name and memories you can't quite grasp.

The mystery of it all pressed against your mind. What past did you share? Why couldn't you remember?

Mystery himself seemed to revel in the unknowing, content to watch you struggle with fragments of what you'd once been to each other.

BABY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Something was wrong with your hands.

They'd been trembling since you left the dorm, and no amount of clenching your fists or pressing them against your thighs could make it stop. Rumi's words echoed in your head like a mantra you couldn't shake, "Don't let his face fool you. They're still dangerous demons working for Gwi-Ma nevertheless."

Pictures of the Saja Boys were already circulating online in less than a day. Five demons who'd seemingly appeared overnight, stealing the hearts and souls of your fans.

"Ugh, I’m going to beat their stupid pretty little faces," Zoey had said, tapping the images with her pen. "Seriously, look at them! Acting all mysterious and brooding like they're in some kind of boy band. I mean—they are… but look! The internet's already making fan edits—fan edits! Of demons!" She'd gestured wildly at her tablet, where countless social media posts were flooding in by the minute. "Half the comments are people asking where they can meet them. It's insane!”

You'd barely heard her. Your eyes had been drawn to one face among the five, sharp features that still held traces of boyish softness.

His face had made your chest tighten with recognition, like looking at a stranger who wore the face of someone from a half-remembered dream.

Why did he feel familiar?

The neighbourhood around you was a study in urban decay, half the buildings scheduled for demolition, the other half already hollow shells. You decided to turn a corner and came across an abandoned playground.

You knew this place.

You stopped mid-step at the chain-link gate. The monkey bars where someone had scraped their knee. The slide with the chip in the yellow paint. The bike rack, now empty and listing to one side like a broken rib.

This was from your dreams. Or maybe...

"Didn't expect you to come."

The voice drifted from somewhere behind the playground equipment with an edge that made your hand move instinctively to your weapon. You'd heard that voice before, in fragments that scattered whenever you tried to grasp them.

"Show yourself," you called, stepping through the gate. The metal squealed in protest, the sound echoing off empty buildings like a warning.

He laughed mockingly. "Still giving orders, I see."

He emerged from behind the slide, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night. He looked barely out of his teens, with features that still held traces of boyish softness despite the hard set of his jaw.

"You always had a thing for chasing monsters," he said, tilting his head as he studied you with uncomfortable intensity. Those dark eyes flickered, darting away from your face as if looking directly at you caused him physical pain.

"How do you know me?"

Baby shrugged with affected indifference. "Lucky guess."

The way he held himself like he was trying very hard not to care, made anger flare in your chest. "That's not an answer."

He kicked at a piece of broken glass, sending it skittering across the asphalt. "Maybe you're just forgettable."

The casual cruelty in his voice should have stung. You drew your blade, silver gleaming in the late afternoon light.

"Are you going to come quietly, or do we have to do this the hard way?"

Baby looked at the weapon, then back at your face. For a moment, vulnerability flickered across his features before he crushed it down.

"Do what the hard way?" He stepped closer, invading your personal space with reckless confidence. "Fight me? Kill me?" His voice dropped, a hint of intimacy laced inside, bitter amusement threading through each word. "You wouldn't be the first to try."

You raised the blade between you, but instead of stopping, he knocked it aside with casual violence, the metal ringing as it struck the nearby swing set. Before you could recover, he was on you, crowding you back against the chain-link fence with predatory grace.

"I waited for you, you know," he said, one hand braced against the fence beside your head, effectively trapping you. "Stupid thing to do when you're a kid."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. "What?"

His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The touch was rough, but not enough to hurt.

"You really don't remember," he said, his laugh sharp enough to cut. "How convenient."

"Remember what?" The desperation in your voice made you flinch, but you couldn't take it back.

"Us." The single word fell between you, sending ripples through memories you couldn't quite grasp. "This place. The promises you made."

You tried to push him away, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the fence. His grip was careful despite his aggression, strong enough to hold you, gentle enough not to bruise.

"You died," he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact. "And I had to grow up. Happy now?"

The world tilted sideways. Images flashed through your mind like broken film, a boy with tears streaming down his face, small hands clutching yours, a voice promising forever, all turned into ashes now.

"I'll never leave you."

The words rose from deep in your throat. Baby's eyes snapped to yours, wide with… hope, if hope weren't such a dangerous thing for creatures like him to carry.

"You broke your promise first," he whispered, and the accusation send a chill down your spine.

You stumbled when he finally released you, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache was spreading like cracks in ice. Baby stepped back, flexing his fingers, trying to forget the feel of your skin.

"I don't—" You shook your head, struggling to make sense of the fragments flashing through your mind. "I don't understand."

"No," Baby said, his mask completely slipping. "You never did understand. You were always too good for this world."

He kicked your fallen blade across the asphalt, the metal scraping against concrete. "That's why you had to die, isn't it? Pure things don't last in places like this."

The words were bitter, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. He turned away quickly, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Next time we meet, I won't be nice," he said without looking back.

"Please, wait—"

He froze at the sound of your plea, shoulders going rigid. You thought he might turn around. Instead, he let out a short and humourless laugh.

"Begging now? Huh, pathetic."

H walked away, each step deliberate and final. Just as he reached the edge of the playground, he stopped.

"The songs," he said quietly, not turning around. "Those stupid lullabies you used to sing when I had nightmares. I still—"

He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head.

"Forget it. Forget everything."

He simply walked away down the empty street like any other person with anywhere else to be. You watched until he turned the corner and vanished from sight, leaving you alone with your forgotten blade and the sound of wind through rusted swings.

You picked up your weapon with trembling hands, but the silver felt cold and foreign now, it now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @reibelhearts @kjwluvr @arieslucy @permanenceimp @arienic

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likeastars · 18 hours ago

Text

The way the visuals convey the story here.

This is the moment where Sua understands. She understands that Mizi has been in the know all along. I think she kind of knew the whole time this is the moment where it is confirmed, because Mizi is probably trying to stop her. Look at her. She lost the one and only reason to get on that stage. All of her practice rendered worthless.

So she puts her hand over Mizi's mouth.

She's asking for silence. She's putting an end to the conversation. She doesn't want Mizi to try and save her, because saving her is her whole reason of being. She's asking for ignorance. And Mizi is great at it.

So she agrees.

She's going to keep pretending.

And that's the only way Sua gets her smile back.

#alien stage #mizisua #alnst sua #alnst mizi #oh i hat them so much. stupid fucked up codependent making me feel emotions and shit #alnst #ALSO THE WAY MIZI IS ALWAYS SO FUCKING GENTLE WITH SUA. OUUUGHHHHH

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nekonaps0 · 3 days ago

Note

Ok. This is the first time in a long time I asked someone for something on Tumblr.

What if the Housewardens/dorm leaders found out that Female MC is the daughter of the goddess of Love and Beauty. Aphrodite!

I’ll totally understand if you don’t feel like doing this. I’m like so nervous. ;-;

Your little high and mighty

✦fem!reader

✦characters: dorm leaders

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was already struggling with how effortlessly you turned heads. You were always so graceful, eloquent, heart-stoppingly lovely… and he hated how flustered he got in your presence.

But when Crowley casually mentions your divine heritage during a Housewarden meeting, Riddle nearly drops his teacup.

“A-Aphrodite?! You’re her daughter?! That’s why everyone becomes irrational around you…”

He goes red to the tips of his ears.

He spends the next week rereading Every Magical Law About Deities & Demigods, trying not to look at you too long or think about how good you looked the last time you smiled at him.

Eventually, he admits to himself

“It makes sense. You’re love incarnate… no wonder I couldn’t help falling.”

Leona Kingscholar

He always knew there was something dangerous about you. The way you walked, spoke, smirked at him, everything about you screamed temptation. He told himself you were just annoying.

But when Jack slip your parentage after accidental.

Leona stares. Blinks. Scoffs.

“Makes sense. Aphrodite’s kid, huh? Guess that explains why every guy in this school loses their damn mind around you.”

He acts cool, but the knowledge kills him. Now every time he looks at you, he can't help but imagine you lounging on some cloud in a silk robe, dripping in divine perfume.

He starts avoiding you.

…Only to later press you into a wall with a growl:

“Tell me right now, herbivore—did you use your mom’s powers to mess with my head, or is this just how you are?”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul always prided himself on control, charm, and strategy.

So why did he fumble words every time you got close? Why did the lounge fill to bursting on days you worked a shift there?

Then one night, Floyd lets it slip:

“Shrimpy’s a demigod~! Her mama’s that hot love lady~!”

Azul spills his drink. His first reaction is panic.

“Does this mean I signed a business contract with a goddess’s daughter?! Oh Seven…”

He spirals. Hard.

But once he calms down, it all clicks—your allure, your emotional intelligence, your strange way of getting even the most stubborn eel to obey. Eventually, he shyly pulls you aside.

“I… I hope you don’t think I treated you differently because of your heritage. It’s just… you’ve always been radiant.”

Idia Shroud

Idia almost short-circuits. He learns about your divine heritage through an obscure, outdated wiki link Ortho finds—and immediately spirals.

“This is a love interest route I’m not leveled for!! She’s literally part of the Olympic pantheon!”

He becomes too afraid to talk to you, convinced you’re out of his league. He avoids eye contact, stammers more than usual.

Eventually, you confront him with a smile and a soft,

“You don’t have to treat me like a goddess, you know.”

He turns neon pink.

“T-Too late! You’ve already unlocked my heart’s hidden event!”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is intrigued. A goddess’s daughter? A being who understands the weight of lonely legacy?

He’s not threatened, he’s fascinated. Your aura has always glowed in ways beyond the human, and now that he knows why… he feels closer to you.

“Daughter of Aphrodite… I wonder, does your magic rival mine?”

There’s a strange kinship in your connection now, two ancient bloodlines drawn to one another.

“I, too, know what it means to live among mortals, yet never truly be one of them.”

And when he next kisses your hand, it lingers. Reverent.

“Let us walk this strange mortal world together, my radiant deity.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is the most excited of all. When he finds out from Jamil (who knew, but definitely didn’t want to say), Kalim literally gasps and nearly trips over himself.

“That’s AMAZING!! No wonder you’re so kind and beautiful! Your mom’s literally the goddess of love?!”

He starts calling you “goddess” playfully, and showers you in compliments and gifts.

He never treats you differently, but he’s constantly in awe.

“Can I ask what love magic feels like? Do you sparkle? Is there, like, a divine aura?”

The truth is… he’s always been in love with you. He just didn’t realize how fitting that was until now.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil suspected it.

No mortal girl should have skin that glows without highlight or lashes like that naturally beautiful. You were natural perfection, and it irritated him—until it fascinated him.

When your divine lineage becomes public? He’s quiet for a long moment, then simply says:

“So. You’re Aphrodite’s daughter. Hmph. I suppose. It’s explains a lot.”

He plays it off like it doesn’t affect him, but he’s watching you more closely now—studying you. Trying to understand how you walk that fine line between allure and divinity so effortlessly.

Eventually, he pulls you aside.

“Let’s have tea. I want to know more about your mother’s beauty rituals… and you. You fascinate me, potato.”

..............................................................................................................................

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jyunhology · 2 days ago

Text

oh, honey lady ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ smg (m)

summary: when you get stood up and cancelled on one too many times, your friend takes it upon herself to get you to enjoy a night out. but you’re faced immediately with the source of your woes pressed up to another and a bartender who catches on quickly. the latter offers to dance with you; will you say yes?

a/n: have been getting a lot of feels for mingi lately .. i blacked out n wrote this aft watching the recent ateez whodunnit because jesus christ that man looked FINE acting as a bartender.

wc: 6.1k

warnings: MINORS DNI!!!! bartender!mingi, softdom!mingi, sub!reader, reader's (ex) bf is a loser, reader lowkey traumatised from her (ex) bf, mingi is very understanding, consumption of alcohol (however, they’re not drunk during the deed, just a little tipsy), grinding in a public space (a club lol), lots of teasing, oral (f! receiving) / cunnilingus, fingering, praise, use of pet names (baby, honey, doll), bit of fluff in the middle, clit stimulation, unprotected p -> v sex (pls wrap it up irl), creampie, slight aftercare, mingi is so soft and patient with reader .. ❤️

No matter how much you knew this wasn’t your fault, you still can’t help but find fault with yourself — looks, personality, fashion. You passed it off the first time as something akin to a mistake, a miscalculation with the overtime your boyfriend, Hyunjae, had to do because of his recent promotion.

With mumbled apologies into your hair and fairly enjoyable sex, you thought everything between you both was going to be okay. It was just one dinner date, plus, he made it up to you with a fancy trip over the weekend and several, impressive gifts.

But you think you should’ve known better, because it happened a second time not even a month later, and the cycle repeats itself: sin, repent, and fall back into temptation all over again.

The only mistake you were making was thinking too highly of Hyunjae, assuming temptation was reports and hard work for extra cash, and not having a fucking affair with another woman in the printing room.

By the time the third incident came around, your friend was quick to propose a night out the next day despite your protests, but you know it came from a place of love. With the way she comforted you with memes and funny reels and words of advice, you realised it was the first time you’ve laughed since the supposed dinner at seven.

Ignoring the sinking dread settling in your heart the next afternoon, you shoot a simple ill be out late tonight to Hyunjae before dragging your body out of bed. You moved on autopilot, then, choosing not to acknowledge that he didn’t even return last night, preoccupying yourself instead with picking out your outfit.

And it was easy enough with a clear vision in your head; you weren’t afraid to dress up even after getting together with Hyunjae. This time it wasn’t any different — miniskirt, a cute fitted top and boots — that you already felt a bit better upon arriving at a bar for some pregame. The alcohol felt good, the company was better, and the both of you were already giggling and tipsy when you entered the club.

“Isn’t this way better than crying over that dumbass?” Yunjin nudges you gently before offering you a small smile.

You sigh, “I guess. I just don’t want it to be a recurring thing and make you responsible every time.”

“At least you know your limit now,” She loops an arm around you to keep you close as you two walk deeper into the club. “Still, as much as I love you, it was difficult trying to get you out of the club because you’d only be talking in counts of 8.”

Ever the teasing friend, you nudge her back before breaking into laughter together, heading right to the bar for a lighter drink. It’s buzzing with orders left and right with the (possibly) poor newcomer trying his best to work the counter with all its confusing buttons. But he’s saved by another, a taller, more experienced bartender who was definitely carved by gods.

You try not to gawk, though, feeling guilty even when he shoots the two of you a small customer-service smile. “Give us a minute, alright? We’ll get to ya soon.” The moment he’s turned around, Yunjin shakes your arm excitedly.

“What? What?”

“Don’t ‘what?’ me! Tell me you didn’t see the way he was looking at you.”

“Yunjin…” You sigh. “You know Hyunjae and I aren’t broken up—”

“Yet.” She interrupts with that single word and you shoot her a half playful, half serious glare.

“Okay, but, I have no business looking at other people just ’cause I’ve been stood up thrice.” The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, recognising that it really didn’t sound good out loud.

“Yeah, but don’t you think those are enough times to call things off?” She faces you completely now with both hands on your arms, trying to look you in the eye while you shrink, flustered and a bit embarrassed at how easily you seem to crawl back to Hyunjae.

Because you felt that if you let this go, you’d never feel this way ever again, having someone else walking out your life again like clockwork.

Your fingers tense subconsciously; clenching, unclenching. You settle for taut hands to your friend’s, removing them with the little fight left in you. “Yunjin, can— can we please drop this for now? I came out to forget my boyfriend for a bit, and then I’ll go back home and everything will be f—”

But the universe has other plans for you, conversation cut short from the handsome bartender asking about your orders now.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies. What will you two be having?” In the midst of wiping his hands on the towel, he leans over the counter just as Yunjin gives her order, but you swear over the booming music, the bass reverberating, the screamed lyrics, you hear familiarity.

It’s funny how habitual you can become with someone; hearing that same laugh in your skin on slow mornings and during reruns of B99 that you can’t help but search the dancefloor frantically.

You weren’t even sure why you did it, but you think you were chasing that familiarity and safety of having someone even though they were shit at showing up.

But along the desperate scans you do with your eyes, you register that you were simply accustomed to having Hyunjae in your life, accustomed to coming back again to an empty house. Yet, you can’t even remember the last time you said I love you to him.

And always trust your gut, because that sinking feeling from earlier comes back tenfold when your eyes lock onto two people on the floor with bodies leaving no space.

Hyunjae has no qualms about getting caught, his hands roaming all over her body and practically grinding from behind that you feel your knees buckle a little.

“Yunjin…” The lights were too blinding, the music now too loud, but you don’t have to say anything to know she’s already helping you onto a bar stool. When she turns to where you were looking, her jaw tightens and wordlessly places a hand on your lower back.

You go through emotions, fast — denial, and then anger and then a hint of sadness. But what you’re mainly feeling is a thirst for revenge knowing he thinks you’re a coward, a girl desperate for love.

Maybe you are, and there’s nothing wrong with mourning what you had. Though, being cancelled on three times within two months and spewing lies about overtime, ignites your resolve easily.

All the while, the bartender watches the interaction carefully, skilled hands still able to fulfill people’s orders, but he’s got you and your boyfriend all figured out. Not that he meant to eavesdrop, though, exchanging a glance with your friend until you raise your head with unshed tears.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment. That your boyfriend?” He nodded in the general direction and had probably used that line countless times, but you give credit where credit’s due; he was attractive and didn’t choose to comment on your glossy eyes.

With semi-long hair, pretty moles and plump lips, you want to enjoy this seat a bit longer, proposing a silly idea as you nod.

“Ex-, now. Do you have any chance to get them both kicked out?” You smile, small and unsure, but he replies with an even sweeter smile laced with sympathy that makes your heart skip just a little.

“No can do. If he’s not causing trouble, our bouncers have no reason to throw him out. Sorry, ladies.” For a moment, he’s back to being professional and tries not to steal glances at you as you blink away tears and attempt to appear unaffected.

He serves the drinks he’s already made, helps the counter boy again with orders until he hears your friend beg again when he comes ’round to your side.

“Oh please, Mr Bartender!” He raises an eyebrow, eyes trained on the both of you while capping his shaker before shaking. You purse your lips teasingly despite your blurred vision and the heat on your cheeks, “She can be pretty persuasive.” God, you didn’t even know what you were feeling at the moment.

He shrugs. “Well, tell you what — I get off my shift in about fifteen, and you’re looking for some retribution. Why don’t we do a little dance of our own?”

With a sigh, you ponder over your cards — Hyunjae might be pleasantly surprised and you’d end up with a hot bartender in your arms to boot. But if this is only going to leave a hole in your heart after everything, what really was the point?

“It’s your call, doll. If you’re still holding this,” He holds up a slim piece of metal that matches the club’s colours with its letters engraved in stark white, “by the time I come back, I’m taking you onto the floor for a dance. Deal?”

It’s dropped into your palm before you flip it over, running a thumb over the debossed name.

“Mingi.”

“You got it.” Mingi gives you a dazzling grin and a wink while you stifle a smile.

You spend the next ten minutes debating your options that you can’t count the amount of times Yunjin had to get your attention back on her. Revenge sounded delicious before.

Now? Now you’re waddling deep in doubt, worried about the aftertaste; all you wanted was to go home and sleep this whole thing off. Even the name tag was weighing heavy in your hand.

But the late nights cooking dinner, sitting alone at restaurants and the sheer indifference Hyunjae’s currently dancing with, did you in.

If you were chickening out only so someone this terrible stays, then you might regret this single night with someone else who already has shown you more respect than Hyunjae ever did.

The music is a bit clearer to you, now, and less suffocating as you call out to the bartender with five minutes left until his shift ends. You play with the pin at the back, unfastening and popping it back into place repeatedly.

“I’ll take a Lemon Drop.” A knowing smile, a swipe of your card, sugar sweet on your lips. It hits great, and with a bit of liquid courage in you, you wait.

Mingi is quick to show up by your side a few minutes later, but he manages to take your breath away all over again with a more casual look.

Jewellery, messy hair and unbuttoned shirt down to his pecs that gives you a glimpse of a pretty little pendant resting nicely on his chest and rings adorning his fingers.

“Care for a dance?” His deep voice up close already has your stomach turning, opening your hand to show how you still had his name tag and he grins. “Keep it for now.”

You barely hear the whisper into your ear, but without any second thought you place your hand in his, the metal of his rings sending shivers right up your arm and down your spine. A faint cheer from Yunjin encourages you on, already feeling the addicting beats of the music playing.

Mingi is considerate above all else, looking back to see if you were still there, clearing a path for the both of you until you’re a few bodies away from Hyunjae. But standing out here now brings another wave of panic and embarrassment.

You were really about to do this, but—

What if he doesn’t like the way you danced? What if he’s a clean freak and would rather not have his hands over your already sweaty sides? What if Hyunjae creates a scene?

The thoughts are never-ending, swirling in your mind until you can feel Mingi’s hand enclose around your other hand, halting you from adjusting your outfit, from scratching at your skin.

It’s hot, too crowded for a dance floor and he knows that you’re nervous again with the increased proximity to your boyfriend.

Without words, Mingi brings your hands to rest on his shoulders. “Is this okay?”

You nod. Bodies beside you cause you to inch closer to him and his hair is so soft. Your tongue tingles from the lemon’s sourness and you want nothing more than to balance it out with his mouth that smells of rum.

“Hey, I realise I haven’t gotten your name just yet.” The smile he has isn’t teasing, cocky, and you manage a small one back. He leans down to get your answer.

“It’s (Y/N).”

“Pretty. Follow my lead.”

And slowly but surely, you get out of your shell as you both lose all formality with the ear-splitting songs. The cocktail makes your hands wander, trailing over his nape, over his broad shoulders. He still hovers.

You don’t know whether it’s Mingi, the dim lighting or the song but you don’t hesitate to force his hands to your sides and he takes it as a sign.

He’s pulling you close until you’re pressed to his front, head immediately going for your exposed neck, and the laugh that escapes feels so different from Hyunjae, so free that you giggle with him.

It turns from wanting to Hyunjae to see you could do so much better to genuinely enjoying your time with the bartender that you don’t register the shock forming on Hyunjae’s face when he spots you just a few people over. Mingi doesn’t miss it, squeezing your waist softly to bring it to your attention.

“B-babe? What’re you doing here?” He acts like he doesn’t even know the girl dancing with him, yanking her off of him as he tries to preserve his dignity. But you knew better — you’ve seen her face at company dinners, on his Instagram story.

“Why are you here?” He sputters out an answer, not expecting you to fight back. Hyunjae’s smaller than ever now.

The bartender resists the urge to scoff at his lack of explanation, about to tell him to piss off when you push at Hyunjae with a finger. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Witnessing you and the girl you told me not to worry about. Talking crap about overtime just to fuck her in your workplace.”

“W-What? That’s bullshit, where’d you even get that from?!”

Thank God for Mingi’s Lemon Drop, because you shove Hyunjae harder than before, angering the people behind him who push him back towards you.

“Guess you’ll never find out how. Get your shit out of my apartment and leave before tomorrow morning or else I’ll be telling your boss about inappropriate workplace conduct.”

Hyunjae rolls his eyes and waves you off, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I hope the job market’s ready for someone who promised overtime hours only to soil the printing room. Keep checking your emails babe.” You purposefully drag out the pet name he likes to use on you, which now sounds cheap and tacky. Mingi can’t help a cackle from escaping, tugging you closer as if you’re his.

And you might just be by the end of this night.

Hyunjae doesn’t bother to one-up the bartender one bit, only throwing Mingi a scowl before elbowing himself through the crowd. Unknowingly, your body relaxes, melting into the other’s arms easily and wanting nothing more than to turn off your brain for the night. It makes Mingi smile.

You’re bolder when the night deepens. It starts with running your hands down his chest and grasping softly at his waist. There’s whispered lyrics into your skin, letting him trail kisses down your jawline to your sternum and you feel like you’re on top of the world.

His body’s flush against yours, tensing and breathing hard. The heat’s suffocating and the kisses sweet, hovering over just where you both need each other desperately.

“Heard you’re a dancer,” Mingi mumbles, sneaky hands going past your hips to your ass and kneads. You laugh.

“You heard whatever Yunjin said? It was one time,” You reminisce about the time you went out for her birthday before getting shit-faced drunk and talking to her only in counts, “and she was struggling to understand what I was saying.”

It takes a beat for you to take the leap. “Want me to show you?”

A pretty laugh leaves his lips, “Your dancing or your innate ability to only talk in eights?”

Fuck, he’s handsome and funny.

“Har-har, very funny.” The moment’s playful but charged with underlying tension that only increases once the song changes. With a hand, you lift his head from your neck, taking advantage of his surprise to turn around.

Pushing up against him, you make sure he’s feeling every part of your ass on him, swaying your hips until you get a small groan from him. Tempted, Mingi places his hands along your waist, helping you grind down on him while arousal pools in your panties.

He’s enamoured with how well you fit against him, even more so when you lace your fingers with his, tugging one up to rest on your chest.

He takes the bait with how you turn your head, boasting your pretty lips with eyes closed. But you’re not letting him get what he wants that easily, finger pressed against his lips.

“Did the Lemon Drop do this, hm?” He’s back on your neck like it’s his home, slurring his words in that deep, deep voice of his that you want nothing more than to hear that for the rest of your life (and hopefully in your bed tonight).

“Maybe.” You can’t help but chuckle triumphantly, but it’s cut short when he suddenly yanks you back to his front; shit, you can feel his hard-on — he’s big.

You subconsciously gulp and pull him closer (not without a mildly surprised “oh”), overwhelmed with the feeling of his chest against yours, of his hips moving in tandem with yours, of his breath on your lips.

“I’m full of surprises, too.”

“That was so corny.” Biting your lip, you try to stifle a smile but it bleeds out past your lips, “You’re lucky I still want to fuck you.”

“Aw, only fuck?” He feigns sadness as he bats his eyelashes at you. That question probably would’ve made you think twice, but with Mingi’s little pout, the vodka in your system and Rihanna in the background, you throw all complicated feelings out the window.

“Shut up, Mingi.”

That elicits a low chuckle. “Gladly.”

He collides with you immediately, lips moulding into yours like two parts of a whole that you stumble a bit from the force. But you waste no time in reciprocating with neediness of your own, tugging him down to you with hands tangled in his black hair.

You could care less about your ex, about Yunjin excitedly texting you from the bar, nor the people around you.

Not when Mingi’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and your pussy’s just desperate for relief that you moan softly into his mouth.

“God, you sound pretty,” He pulls away for air, but he’s already hooked onto your taste, leaving pecks on your lips again and again. His hands rest comfortably on your sides, caressing, squeezing. “Need to hear that in my sheets.”

You mutter a soft fuck before licking your lips, “Your place?”

Mingi hums into your lips, “You have my name tag, baby. It’s up to you,” and grins when he sees you jolt. The pet name affects you. He knows.

Fuck it. You need this man now.

With a quick text to Yunjin, everything that happens on the way to Mingi’s doesn’t exist. The ride was both a torment and a blur when his hand trails so closely to where you need him and his hips adjust uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. You’re so horny that you’re sure you’ve sobered up already.

You lunge forward once the front door’s closed, eagerness undermining both your abilities to remove your shoes, too preoccupied with devouring the other.

Mingi tastes like sage and citrus, a flavour you’ll keep locked away forever; he breaks the kiss reluctantly, and that taste travels down your body, taking his time.

Mingi’s anything but composed, though, larger hands wrapped around your middle while he takes in your scent and sweat, nose pressed against your heaving stomach.

Just a mere bartender, a one-night stand acting like a lover when he fully goes onto his knees and zips open your boots. Torturously, agonisingly slow, and removes them even slower.

By the time the second shoe’s off, your hand has already messed up his hair. You push him to you, he pulls back.

“It’s my time to tease, doll. Patience.” You whine softly in disagreement, letting him plant soft kisses along your ankle, up to your shin and knees and finally your inner thighs that threaten to tighten in his hold.

“Mingi…” You don’t mean to sound so desperate off the bat, but your cunt’s pulsing and the AC’s sending goosebumps all over your skin and possibly the hottest man alive is on his knees in front of you.

“Fuck, baby, I can smell you from here.” Like a gentleman, he helps you to shimmy out of your miniskirt and underwear before tossing it somewhere and you’re suddenly self conscious about being all exposed.

But Mingi simply doesn’t care about decorum as he lifts your leg, prompting you to place it on his shoulder. He marvels at your arousal illuminated by the doorway lighting, stifling a moan.

“Look at you.” Sighing, he plays with your folds, trailing a finger up and down and smirking when he feels you shiver under his touch. “So perfect. All this for me?”

“Y-Yeah, just for you,” Your words are muffled from your hand, trying to hold back your sounds but Mingi isn’t having any of that. He thinks your ex-boyfriend may have something to do with it.

“Let me hear you, alright, honey?” Mingi takes your hand and interlocks it together with his, a promise that you’ll be the star tonight. “We’re safe here, there’s no need to hold back.”

You nod just as he blows into your cunt, making you clench around nothing and he smiles. “For now, let me eat my meal.”

And Mingi eats, convincing yourself that you’ve definitely driven a hole through his shoebox cabinet with how hard you were leaning against it. Your hips buck against his face, tongue flicking over your clit as you relish in the pleasure.

“Oh my G-God, Mingi…” You can barely hold eye contact with him as he latches onto your pussy like a vice, addicted to your taste, your sounds and how you drip endlessly all over his tongue.

“That’s it, doll, tell me how good you feel.” Mingi continues to inch closer on his knees, trapping himself under your thighs as his tongue works wonders.

With an experimental finger, he circles your pulsing hole and pushes in ever so slightly, making you almost keel over from the overwhelming feeling.

“Fuck, Mingi, that feels so—!” Your moans fill his house together with the lewd sounds of your pussy, feeling the vibrations of his hums on your sensitive clit. His thumb plays with it as he comes up for air, adding a second finger easily before starting to pump them with determination.

“That feel good?” He’s brutal in his thrusting, but it’s not even a minute when he returns with his merciless tongue again, swearing that you were seeing stars from this alone.

If Mingi was this pussy drunk, who knows how you’d feel when he’s in you? You tremble at the thought, fingers pulling at his hair until it stings.

But Mingi loves it, loves seeing your eyes flutter close and your toes curl in sheer pleasure as the prettiest mewls fall from your lips. You’re full on grinding into his face now, holding onto his hand like a lifeline, while there’s the audible slick sounds of your juices.

It’s hotter than it was on the dance floor, and fully knowing you’d be buckling to the ground if it wasn’t for Mingi’s secure hold on you. Because you can feel yourself getting weaker and weaker the more the coil in your stomach turns, clamping down hard on his fingers.

“I-I’m close, baby—” Your words slip, every part of your body tingles and he pants out a plea.

“Call me that again for me, doll.” He’s ravishing you, ruining you for any other person and you wouldn’t have it any other way. His rings feel so cold on your cunt, while his mouth’s hot and he’s dizzy off of you.

“Gonna cum, baby,” If your friend couldn’t understand you while drunk, Mingi’s chest puffs with pride making you babble nonsensical things while you’re both tipsy with his name being the only coherent thing, “Mingi, Mingi, Mingiiii.”

The name becomes a chant together with needy whines that’s drowned out by your soaking pussy. Mingi lets the force of his palm stimulate your clit instead, and the visual of seeing him on his knees with this tongue out—

“F-fuck…” Your orgasm hits you in sudden waves, sending you jerking against his hold even when his fingers don’t slow down, “Feels s’good, Mingi—”

“There we go, baby, keep cumming… Taste just like honey.” Mingi groans and drives his tongue along your folds for a taste, but now he takes and takes, savouring whatever you have to give. Sweeter than his Lemon Drop, you taste so heavenly that he wants seconds.

But you have other plans, trying your best to regain your balance and simultaneously drag him up by the biceps. Mingi traps you in between the cabinet, and you trap him with a passionate kiss. Moaning into his mouth at your taste while he soothes your aching thighs with his gentle touch.

“Bed. Now.” Your cheeks warm as he laughs against your lips at your request.

“You got it, doll.” With a hand outstretched, you grab hold and let him lead you just like the club. Along the way, you slip on your underwear just so you won’t be butt ass naked and he throws you a small smile. Except this time, you’re not performing for anyone, not for Hyunjae, not for yourself, and hopefully not for Mingi.

Though, if riding Mingi’s tongue had you thrashing left and right, you think you’d be safe, knowing he’ll take care of you.

His room feels strangely familiar — posters and records plastered up everywhere with a portable closet and pretty lights. There’s a few guitars in cases with one displayed proudly while his desk is littered with cute trinkets and a gaming set-up. It’s a lived-in bedroom, worn down from years of tape on walls and accidents from silly dance moves.

“Hard to believe I’m an adult with this room, huh?”

You smile at him, finding it endearing he’s still kept his hobbies and favourite things close to him. “No no, it’s charming. I like it.”

You continued, “I don’t think having a ‘serious’ job like bartending immediately eliminates your other hobbies.”

Mingi shoots you that boyish grin again, “You think my job’s ‘serious’?” and mimics your air quotes.

“Well, you are handling alcohol — it seems pretty serious, don’t you think?” There’s no choice but to giggle when Mingi’s expression turns from all-knowing to pondering. “And— And there’s always the usual brooding persons that come in to vent their problems to you.”

Mingi bursts out laughing at that with an attractive rasp to it, plopping on his Queen size. “You’re not wrong about that. I guess I’m sort of like a therapist too.”

Like a magnet, you feel the pull into his arms just as he whispers a c’mere, finally able to see his face properly when you stand in between his legs.

The glistening juices on the bottom half of his face make you flush just a bit, but up close, Mingi feels so familiar. Not the way Hyunjae was — that was habit disguised as familiarity.

But despite your unconfirmed fate and the possibility of never seeing Mingi again, he enchants like no other. Fuck, you were talking crazy.

The other seems to see your dilemma, reaching for your hands. “We don’t have to do anything, you know?”

His touch is so tender, it makes your heart ache, “I know we only danced to scare off your boyfriend but I genuinely did want to know you. And… I know you feel it too, but I don’t wanna pressure you after seeing such a shitty thing in the club.”

“You’re… not wrong, Mingi. It has been only a few hours and you’ve already made me feel more worth than he ever did but, I’ll need time to process my feelings too.”

Slowly, you remove your hands from his but only to straddle him in the next second, whining softly when he tugs you closer if that was even possible.

“But tonight, I want you to fuck all the feelings out of me. I don’t wanna think, I don’t wanna—” You heave a heavy sigh, swallowing when you think back to Hyunjae and his colleague.

Mingi applies light pressure to your side to ground you. “(Y/N), hey, it’s no problem. Your wish is my command, tonight.”

“And after—”

“We’ll talk about the after later, don’t worry your pretty little head ’bout it.” You don’t even realise he’s flipped you over but he takes his time to remove his pants and boxers, ego stroked just a little when he sees your wide eyes at his size.

“You’re…”

“I know, baby. We’ll take it slow, alright?” Mingi is steady even as he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him.

“Wanna feel all of you.” He swears his heart bursts at your cute pout. “I’m clean and on the pill, that okay?”

“More than okay. I’m clean too. You sure you’re okay?” He asks as he tugs your panties to the side, interrupted briefly from your impatient hum.

“Yes, Mingi. Please just fuck me already.” Your voice is less bratty, more pleading, but it strikes a chord within him. He obeys immediately.

“Okay, okay!” His deep laugh elicits one out of you, too. At least you don’t stop him from taking the lube — he spurts a good amount and strokes himself with a soft grunt, mixing in with his pre-cum. Relief. “It’s gonna hurt. Need you to breathe and relax, okay?”

Mingi’s already much thicker than your ex, and you hiss slightly at the stretch once he inches his cock in. But it’s nothing you can take, eyes trained on how he’s pushing through slowly.

“F-Fuck, baby, you gotta stop clenching. So tight—” You whimper at the sight, but Mingi uses his body to push you down, distracting you with deep kisses that subconsciously relaxes your body. His intoxicating smell and presence does the rest of the job.

“Taking me so well, good girl.” He mumbles into your skin as you become obsessed with the way his body engulfs yours, towering but certain.

His pendant’s movements are messy, colliding with your chin over and over but Mingi is just so deep it doesn’t register in your head. “Just a little more, honey, you got it.”

In the next minute, Mingi’s loud groan fills your ears, bottoming out in your walls that feel so warm that he never wants to pull out.

His furrowed eyebrows with sweat lined along it paired with his beautiful parted lips is enough to make your cunt pulse and heart full — making a pretty man like him lose his mind over you, desperation and profanity spilling over.

“M-Move, baby, please—” With a slow thrust of his hips, he has to drop his head to yours because you just feel too fucking good wrapped around his aching length. Both your shaky breaths mingle as he sets a comfortable pace that allows you both to feel every part of the other.

And his languid movements have never felt slower and more intense, the obscene noises of your soaking pussy stuffed full reverberating off the walls. It surrounds you like a cloud, making the feeling, the sensations rise to an all time high.

It’s worse when Mingi folds your legs to your chest, the image of his shaft disappearing into your pretty little pussy searing itself into his brain.

Mingi keeps his promise to you, taking your one-worded pleas and turning them into repeated “ah’s” with no room for any word or any doubt left in your mind. By now, he’s pistoning in and out of you, your release from earlier merging with the lube until both you and Mingi are filthy and soaking, juices flowing down your thighs and right into his sheets.

“You’re so wet, holy f-fuck—” His eyes are the ones struggling to stay open now, drunk off of everything you that he can’t even move his hips properly, stuttering every now and then.

There’s the delicious squelches every time his skin meets yours, the dizzying pap! pap! pap! that hypnotises you. “Listen to how wet your sweet pussy is, baby.”

You’re past words, only babbling incoherence as Mingi grunts above you, continuing to fill you up with his cock. His thrusts start to turn erratic, so lost in the feeling that the grip on your legs loses its hold. You take the chance to wrap them around his waist, barely catching his pendant and yanking him towards you.

“Kiss me stupid, Mingi.” The long, drawn out moan against your lips sends heat bubbling up from inside you. And the kiss he lands on you leaves fire along your skin, burning indefinitely until a particular thrust has your eyes rolling back.

“Cumming— f-fuck—!” It comes out in broken sobs as you see white, cumming so hard on his pulsating length that your juices spray everywhere and your legs shake uncontrollably. The slight sheen along his cock starts to form a ring of white and he whines at your warmth.

Everything — the craving for you, your tight cunt, how you leak all over him — makes him cum right after. “I-I’m gonna pump you full, baby— shit…”

Your eyes can’t help but roll back again at the sensation of Mingi painting your insides white, cum spurting so deep in you that you can feel it flow out. It’s so warm that you squirm as he holds your hips down, making sure your hole gets every last drop.

Without pulling out, he admires your sweaty top that’s been pushed past your tits, your heaving chest and the remnants of your trembling thighs with a lip bite accompanied by a smile.

Silently, he caresses your outer thighs, slowly bringing your feet down to rest on his soaked sheets. You whimper when you feel him pull out, the salacious sight of cum leaking out from your pussy comes out in blobs; it takes everything in Mingi to compose himself.

Because you were utterly fucked out, eyes constantly blinking with a light-headed expression that tells him he might’ve fucked you dumb. Your little sounds are just adorable that he rubs his cum just one last time over your folds, claiming you.

“Okay okay, baby, I got you.” With a peck to your forehead, Mingi promises to come back with a wet rag and some water and the last thing you remember is sage and citrus wafting through the air as he plants a sweet kiss to your lips. “And then tomorrow, we’ll figure everything out, okay honey?”

You drift off easily, but you’ll find that for now and possibly forever, Mingi always keeps his promises.

A dream — you think, when you wake up, but you recognise that the bedroom is not yours and the ache in your body persists. But to your dismay, Mingi is nowhere to be found. Not until you hear faint humming coming from the kitchen and smell the lovely aroma of pancakes.

“Morning, baby.” Mingi says like you’ve always been in his life, like you’ve lived here for many years, like you’re familiar to him.

“Y-Yeah, good morning, Mingi.” Awkwardly, you take a seat at his island, but as you watch his broad back cooking breakfast for his one-night stand, you relax for a bit.

Mingi piles a few pancakes for you effortlessly, sliding the plate to you, followed by the butter and then holds up maple syrup in his left hand and honey in the other. The question is unsaid, but you nod towards his right with a small smile that’s returned.

“Eat.” With a plate in his hand as well, he plops down beside you as if one-night stands don’t complicate feelings and makes things messy.

But Mingi, the bartender, with a pure heart and even lovelier soul (you have yet to discover this), eats a meal beside you like you’re tied together by fate (maybe).

(You are).

Now, his deep voice sounds small, but sure. “And then we’ll talk feelings after. And we can talk about the ‘after’ after.”

A deep breath for good measure and luck. “And also maybe about the date I’d wanna bring you on.”

by. janus, from me to you ♡ also major thank you to this video which made me lose my mind n inspired this...

#ateez fanfic #ateez mingi #ateez x reader #ateez x you #ateez scenarios #ateez mingi smut #mingi smut #song mingi x reader #song mingi smut #song mingi x you #mingi x reader #mingi hard hours #ateez drabbles #ateez mingi x reader #ateez smut #song mingi fanfic #mingi ateez #mingi x you #song mingi ateez

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mrsbarnesblog · 3 days ago

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˖˚⊹ old habits

➤ summary: you call Rafe out when he acts disrespectfully

➤ w/c: 1.5k.

➤ warnings: themes of toxic masculinity, emotional confrontation

➤ a/n: really wanted to be a part of @zyafics campaign, and I hope that other writers will consider doing it too <3

masterlist

The thing between you and Rafe was still new and fresh—only a few times going out on dates, lingering touches, and way too many moments that were more than just friendly.

Since the first time you had met him, you thought that he had grown to be a better person. He tried to change some of his old habits to become more mature. And you truly saw that, and it was a reason why you even started to catch feelings. But there were still times when he struggled, when some of the traits of that old toxic Rafe were slipping through, either because it was too hard to control things that he had been taught from a young age or because he truly didn’t see himself being in the wrong.

That day he invited you to the new cafe near the beach on the mainland, saying that it was the best one. For you, Rafe was a gentleman. He picked you up, helped you to get in and out of his truck, complimented your dress and your hair, and let you hold his upper arm when he was leading you to the entrance.

He opened the door for you, and the place was dimly lit with yellow tones and just radiated warmth. It was a little bit too loud with people sitting everywhere, but if the place was good, you didn’t mind that one bit. You looked back at Rafe, sharing a smile, until the young hostess stepped in front of you.

“I’m so sorry, but as you may see, we’re full right now. You may sit here until one of the tables is free.” With a polite smile, she gestured to the side. “The waiting time will be around fifteen to twenty minutes, if that’s okay with you.”

You nodded to her words without hesitation. “That’s totally fine.”

But beside you, Rafe let out a small breath. Not quite a sigh, more like a scoff. He raised an eyebrow and looked the girl up and down with something colder in his expression than you would’ve preferred.

“You’re telling me you can’t fit two people in? It’s not even full in here.” She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, briefly looking at you to figure out how to react. Rafe’s voice wasn’t loud, but you knew how intimidating and cold he might be, especially to people who were not used to it.

“Rafe.” You said his name sharply, tugging his bicep once in hope that he would let it go.

He glanced at you, then back at the hostess, not getting the problem that you seemed to have. “We’re literally standing here, dressed nicely, just asking for a table. I’m not trying to be a dick. I'm just saying, you could make it work if you actually wanted to.” You didn’t wait for her to respond. You took a step back, slowly removing your hand from his arm.

“I’ll be outside.” You said. No emotion in your voice, hands already folded across your chest.

You sat at the bench outside, one leg thrown over another, looking at the ocean and debating just simply going back home. Rafe walked out a few minutes later, with hands buried in the pockets of his pants, looking at you like he genuinely could not understand your behavior.

“Are you seriously mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.” You said calmly, not even sparing him a glance.

“For what? I didn’t even say anything bad. She was the one who couldn’t do her job properly.”

Your head snapped towards him with eyebrows raised in surprise. “No.” You said sharply, taking him aback. “You were being an asshole because you didn’t get what you wanted. She was doing her job, Rafe.”

His brows knit. “Jesus, I wasn’t an asshole—I was just calling her out.”

“Calling her out for what, Rafe? For not breaking policy? For not giving you special treatment?” He looked away, jaw clenching. His hand reached his head to rub over his buzzed hair in frustration, while you simply looked at him, seeing the conflict that he had. Part of him clearly knew you were being reasonable, that he might’ve stepped over the line, but the rest of him, the louder part, wanted to be right. Wanted to win.

“I’m not dating someone who thinks talking down to people makes him important.” You said firmly, your voice low and calm but hard to let him know how serious that situation was for you. “That’s not cute. That doesn’t make you look cooler or whatever. That’s not something I tolerate.”

Rafe exhaled hard through his nose, briefly throwing his head back in frustration. “You’re making it sound like I screamed at her or something. I was just—I don’t know—frustrated.”

“Yeah, and she was working. Probably scared of losing her job because of kooks who talk down to her every day. Probably already dealing with a bunch of other men who think that they are better than everyone and that other people owe them something.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

You stood up, stepping closer with your heels softly clicking against the wood. You squinted your eyes slightly, tilting your head to the side now that you were almost the same height. “Do what?”

“Make me out to be some kind of monster.”

“I’m not.” You shot back. “But if you don’t like how I make you sound by just talking about your actions, maybe ask yourself why instead of getting defensive.”

The silence that followed stretched long between you. You crossed your arms tighter, mostly to keep yourself from softening, because, God, you wanted to. Because part of you knew that he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but still addressing the problem was important to prove to him that the said problem existed.

You watched the gears turning behind his eyes, jaw tight, hands buried deep in his pockets. He looked off toward the ocean like maybe the answer was out there, like it could help him to understand how to break the default settings that were engraved in his brain.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Rafe admitted finally, his voice quieter now, and you could hear the edge of hesitation. “I didn’t even notice I was doing it. That I was acting like…” He trailed off, and you knew what he meant. Like Ward.

“That’s the problem, Rafe.” You said softer now, but still steady. “You don’t even notice when you slip. I know that you’re trying to be better. I see it, but I also need you to acknowledge that sometimes you can still be mean, that sometimes you’re in the wrong. Otherwise we won’t work out.”

He looked at you then, as if hurt for a second, because for the part of him, it sounded like a threat or like a challenge that he didn’t want to accept.

“I don’t want to be that guy.” He said after a moment. “I’ve been trying. You know I have.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still standing here and not leaving.” You stepped closer, but you didn’t reach for him.

“But I’m not going to coach you through being a decent person every time you slip. You have to want it for yourself, not just to keep me happy, because I’m telling you right now, Rafe…” You met his eyes, staying your ground. “If that’s the man you choose to be, I will walk away. Even if I don’t want to.”

His throat bobbed in a nervous swallow, his eyes darted away, then back to yours, as if he was trying to measure if you were bluffing. And when a few seconds passed, when you looked at him steadily, waiting for an answer, he turned and walked back toward the café.

You watched him through the front windows when he hesitated near the hostess stand, tugging awkwardly at the expensive watch on his wrist, and then leaned in to speak to the girl. Her face was surprised at first, then softened as he continued to talk, before she nodded a few times, still slightly hesitant, and said something back to him.

When Rafe returned back to you, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little bit, though his jaw clenched when he rubbed the back of his neck and stopped in front of you like he wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I apologized. Told her I was out of line.”

You gave him a small nod. “Thank you.”

He shifted on his feet, nervous. “She said the table will be ready in ten.” You nodded again, waiting for him to continue. “You still wanna eat with me?” He asked, almost hesitant, like a boy who'd just been scolded.

“I do.” His lips stretched in a small smile, eyes glimmering with something like surprise and maybe a bit of shyness that you caught every once in a while. Rafe stepped closer, offering you his hand, and you playfully rolled your eyes, smiling back and interlacing your fingers. “Now I’m about to order the whole damn menu, Cameron. And it better be good.”

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cheftsunoda · 3 days ago

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novacane — ln4

lando norris x !model reader

smau + blurbs

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

fc : cindy kimberly

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

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

and i gave you angels a happy ending - ywwww

—

yn_ln

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

yn_ln : don’t let the high go to waste

—

view 225,090 other comments.

username000 : oh great she’s with lando AGAIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mwah mwah

carlossainz55 : ….no comment 😳

liked by yourusername and lando

bellahadid : mother 🧎‍♀️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : my poooooookie

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

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ username7 : nooooo so it is lando again.

charles_leclerc : mon dieu.

liked by yourusername and lando

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

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ lilymhe : its okay. i did too.

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

lando : always high on you.

liked by yourusername

—

flashback

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

present day…

f1gossipgirls

2,517,001 likes.

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

—

view 175,002 other comments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“You sure?” he asked like a formality.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

f1gossipgirls

2,709,112 likes.

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

—

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

“Is YN Letting Herself Go?”

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

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

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

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

It hit him too, differently. Sharper. Publicly.

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

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

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

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

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

You found each other in that silence.

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

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

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

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

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

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

And he just nodded.

“Same.”

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

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

And you replied, voice hollow but sure—

“Then let them choke.”

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

—

f1gossipgirls

2,101,001 likes.

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

—

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

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

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

When he texts you that week —

Come to the race. I need you here.

You almost cry. Because he never used to ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “Getting there.”

And then, “I’m glad you came.”

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

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

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

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

And into your hair, he whispers,

“We did it.”

You nod against his chest, eyes stinging.

“Yeah. We did.”

—

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

And it was working. Sort of.

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

But the truth was… you weren’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And beneath it, another message, sent hours later-

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Hi,” you manage.

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

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

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

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

The silence is brutal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

You stare at him, heart in your throat.

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

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

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

“Say something,” he whispers finally.

But you can’t.

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

—

You don’t have your phone anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For her. For me. For us.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you whisper.

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

And then he exhales. “You’re here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

You say it again. Slower. Truer.

“I love you, Lando.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You close your eyes and lean into his palm.

“I want that too.”

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

—

months later...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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idle-vapourings · 2 days ago

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This is so real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#personal log

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trinketstar · 1 day ago

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TADC THEORY!

I'm not 100% on this one... but it would be soooo devious..

Ok so their minds can be influenced by Caine. Ragatha was inebriated by the stupid sauce, Gangle's masks actually do influence her behavior to some extent (it might have been placebo/ false confidence but I'm leaning towards it being a genuine manic episode)

edit my friend reminded me Pomni literally got possessed too?? Biggest example and I forgot.

And now not only was Jax affected by the vote but it made him SAY THINGS he didn't want to.

With that in mind, I wanna look at Kinger.

Now Kinger's mind and memories deteriorated because he's been in the circus for likely 10+ years and faced the loss of his wife. Others in the circus have abstracted over less. It's understandable. But what if that's not the entire story?

Caine has been shown to be kinda impatient and self-serving with his adventure ideas. He wants to run the show entirely, like a spoiled kid. You're gonna have FUN and you're gonna do it HIS WAY.

Now for everyone else who happened to wander in while say, scoping out the place for a real estate sale or exploring for fun.. theyd have no idea how to handle this.

And for those who are more sensitive, it'd take even less to break them.

But if Kinger was one of the game devs, as has been implied, he would know a great deal about the inner workings of this place. He'd have an upper hand above the others. He'd try to change things.

And maybe Caine didn't like that!

(That's not the queen, it's a rook piece)

What I'm saying is, what if Kinger got nerfed on purpose? If this was Caine's way of "keeping him happy with the adventures" so Kinger wouldnt attempt to change the code or exploit in a way to escape when he first arrived? (I'm reminded of Benny from IHNMAIMS, the brilliant scientist that was turned into a caveman by AM.)

When he tells Pomni about Queenie, he's very calm. You can see how deeply he's hurt, but he's clearly grieved already. He can think back on it and find comfort in their last moments together. It's a level of acceptance that I don't think he'd be able to articulate if that really was the event that irreparably broke his mind. In fact, that's the event he holds onto in order to keep his sanity. But note that he can't remember how they ended up in the fort together.

ANYWAY this could just be a stretch since frankly Kinger has enough reasons to go insane on his own but WOULDN'T THIS BE TWISTY???

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc analysis

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carlyraejepsans · 6 hours ago

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Here's something I don't really understand. It's indisputable at this point that Toby Fox doesn't write flat characters. They contain layers upon layers and they--no matter how antagonistic they are--have their own wants and desires. This fandom had practically spent a few years symphathising with the EMAIL guy.

If it hasn't been proven already with every character ever made since UNDERTALE, then why exactly do some people think that Carol Holiday is going to be any different?

well misogyny first of all, people tend to treat women as irredeemable bitches even when they don't deserve it, let alone when they're shown to be cold and unpleasant people who are fucking shit up tremendously.

on some level i do think her writing (so far) has intentionally framed her actions in a way that calls to mind a stereotypical abusive parent. noelle's fawning (lol), her getting locked out of the house, the "don't talk to me or my daughter" threat, Susie bragging that she's taking noelle to the festival right in her face, telling noelle to wait for her in the kitchen. and of course, on top of that, you have... whatever the hell she's doing to leverage kris' help. very shady woman, clearly. she's meant to be terrifying and she nails it.

but the paper snowflakes just... stick to my mind so much. it's the code to translate every single one of her actions and her shortcomings. I've seen people imply she's physically abusive towards noelle, or that noelle remains locked out because she's "not important" or that carol favoured dess and it's like. man you're not even trying to pretend to be interested in what she's got going on, are you.

saying she doesn't care about noelle is ridiculous to me. i think it's all but explicit that she cares so obsessively and neurotically about even the most insignificant detail that she ends up failing the whole of her as her daughter.

she's dooming herself. at least that's what i see her as.

#answered asks #deltarune #carol holiday

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corrodedheartsclub · 3 days ago

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I’m Dumb She’s a Lesbian

Steddie. Modern au. Getting together. Platonic Stobin. 1685 words.

Steve’s used to people mistaking him and Robin as a couple. Unfortunately, he’s not used to Eddie’s form of problem solving.

After trying to explain to Eddie, without success, that him and Robin are purely platonic, he mistakenly admits that he did have a crush on her briefly, but once he knew it was never going to happen, they’ve become best friend. Platonic soulmates even.

“It’s honestly so for the best, Eddie. We weren’t meant to be a couple. We’re like cosmically linked on a whole other level.” Ok, Steve might be a little high, but he really believe him and Robin are meant to be in the most platonic way possible. He’s laying on Eddie’s bed, the joint their sharing nearly gone, and he can’t help the goofy smile that splits across his face. “Eddie, you know… I actually-”

“You guys are perfect together though! You’re always together, laughing and leaning on each other. How could there be no chance?” Eddie laments.

Steve shakes his head and groans, turning his face into the sheet. Eddie was hopeless.

“You’ve just gotta find the right timing.” Eddie doesn’t understand a world where anyone would shoot down this newly evolved Harrington. He’s perfect, and if Eddie can’t have him, he’ll make it his personal mission to get Steve and Robin together.

Steve’s watching him, wondering what the heck is going on in that head of his. Eddie was a mystery to him.

Kicking off his plan, Eddie starts by asking them to go to the movies, only to bail at the last minute. “I completely forgot I promised Wayne I’d help him work on the truck. I’m the worst, but no you guys should still go! Enjoy the movie!” He urges them on.

They sit through a cheesy romcom, and by five minutes in, they’re both questioning Eddie’s choice in movies. Never mind that Steve did end up really like it.

“That was weird, right?” Robin questions as they leave the theater.

“Which part?” Steve was finishing the last of his candy by turning over the box. He looks over at her, a mouthful of sour gummy worms.

Robin laughs, “You look like a creature.”

Steve crosses his eyes and laughs.

She’s shaking her head. “Eddie. He’s being weird. Did you notice anything last night when you guys were hanging out?”

“Mostly that he’s gorgeous and still completely oblivious every time I try to tell him how I feel,” Steve grumbles. “Plus, he’s so convinced we should be dating.”

“We? Like, you and I?” Robin mock gags, but then she jumps and smacks Steve’s arm. “That’s it!”

“Ow what the fuck, Buckley? What’s it?”

“He’s trying to parent trap us!”

Steve looks skeptical, but he starts connecting the dots in his head. He gaps. “Oh fuck.”

“Ok, we’ve just gotta sit him down and tell him we’re not together.”

“You could just tell him you’re gay and have a girlfriend. That would probably kill this idea that we belong together. I mean, he’s gay, so you shouldn’t have to worry about him?” Steve suggests.

“I’m just not ready to scream it from the rooftops. Plus, Vickie’s in the closet too, and I don’t want our time together being put under a microscope and risk outing her before she’s ready. I know I can trust Eddie to be supportive, but he’s so loud and proud and though I love that about him, I worry he’d let it slip on accident.”

Steve understands. Eddie is bold and outgoing, and it’s all wonderful. It’s just not what Robin needs right now. He agrees they just need to sit him down and set the record straight.

Steve leans against the counter at Family Video. The day’s been painfully slow so far, and he finds himself slow-blinking at the door, dozing off against his better judgment.

The door chimes and shocks him awake. He’s greeted by Dustin dumping a pile of returns in front of him. “Good morning,” he teases.

He rolls his eyes and groans at him. “You watch too many movies.” He yawns through Dustin’s offended scoff.

“Did you just go to the movies last night? Hypocrite!” Dustin defends.

Steve shoots him a look. “How do you know that? Stalking me, kid?”

“I was picking up character sheets from Eddie. He had some extras and I’m prepping for our next campaign. He said you and Robin were out watching a romcom. Are you guys finally dating?”

Steve lets out a small chuckle. “Ah, the man of the hour. No, we’re not dating, and we’ll never be dating. Eddie’s just trying to make something happen. Nosy little shits, the lot of you.”

Dustin looks skeptical. “Why would Eddie want you and Robin together? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re the one that just asked if we’re finally dating, and now you’re flipping the script. Who’s the hypocrite now?” Steve is scanning in the movies and shaking his head.

“I just mean that Eddie wouldn’t want you guys together because he’s totally into you,” Dustin says it like an obvious fact. “He’s always so whiny about it.”

Steve freezes. “What?”

The kid’s eyes widen as he realizes his overstep. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Steve’s already reaching for the phone. He punches in Robin’s number and points at Dustin while it rings. “You shouldn’t have. We’re going to talk later about not blabbing other people’s secrets. For now- scram.”

Dustin has the hindsight to look remorseful.

Robin answers with a theatric sigh. “Are you so hopeless without me that you must call on my day off?”

“Change of plans. I’m going to catch Eddie in his own trap, and you’re going to help.”

It’s all going according to plan. Steve and Robin find that it’s pretty easy to give Eddie the slip on his attempts.

Eddie tries to get Robin and Steve on a romantic date? Oh no, Robin’s got a family emergency. Eddie, you should stay so Steve isn’t all alone.

Lined up for Robin and Steve have to ride the ferris wheel together? Whoops, Robin remembers she’s afraid of heights at the front of the line, quick Eddie switch with her so Steve didn’t wait in this line for nothing.

Eddie sent flowers to Robin at family video with a card that says from Steve. Shame that the order got mixed up, and they went to Steve instead. Oh, but look how Steve blushes at the delivery.

The duo is feeling pretty good about their plan, but Eddie is losing his mind. Instead of fixing his crush, he’s fallen harder than ever. Every time he thinks he’s set the perfect trap, it twists around, and he finds himself spending more time with Steve. He’s not complaining necessarily. Any time alone with Steve makes his heart pound in his chest, but if he can’t have this perfect guy, he’s set on getting him the girl of his dreams.

Alternatively, Robin is starting to find it more and more difficult to explain to Vickie why she’s playing a game of set-up chicken with her friends.

Robin decides it’s time to end Eddie’s misery.

Her and Steve plan an elaborate picnic out at skull rock. There’s a big blanket, tons of pillows, and the most classic picnic basket you’ve ever seen.

Steve is pacing at the tree line. He needs this to go well. His crush had settled deep in his chest, and Steve was sure it was love. He didn’t want to play games with Eddie. It was time for everyone to clear the air and be direct with their feelings, but he couldn’t help the nerves that made him question everything. What if Eddie didn’t like him? Maybe he really did think Steve and Robin belonged together.

He tries to clear his mind. Robin was telling Eddie to come meet him here right about now. He should be here soon. Steve fiddles with his hair, trying to quell the anxiety.

When Eddie finally makes his way through the woods, Steve isn’t sure how to greet him.

Eddie’s surprised at the setup, and he immediately tries to rationalize it before Steve can get a word out. “Did you mean for me to come here? Buckley said you were looking for me, but I can go get her? Or do you need help setting up… I’m not sure you can do much else. It looks perfect.”

Steve is dumbfounded at Eddie’s ability to completely misread his intent, once again.

“No, Eddie, I meant for you to be here. This is for you.” He tries to speak clearly, leaving no room for confusion.

Eddie looks utterly confused. “For me?”

Steve can’t help his fond smile. “Yes, dummy. You. If you can stop trying to set me up with my best friend for a minute, I’ve been trying to ask you out for a while now.”

The man is gaping at him. “No. You’re not serious.”

He groans and tosses his hands up. “Eddie, what do I have to do to convince you?” Steve stares at him for a moment before he gets a bright idea. He stands up straight, walks up to Eddie in two long strides, grabs his face, and kisses him.

Eddie lets out a surprised noise before grabbing at Steve’s arms, waist, hair, anything for purchase to pull him closer.

Steve parts, pressing their foreheads together and keeping Eddie close. Eddie whines softly before looking back at Steve, trying to understand it all.

“I just wanted you to be happy. I didn’t think- I had no idea this was an option. Even if it couldn’t be with me, I just knew you deserved all the happiness,” the words spill out as Eddie reaches up to touch Steve’s face gently, tracing along his jaw reverently.

“I’m in love with you. I tried to get the words out so many times, but I was so nervous for how you’d react.” Steve leans into the touch.

Eddie’s breath hitches. “I love you too.”

Later, Robin introduces Eddie to her girlfriend, and he spends the rest of the afternoon apologizing for his schemes.

#steddie #eddie munson #my writing #steve harrington #steddie fic #stranger things #platonic stobin #robin buckley #steve x eddie

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iknowitscorny · 44 minutes ago

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the concept explained here is my experience of my relationship with my own gender.

I was and am very tomboyish. but I don't associate tomboyishness with masculinity (and I think the word "tomboy" is inadequate and a misnomer). I am not "out" to anyone but I privately identify as she/they, and this is because of my examination/interrogation of my own gender in adulthood and the discovery and affirmation that I am either "Her" or "Neither"—not "Her" or "Him". I try not to retcon my behaviors as a child, because I was a child—but I absolutely understand the value that other queer people place on it and it is valid, it's just not my thing.

my tomboyishness did not inform my later gender identity, it was simply the way I was, completely divorced from any gendering of my experience I'd want to frame it in as an adult.

One really weird thing transphobic cis women will say is something to the effect of “I was a tomboy, thank god it was before the transgender craze. They would made me transition.” Like, probably not, girl. As you are a cis woman who has never communicated any form of gender dysphoria. It makes it really obvious that they think being transgender is just conforming to different gender roles. There is an ocean between a little girl who likes traditionally masculine fashion and has traditionally masculine interests and a child that is transgender. They are not a slippery slope. They don’t push you down the slide of transgenderism if you cut your hair short when you’re 12.

There are so many trans men who were never tomboys, who were the picture of the ‘perfect little girl’ and genuinely enjoyed traditionally feminine hobbies and expressing themselves in ways associated with femininity. It confuses and angers cis people when they come out as trans because they only see gender as a role to perform and not an identity. If you’re truly a woman, you’re generally not susceptible to randomly turning into a man. If you’re truly a man, you’re generally not susceptible to randomly turning into a woman.

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bunnypostsstuff · 2 days ago

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HEYYY I HAVE AN IDEA so like hiccup with saying “girlfriend?!?!?! That’s my WIFE” when someone says something along the lines of “tell your girlfriend to get out of my face” after they insult either reader or hiccup or just something like that

She is my wife!

Hiccup x Fem!reader

Since the words girlfriend and wife were specifically used, I assumed that the reader is feminine.

I had something of a fight with my father, and I had the urge to punch an authority figure, which may or may not have slipped through in this fic.

Warnings: None in particular, there are some curses and the one horny thought from the reader.

You didn’t really get why you were here. No, that was a lie. You understood why you were here.

One of the tribes allied with Berk had a dragon problem and as the “heralds” of the dragon-human peace and cooperation you and the dragon riders were expected to interfere in order to solve the problem.

That and Hiccup would use any excuse to get out of Berk for a little while. Plus, it was hard to really entrust that task to anyone else.

Politically speaking, sending someone other than Hiccup or the dragon riders could be viewed as Berk looking down on the tribe asking for help. On the other hand, someone inexperienced could make matters worse with the dragons in question.

There was Valka, you supposed, she met all of the criteria as far as experience and status were concerned, but while her dragon skills were unmatched—except for maybe Hiccup— her people skills could still use some work.

So, yes, generally, you understood why you were here instead of someone else. You even understood why Hiccup had insisted you join him. Not that you would have let him go alone. He was prone to getting in trouble when left alone for prolonged periods of time.

What you didn’t understand was why you were having a strategic meeting with this tribe about the dragon problem. Usually, you would go to wherever you were called to calm down the dragons, inspect the area for what is causing them to act out aggressively and proceed to lecture the villagers about what, why and how the problem occurred in the first place.

You have been here for what felt like hours listening to the chief go on and on about things you were far too bored and uninterested in to pay attention to. You were sure that you zoned out at some point, only coming back to reality after Hiccup had taken hold of your hand, tagging at it softly.

“So glad to see that you are back with us.” The sarcastic voice of the man sitting across from you rang in your ears. He was clearly displeased with your lack of attention.

“Yeah… um, my mind drifted for a moment. I apologise.” You said not really feeling apologetic, but trying to appease the man on the other side of the table nonetheless.

“It is alright.” His voice sounded rough and aged. “Not everyone can follow along with complex discussions.” He smiled condescendingly.

The bastard wasn’t even trying to be tactful with his remarks.

“Must be all the repetitions and dancing around the subject.” You said quickly, stopping Hiccup from answering.

Your hold on his hand tightened as he turned to look at you. He looked confused and a little concerned. Why were you stopping him? There was no reason to indulge this charade if this was how you were gonna be treated.

You ran your thumb across his arm soothingly, holding his gaze, looking calm, trying to show that it’s okay.

Hiccup’s lips pressed to a thin line, tightening his own hand around yours.

“Perhaps you lack your chief’s ability to comprehend difficult words.” The chief’s voice ruined the tender moment.

There was a meaning to be had here. Someone of your station shouldn’t be present in a meeting between chiefs. Other than the obvious insult to your intelligence. Again.

Oh, so that’s how he wants to play it. “Perhaps the problem is that, unlike my chief—” Gods, calling Hiccup by his title felt beyond wrong—“you lack the ability to be concise and to the point.”

Hiccup watched the exchange with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. So much for diplomatic relations.

“Watch your words, little girl.” The chief raised his voice, getting up from his chair, wood scraping against wood from the force.

“Or what?” You get up, placing your hands on the table. Your eyes pinned on his, extending a challenge that, realistically speaking… you… would lose.

Hiccup let out a tiny groan as he also got up, placing a hand in front of each of you, trying to keep you both apart. “Aaaalright. I think we are getting way off subject. How about we take a break and get back after we all have—”

“You need to be more mindful of your people, Hiccup.” The chief turned his attention to Hiccup. “I can understand that love can make you want to be lenient, but even your loved ones are not above your rule.” He spoke with such conviction, like he was trying to teach and reprimand Hiccup at the same time. “You might be new to this, but you need to learn. Don’t insult your father’s legacy, boy.”

Your mouth dropped open. The entire hut fell silent for a second.

“I’m gonna wipe the floor with you. You sad old man.” You said as you moved to jump across the table towards certain death.

“NO!” Hiccup yelled quickly, wrapping his arms around your middle. “No, no, no, no.” He kept repeating as he tried to move towards him.

“Is this how you establish the law, boy? Get your girlfriend out of my face!” The chief yelled again. “And since she is so prone to acting wild, it is best to have her wait outside with the dragons.” He added, just as Hiccup had managed to get you away from the table and to his side.

“First of all.” Hiccup’s voice rose as well. “She is my wife.” He emphasised. “And let me be clear that in this situation, you are asking us for help. It would be best to remember that every indulgence and goodwill that has been extended towards you that has nothing to do with your dragon problem has been because of my wife.”

The chief was looking at Hiccup, surprised. You, on the other hand, felt rather smug about this particular turn of events.

“We have wasted enough time here. We will deal with the actual reason for our visit now.”

He was so hot like this… You are definitely fucking him once you are back on Berk.

…

Damn your brain does not know how timing works.

He moved to leave the hut, taking hold of your hand and leading you outside with him. You threw a pleased look at the chief as you moved and batted your eyes, letting the feeling of victory radiate from you and further the old man’s shock.

Hiccup kept walking after you were both outside, not slowing his pace or letting go of your hand. Once he deemed that good enough, he suddenly stopped and turned to face you.

He looked like he was about to say something, looking like a storm was held at the edge of his tongue. Instead, he just let out a deep exhale and let his head fall to your shoulder.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Really? I thought I held back for quite a long time.” You said, running your fingers through his hair.

Hiccup let out a weak laugh, putting his hands around your waist. “Still though…”

“Still what? I think I did us both a favour. Now we can get on to doing what we actually came for and then go home.” You said feigning innocence.

“You will be the end of all of Berk’s diplomatic relations.” He mumbled, giving you a quick peck on the lips.

“Not all,” you said, giving him another kiss. “Just the annoying ones.”

#hiccup x reader #httyd x reader #httyd #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup haddock x reader #hiccup horrendous haddock iii

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uncuredturkeybacon · 2 days ago

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𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you’re the biggest husky fan in the world

You were six months old the first time your parents took you to a UConn women’s basketball game.

It was snowing the way it only snows in Connecticut—fat flakes thick and wet and falling like they’re on a mission. The windshield wipers thudded in rhythm, clearing the view of the highway as your mother turned around in the passenger seat to check on you. You were bundled up like a marshmallow, cheeks red and nose runny, a navy blue knit hat barely staying on your head. Your father joked that you looked like a baby blueberry. He said it again to make your mom laugh. You didn't know what a blueberry was.

You don’t remember anything about that day, of course. But your parents tell the story like it’s folklore. The way your eyes stayed wide the whole time. How you flinched at the first buzzer and cried through the first half, but fell asleep in your mom’s arms during the third quarter, lips curled around your pacifier while the arena roared around you. You wore a onesie that said “Husky Baby” in sparkly white letters. It was too big. You drooled on it.

They say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner that night. Your dad still has the program tucked into a shoebox with your birth bracelet and a print-out of your first ultrasound. On the cover, she’s mid-dribble, eyes locked forward like she already knows what the defense is about to do. He says the crowd lost its mind when she let that last shot fly, that your mom stood up and screamed so loud you startled awake, blinking up at the scoreboard like you were trying to understand.

They tell that story every year on your birthday.

Your childhood unspooled in quarters and halves. Seasons marked not just by holidays or school breaks, but by game days and rankings, by conference titles and March. You lived in Hartford, close enough that Gampel Pavilion and the XL Center both felt like second homes. You learned the names of the players before you learned to spell. There was no question who your favorite team was. No debate. No compromise.

You were always in the stands—first as a bundle in your parents’ arms, later in a booster seat with your legs swinging above the concrete floor. When you were two, your mom bought you your first jersey. Number 3. Red, white, and navy. “That’s Diana,” your dad told you. You didn’t know who Diana was, but you liked the way the fabric felt and how the crowd would chant when anyone wearing that jersey touched the ball.

Eventually, you knew them all by heart. Not just Taurasi but Bird and Moore and Charles, names that hung from the rafters like prayers. You could trace the line of greatness with a finger, like a constellation. At night, you’d sit at the kitchen table with your dad and rewatch recorded games on VHS, rewinding big plays over and over. He’d freeze the frame to show you the footwork, the spacing, the cuts. You didn’t play basketball yourself. Not once. But you understood it. You loved it.

When your parents couldn’t take you, you took the bus. That started around age ten. They were hesitant at first, but you convinced them. It was just a few stops. You packed your bag like it was a mission. Portable charger, extra snacks, schedule printout folded neatly in the side pocket. You became a fixture in the student sections, though you were nowhere near college age yet. People started recognizing you. Security guards waved. Some of the ushers called you “Coach.” You wore that like a badge of honor.

Your room at home was a shrine. Posters taped unevenly to the wall. Ticket stubs lined up on your cork board. You made your own stat charts, color-coded by player. Your mom shook her head affectionately every time she caught you annotating a box score like it was sacred text.

“You know this isn’t your homework, right?” she’d tease. “It is,” you’d say without looking up. “It’s just not graded.”

The years passed like quarters on a scoreboard. The names on the jerseys changed. The banners got higher. You grew into your voice—asking questions, reading scouting reports, predicting lineups before the broadcast even caught up. You had favorite broadcasters and hated when the national coverage got it wrong. You screamed at missed calls like you were courtside.

But you stayed in the stands.

You never crossed that line. Never picked up a ball. Never dribbled or practiced a layup or joined your school’s rec league even when they begged you to come. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to play—it just wasn’t you. Watching was enough. Worshipping the game was enough. Being there, living it from the bleachers, was enough.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Freshman year of High School doesn’t begin with a bang. It starts with a 5:45 a.m. alarm, the one you set to make sure you could catch the local bus from your side of Hartford to school on the east side before the sun even clears the tops of the houses. You sit by the window, hoodie up, earbuds in, knees pressed to the seat in front of you. You’re not listening to music. You’re rewatching last night’s UConn game. You know every stat already, but you still want to see it again. The offensive set with the double screen. The baseline jumper off a late inbound. The missed free throw that almost cost the win. You’re already thinking of how to write about it.

You’ve joined the school paper. It's a small operation—two seniors, one overworked English teacher, and a Google Drive that hasn’t been organized since 2009—but you see it as your way in. You're not interested in the lunchroom drama or the debate team blurbs. You pitch a weekly column, “The Husky Report.” Your teacher hesitates—says it's niche and not everyone follows college sports. But you’re already drafting the first one in your notebook before he finishes saying no.

You publish under your initials. You’re not sure why. Maybe because it makes you feel older. Or more professional. Or because it hides the fact that you’re a freshman with braces and a UConn keychain dangling from your backpack like a badge of honor. Still, people start reading it. At first, it’s just your teachers. Then your history class group chat starts circulating your write-ups. One day, a senior stops you in the hallway and says, “Yo, you really watch all the games?” You nod. He fist-bumps you. Keeps walking. That’s it. But it stays with you all day.

At home, your room’s changed a little. Your parents painted it two summers ago—a cool slate blue—and you’ve taken down most of the cartoon posters. But the basketball wall remains. Jerseys hung carefully. Ticket stubs pinned like battle ribbons. Your cork board's filling with clippings now. The front page when UConn won its eleventh title, your own printed columns from the school site, even a grainy photo of you standing courtside at a youth event Geno spoke at. He signed your notepad. It’s in a plastic sleeve like it’s holy.

Your parents still go with you to some games, but they don’t need to anymore. You've memorized the bus schedule, the student discounts, which gates have shorter lines, which hot dog vendors won't overcharge. You keep a little journal in your pocket at all times. Game notes. Quotes. Impressions. Nothing gets past you. Not a missed defensive rotation. Not a ref’s bad angle. You tweet updates too, tagging players and throwing in gifs. Occasionally a like. Once, a retweet from the UConn WBB official account. You ran downstairs to show your mom like it was an Olympic medal.

By sophomore year, your name starts circulating a little.

The UConn student-run paper reposts one of your longer recaps with a short line, “Better coverage than most pros.” You print it. Frame it. Your journalism teacher calls you the “resident UConn oracle.” Your parents joke about building you a press booth in the garage.

Still, there’s something that lingers in your chest. A kind of ache you can’t name yet. It hits when you’re watching warmups from the second row, alone in a sea of fans. When you see the team huddled together, laughing, bumping shoulders, drenched in sweat and confidence. When the lights dim and the intro video plays and your pulse jumps like it’s your name on the Jumbotron. But it never is.

You’re always watching. Always writing. But you’re not in it.

There’s a moment, sometime that winter, when you start wondering what it would feel like to be known by them. Not in a creepy way. Not in an I want to be part of the team type of way. But… something else. To be seen. To be a fixture, not a fan. To have one of them look up after a win and spot you. Smile. Wave.

You tuck that thought away. You don’t write it down. You barely admit it to yourself.

In sophomore year, you get serious.

You start studying tape more deliberately. Not just for recaps, but for yourself. You keep spreadsheets now. Advanced stats. Scouting notes. You teach yourself analytics from online videos and a couple of free courses online. Your teacher offers to help you apply to a summer sports journalism camp in Boston. You get in. You're the youngest person there. Also the only one who never played any sport. But your mock articles get handed around. You make a couple of connections. A woman who used to work at ESPN gives you her card. Says you have an eye for the game. That your writing “moves.”

That night in your dorm room, you pull out your notebook. You scribble one sentence on the cover, They’ll know who I am one day, and underline it.

Not in a cocky way. Not even in a hopeful way. Just a truth you believe with your whole chest.

Junior year begins differently.

It starts not with the usual chill of October or the ritual of printing out the UConn schedule and taping it beside your desk, but with an email.

Subject: The Husky Report Sender: Leah Moore, Assistant Director of Strategic Communications, UConn Athletics.

You read it four times before moving.

At first you think it’s a prank. A scam. Something fake or automated, even though the signature is too specific and the greeting says your full name. You check it on your phone. You check it again on your laptop. You Google her name just to be sure. She’s real. And she works for UConn.

Hi Y/N,

I’ve been following your weekly columns and Twitter threads this season. Your eye for detail and storytelling stands out—especially for someone still in high school. I showed your piece on the Baylor game to our department lead and she said, “Who is this kid?”

Would you ever be interested in shadowing a game day with our media team this season? No pressure. Just thought it might be something you’d enjoy. Let me know.

— Leah Moore.

You sit frozen, the cursor blinking in reply. For two whole minutes, you don’t move. You don’t even breathe right. Your fingers hover over the keys, and something builds inside you—not panic or excitement, but something steadier. Quieter. Like gravity.

The game day you choose is against Notre Dame. It's a non-conference classic, always personal, always dramatic. You’ve written about it the last three years, circling the same themes of legacy and rivalry and bloodlines. You’ve never missed it. But you’ve never seen it from this side.

Leah meets you in front of the loading dock behind Gampel. You’re wearing your cleanest jeans, a tucked-in UConn polo you had to borrow from your dad, and a pair of sneakers you scrubbed the night before. She gives you a lanyard and a smile and walks you through it like you’re a new hire, not a high school junior who still needs a parent signature to leave campus some days.

It feels surreal, like walking into the dream you’ve been watching from the outside for sixteen years.

Inside the media room, people are pacing. Laptops out. Screens open. Everyone’s in motion but not rushed, like they’ve done this dance so often they don’t have to think anymore. Leah walks you around the control desk, the social media monitor, the tunnel access screen. You’re not allowed to post anything live, but she says you can shadow their content guy for pregame media.

When the team walks in, you stand near the corner. Quiet. Out of the way.

And you see them.

Not on a screen. Not through binoculars. But here. Real. So close you could count their braids, see the scuffs on their shoes, hear the rhythm of their jokes. You recognize every face. You mouth their names to yourself like a litany. You remember their high school stats, their redshirt seasons, the injuries they fought through. They’re bigger than life—but now, somehow, smaller too. Real. Human.

You think of the little version of you—knees dangling in the student section, Sharpie tucked behind your ear. What would she say if she saw you here now?

The moment doesn’t feel loud. It feels earned.

You write a recap of the experience for your school blog. It’s not a game recap, not really. It’s about proximity. About what it means to watch the same story unfold a hundred times and finally step onto the same page. You include a paragraph about the pregame prep, the pressure behind the scenes, the weight of doing something perfectly even when no one sees it.

It gets picked up by a couple of local outlets. Nothing huge. But Leah emails again, saying your insight is rare. Says they’d like to keep you in the loop. Maybe consider you for a longer mentorship next fall. She calls you a “natural storyteller.”

You forward it to your parents. You print it, too. Tack it up next to the framed tweet repost. You stare at it when you can’t sleep.

It’s around this time that her name keeps popping up more and more.

Azzi Fudd.

You’d heard it before—clips, rumors, the occasional ranking blurb—but now it’s everywhere. Articles. Interviews. Everyone’s calling her the next big thing. She hasn’t even picked a school yet. But her game footage hits the internet like fire.

The first time you really watch her play, you’re on your bedroom floor, knees curled under you, a bowl of cereal forgotten at your side. It’s just a grainy highlight reel from an AAU game, filmed by some dad in the stands, but it doesn’t matter. What she does on the court—off the dribble, off the screen, without hesitation—it’s different. Smooth, yes. But also sharp. Sharp like scripture. Like a myth. Like someone wrote a story about a perfect shooter and Azzi decided to make it true.

You watch the video three times in a row. First muted. Then with sound.

You don’t know her. You don’t even know if she’s seriously considering UConn.

But something in your chest reacts.

Not just because she’s good. Plenty of players are good. It’s more than that.

It’s the way she carries herself. The calm. The discipline. The sheer gravity of her presence. The way her release looks like poetry and prayer at once.

You scroll through her Instagram that night. She's all over the place—smiling in one post, serious in another. Media day shots. Workout clips. Candid snaps with teammates. You pause on one of them. She’s laughing, eyes closed, head thrown back, hand mid-air like she just swatted someone who said something dumb.

You double tap. Move on. But your stomach feels different.

You don’t know what it is. Not yet.

But you will.

You decided to start making videos and not just writing for your school paper and tweeting the occasional tweet. You wanted to what you do to reach more people, to understand your love for the game, for the team, and hopefully help them love it too.

You started with a voiceover.

No face reveal. No professional production. Just you and your phone camera pointed at your laptop while you replay a sequence from Uconn’s last game. The part with one of those suffocating sequence where no one seems to hit anything clean for minutes until someone finally gets hot. You rewind a clip of Napheesa Collier making a spinning fadeaway jump shot with a defender all over her and how she was able to make space, narrating it.

The video is thirty seconds. Maybe thirty-five. You post it to Twitter.

i promise you, no one in women’s college basketball is dissecting games like this. let me show you something.

It gets four likes that night. Two retweets. One of them is your cousin. The other is someone you’ve never heard of.

By the end of the week, it has 15,000 views.

It becomes a series before you can talk yourself out of it.

You give it a name. Husky Vision.

White text over a navy background, slapped together in Canva during lunch. You don’t appear on screen. Just your voice, your angles, your highlights. Your knowledge. It’s not flashy, but it’s smart. And fans—especially women’s basketball fans—start to notice.

The first time a former UConn player DMs you, you nearly drop your phone in AP Bio.

“Hey—just wanted to say you really get it. You’ve got a great eye.”

You don’t tell anyone, not even your parents. You just stare at the message, heart thudding, and reread it until you finally let yourself smile.

From there, everything picks up. Slowly, then all at once.

Leah from UConn reposts your breakdown of their win over South Carolina. She doesn’t even tag you—just reposts your video directly with a flame emoji. That same night, one of the assistant coaches likes two of your old tweets.

Your account starts gaining followers—students, women’s basketball super fans, some analysts. You notice a few names you recognize. Even one from The Athletic. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. It means something big.

You start doing mid-game threads, too. Live thoughts. Adjustments. What you’d change if you were calling the plays. People begin replying. Debating. Asking questions.

“How do you know so much?” “You’re sixteen???”

You don’t answer those. Not directly.

Instead, you just keep uploading. One post-game breakdown after another. Some long. Some short. Always sharp. Always specific.

Azzi starts showing up more.

Not in your notifications—she’s still a ghost to you—but in the games you’re watching. The national chatter is undeniable now. She’s a senior. Final year of high school. Her team is undefeated. One of the top recruits in the country. Her clips are showing up on all over social media.

You resist, at first. You tell yourself you don’t want to be one of those people—jumping on a name just because it’s trending. But her game… her game is undeniable.

You post your first video about Azzi on a quiet Sunday.

What makes Azzi Fudd different? Not the range. Not the handle. It’s the silence. Watch the way she moves without the ball. No panic. Just purpose.

You upload a 40-second clip. No music. Just your voice.

You wake up the next morning with 78,000 views. By lunch, it’s over 100K.

You don’t even realize she followed you until someone comments.

“omg Azzi just followed you??? do you KNOW what that means?????”

Your heart skips a beat. You check twice. Three times.

She did. No comment. No like. Just the quiet little blue check next to her name now following you back.

You sit in the bathroom stall during 5th period and stare at the screen until your phone dies.

That night, you open her profile again. You scroll slowly. Watch her media day clips. See the selfies with her teammates, the training clips in empty gyms, the one video of her laughing on the bench while her coach throws his clipboard.

You think of reaching out. Just something simple like a ‘thank you.’ You type it. You delete it. You’re not ready yet. But the slow burn has begun. Even if she doesn’t know it.

Yet.

You’re seventeen, standing under the buzzing lights of a high school gym in Springfield, Massachusetts, wearing a press badge with your name misspelled and your heart beating too loud to think straight.

It’s the Gatorade National Girls' High School Showcase, and you're here on a student press pass from Hartford Youth Sports Watch, a local online newsletter that publishes one of your columns every week. You pitched the idea yourself. Wrote the sample copy. Sent a portfolio. Asked—begged, really—to tag along with a couple of regional reporters who didn’t know who you were two months ago but now call you “the kid with the breakdowns.”

You were assigned Court 3. Middle of the bracket. A game between two strong teams from New York and Ohio. Good basketball. Plenty to write about.

But your eyes drift.

You know who’s playing on Court 1.

Team St. John’s College High. D.C. powerhouse. Headlined by none other than Azzi Fudd.

You spotted her twenty minutes ago as you stepped into the gym. Warmups. Black shooting shirt. Hair pulled back tight. Calm. Controlled. Eyes like ice water. You watched her knock down five threes in a row like she wasn’t even trying. Like her release didn’t need breath to function.

Your hands got clammy. You’d practiced what you’d say—if you saw her. If you got the chance. Something short. Respectful. Cool, but not weird.

Hi, I’m Y/N. I’ve done a few breakdowns on your games. I’d love to ask you a couple quick questions if you have a minute.

You rehearsed it. Memorized the inflection. Smoothed your hoodie three times before walking in.

And now, you're frozen.

You’re sitting on the folding chair behind the scorer’s table on Court 3, but your body is angled toward Court 1. Your eyes flick constantly between the action in front of you and the action across the gym, like you’re pretending to multitask but everyone can tell you’re distracted.

Azzi is on fire.

Her team isn’t blowing out the opponent, but she’s clearly the anchor. Commanding the floor. Talking just loud enough to lead, but quiet enough to make it seem easy. There’s a pace to her. You know it well now. The way she slows her defender down just by being near. The subtle shift of her weight before a screen. The way her shot stays level even when she's falling sideways.

You should be filming Court 3. You know it. You have a job.

Instead, you hold your phone low and record ten seconds of Azzi snatching a rebound, pushing coast to coast, and finishing with a mid-air hesitation so smooth it doesn’t look real. You whisper to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

You don’t post it. You just save it to your camera roll.

At halftime, your game ends. There’s a twenty-minute break before the next match, and you're supposed to send a quick summary to the editor of the newsletter.

You don’t.

You get up, walk slow, and circle the far side of the gym—close enough to get to Court 1, but not too close. You still haven’t figured out what you’re doing. You’ve got a reporter’s notebook in one hand and your phone in the other. Your feet are moving on instinct.

She’s standing near the water cooler with a towel around her neck, talking with one of her teammates. Laughing. Not fake laughing. Real laughing—the kind that makes her head tilt back a little and her dimples show. You freeze again. You’re five feet away. You could say it. You should say it.

But your throat closes. You pretend to check your notes. Pretend to tie your shoe. Pretend to be invisible. And that’s when it happens. She looks up. Right at you. Not a glance. Not an accident.

She sees you.

And for a second—a full, tangible second—Azzi Fudd stares. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. She just tilts her head a little like she’s trying to place you. Like you might be familiar.

You’re still. Then her eyes flick to your notebook. You panic.

You whip your gaze to the floor, scribble a line you’ll never use, and step back toward the bleachers before she can say anything. Your heart hammers. You don’t breathe until you’re back at Court 3, sitting down hard, hands shaking a little from whatever just passed between you.

You don’t know what that moment meant.

Maybe she recognized you from your videos. Maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she just caught a weird kid staring and made a mental note to never do interviews with high schoolers again.

You don’t know. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

Not when you leave the gym. Not when you email your write-up. Not when you lie awake that night and replay the look in her eyes over and over like you’re trying to find something in the freeze frame.

You write your article on the showcase the next day. It’s about the team from Ohio. About rebounding margins and high-percentage shots and defensive tempo.

But at the end, in the final paragraph, you add a single line.

“And of course, all eyes kept drifting to Court 1. Azzi Fudd doesn’t just play the game. She redefines how it feels to watch it.”

You don’t tag her.

You don’t even say her name again.

But the view count climbs higher than your usual posts. You get a few more followers. One of her teammates likes the article.

That night, you check your followers list again. She’s still there. Still following you.

You decided to do something different for your application for Uconn. You don’t know if someone before you have done it, but you do it anyway.

It takes you three weeks to write the first sentence. You scrap it five times.

Every version sounds too polished or too desperate or too… not you. But it matters. It’s everything. Your application to UConn—the school you’ve loved since you were a baby in a blue onesie—has to be perfect.

You have good grades. A clean transcript. Some solid recs. But the personal essay? That’s where you have to bleed a little.

So finally, on a night when the house is quiet and the rain hits soft against your window, you open a blank document and type.

“My earliest memory isn’t of a toy or a birthday or a bedtime story. It’s of sitting on my father’s shoulders in the XL Center, watching Maya Moore hit a three from the corner and not understanding what basketball was—but knowing it meant everything.”

That’s the line that stays.

The rest flows like breath. You write about your first game. The way your mom clapped louder than the student section. The sound of the buzzer. The way Geno’s voice became part of your family’s dinner conversations. How you’ve never played basketball, not once, but the game has shaped you like a second spine. How you don’t want to be on the court. You want to be near it. Recording it. Honoring it. Living beside it.

You cry when you finish. Just a little.

But the writing isn’t what you’re most proud of.

It’s the video.

You’ve been working on it since August. It’s part of your application—an optional supplement. You call it, My UConn Dream.

A ten minute mini-documentary.

It opens with old footage—your dad’s grainy camcorder shots of toddler-you in a UConn beanie, holding a popcorn bucket bigger than your face. A cut to the upper bowl. A crowd rising to its feet. Taurasi on the jumbotron. You barely blinking.

Then it transitions to your voice.

“This isn’t just about a school. It’s about a lifetime of falling in love with the same thing over and over again.”

You layer in your own vlogs. Clips from games. Interviews you’ve done. Geno calling you Stat Girl with that smirk. Diana throwing you a peace sign after a win. Behind the scenes shots from the media room, from buses, from cold walks through campus before dawn.

You narrate throughout. Honest. Real.

“I want to major in digital media and sports journalism. I want to tell stories. I want to keep honoring women who never get the camera pointed at them first.”

There’s a moment near the end where your voice breaks. Just a little.

“I want to go to the place that raised me.”

You post it publicly on your channel the same night you submit your application.

Your thumbnail, a still of you as a kid in the stands, face painted, holding a sign that says “In Geno We Trust.”

It goes up at midnight.

By morning, it has 40,000 views. Hundreds of comments flood in.

You’re overwhelmed. In the best way.

You don't know, as you scroll through those comments in your kitchen that morning, still in your pajamas and still too stunned to eat breakfast, that your video has already traveled farther than you thought.

You don’t know that a girl two states away watched it alone in her bedroom the night it dropped.

That her best friend sent her the link.

Paige: yo, this the girl coach always talking about

You don’t know that Azzi Fudd clicked it out of curiosity, not expecting much. Just another fan, probably. Some girl with a phone and a ring light and a big voice.

But she watched the whole thing.

Every second.

Watched you in the stands. Watched your hands shake holding a mic. Watched the way your voice softened when you talked about what basketball means to you.

She watched you say, “Some people are born into teams. But I chose this one. Or maybe it chose me.”

And she paused the video. Sat back. Felt something shift. Just a little. She recognized your voice from that one video you made about her. Now she won’t forget it. She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t like. Doesn’t share.

But she sends it to her mom. And later, she watches it again.

She doesn’t know why. She just does.

You, meanwhile, are pacing.

You triple-check your application portal every night before bed. Refresh it. Stare at the little “Submitted” checkmark like it might morph into “Accepted” if you squint hard enough.

You go to every home game you can. Still wearing your lanyard. Still getting quotes. Still uploading breakdowns.

People greet you by name now in the concourse. You start your next video with a laugh.

“So, I did a thing. I applied to UConn. And if you’ve been here long enough, you already know this was coming.”

You hold up a keychain you bought from the campus bookstore.

It just says Soon.

Weeks later, you’re in your bedroom writing another piece when you see the email.

It’s almost anticlimactic—just a vibration on your phone during fifth period that you don’t check until after school. You’re walking up the driveway, backpack digging into one shoulder, when your thumb swipes down and your eyes catch the header.

University of Connecticut – Admissions Decision Available

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t run inside. You try to walk normal. You make it halfway to the kitchen before dropping your bag and unlocking your phone with fingers that suddenly feel too big. Your mom’s in the other room. Your dad’s still at work. You open the email alone, standing in your socks on the hardwood floor.

You click the portal. Your breath skips.

Congratulations!

You don’t read the rest, just yell.

“MOM!”

She’s already running in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What? What happened—”

“I GOT IN!”

“OH MY GOD—” She drops the towel. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

You spin your phone around and she grabs your face and starts crying before you even do.

It’s not a fancy scholarship announcement. There’s no marching band or TV camera crew. Just a shaking screen, your mom squeezing you, your chest cracked wide open because you did it. You got in.

To UConn.

The place you’ve been dreaming of since before you knew how dreams worked.

That night, you make the video.

You’ve never done something like this. Not with you in it.

Your voice has always been there—behind the camera, under the highlights, in captions and threads and box score breakdowns—but never you. Not your face. Not your story.

You set your phone up against a stack of books, right next to the cork board full of game tickets and your “Bleed Blue” sign. You wear your old UConn hoodie—sleeves too short, frayed at the wrist. Your hair’s a mess. You don’t care.

You hit record.

“Okay,” you say, laughing nervously. “Hi. Um. I don’t know how to do this. This isn’t a breakdown or anything. This is just… me.”

You glance off camera. Take a breath.

“I got in. I got into UConn. I got my acceptance email this afternoon, and I still don’t fully believe it. I’ve wanted to go to UConn since I was—what—six months old? No, like actually. My parents took me to my first UConn women’s basketball game when I was a baby. I don’t remember it, but they say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner and I cried through the whole first half.”

You smile.

“This school, this program, it raised me. I wasn’t a basketball player. I didn’t put on a jersey or go to summer camp or play AAU. I was the kid in the stands with a notebook and a pen. I was the one yelling stats at my parents on the drive home. I took the bus to games when they couldn’t take me. I wrote about the team in my school paper.”

Your voice starts to shake, just a little.

“I made videos. I made so many videos. And I didn’t think anyone was watching, at first. But some people did. And now I’m going to the place that made me fall in love with basketball without ever playing a second of it.”

You sniff. Wipe your cheek quickly.

“I guess what I’m saying is… if you’re someone who loves something so hard it feels dumb or small or embarrassing—don’t stop. Don’t shrink it down to make other people comfortable. Just keep loving it. Loudly. Obsessively. Because I did. And it brought me here.”

You pause. Bite your lip. Then grin.

“Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You end the video there.

You post it around 10:30 p.m. You think maybe your friends will see it. Maybe some people from Twitter. You almost don’t tag the UConn WBB account.

But you do.

When you wake up… everything is different.

Your phone is buzzing. Not just a few notifications. Hundreds.

The video has already passed 90,000 views. It’s been reposted by a local news station, quote-tweeted by a beat reporter, and—most terrifyingly—shared by the official UConn WBB account with the caption, This is what Husky Nation is all about! Welcome home, Y/N.

You sit straight up in bed. You scroll down.

One comment catches your eye. You recognize the name immediately.

azzi35: congratulations!

Your jaw drops. You reread it five times. You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

She saw it.

Your mom comes in a few minutes later, holding a mug of coffee and grinning.

“You’re famous,” she teases, handing it to you. “I just watched it again.”

You stare down at your screen. “Azzi Fudd commented on it.”

She pauses. Blinks.

“Like the Azzi Fudd?”

“Yeah.”

Your mom sits on the edge of your bed. “Oh honey,” she laughs softly, nudging your shoulder. “You really might marry a UConn player someday.”

You hide your face in your hands.

And smile.

It’s Thursday. Four days after the video. Three days since UConn reposted it. Two since a local TV station invited you for an interview, to which you politely declined, and exactly zero days since you last reread the part where Azzi Fudd commented on your post.

You’ve read it so many times it’s engraved in your brain.

congratulations!

You didn’t know how one word could impact you like this.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. What were you supposed to say—“thanks, I’ve watched every minute you’ve played since sophomore year and also your jumper is technically a religious experience”?

No.

You let it sit. You breathed. You told yourself it was enough.

And it was.

Until your phone buzzes at 6:47 p.m. while you’re heating up leftovers in the microwave and you glance down to see the words,

azzi35 sent you a message

You stare at it like it’s not real. Like it’s going to vanish if you blink too fast.

You dry your hands on your hoodie and sit at the counter. The microwave beeps. You don’t hear it.

You tap the screen.

That video made my mom cry. Just wanted to say congrats again. Maybe I’ll see you on campus soon?

You read it once. Twice. A third time, aloud, under your breath.

“Her mom cried?” you whisper. “Her mom.”

You cover your face with one hand and try not to spiral. The message is so simple. So normal. But it’s from Azzi. And it’s kind. And direct. And real. And she remembered. She saw the video days ago and still thought about it long enough to follow up.

You try typing.

Thank you so much, that seriously means the wor—

Delete.

Can’t believe you saw it. Congrats on making my soul leave my—

Delete.

Not me sobbing into my hoodie like an absolute idiot becau—

Delete.

You exhale, hard.

that’s so sweet!! tell her thank you for me?? and thank YOU for even watching it. hope our paths actually cross sometime

You stare at it.

Or like… casually all the time since we’ll be at the same school?? nbd or anything??

No. Too much. Too desperate.

You delete the second half. Hit send before you can change your mind.

You don’t expect her to reply right away. You actually don’t expect her to reply at all. But two minutes later, ’typing…’, appears.

Your stomach flips like you’re on a rollercoaster that only goes up.

If I see you on campus I’m definitely saying hi. You’re pretty famous now anyway

You laugh out loud. Alone. In your kitchen. With your mom’s spaghetti steaming behind you, untouched.

don’t do that. i will collapse in public. like full dramatic slow fall to the pavement.

More typing.

I’ll catch you. I got fast reflexes.

You slap your hand over your mouth and make an inhuman sound.

You pace the kitchen. You stare at the message. You take a screenshot, text it to your best friend with seventeen exclamation marks, delete the screenshot, then open your fridge for absolutely no reason other than to put your face inside it and whisper, “Get it together.”

Your phone buzzes again.

also ur videos? literally the best ones out there. i’m not kidding.

You stop breathing. You sit down slowly. Your hands tremble just a little.

ok so if i die tonight it’s fine because azzi fudd said my videos are the best ones out there. tell my mom i love her. bury me in husky blue.

Her reply comes quick.

stop. i’m being serious.

i watch all of them. they’re like… calming, idk? i’ll be nervous pregame and someone shows me one, especially the one you made of me, and it’s just like… “oh. right. i know how to do this.”

You stare at that message for a long time. Not because it’s surreal. But because it’s intimate. She didn’t have to say that. She didn’t have to say any of this.

You take a breath. You reply honestly.

i can’t even tell you what that means to me. i’ve loved this game my whole life. i never played but it’s always been from the outside looking in. hearing that it helps you? that makes all of it worth it.

She doesn’t type right away. You sit with the silence. Eventually, her message comes through.

maybe not for long though. outside looking in, i mean. you’re gonna be there soon.

You blink. Smile.

And think—not for the first time, not for the last—maybe you're not just going to attend UConn. Maybe you're about to belong there.

The air in Storrs smells like August. Grass, asphalt, hot mulch, sweat, and a little bit of panic.

You’re three trips into moving your whole life from Hartford to your tiny dorm in North Campus. Your back hurts, your shirt is sticking to you, and your mom already cried twice—once when she saw the room, again when she handed you a Ziplock of chocolate chip cookies with a shaky smile.

You’re standing on the curb with your last box. It’s heavy. Your arms are burning. Your RA said the elevator was broken, because of course it is, and there’s no one else around because you told your parents to go grab iced coffee without you, thinking you could carry this one on your own.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself to make the climb when you hear it.

“Need a hand?”

You turn.

She’s standing in front of you. Azzi. In shorts and a loose gray UConn Athletics t-shirt, sunglasses perched on her head, braids pulled back tight. A folded map of campus in one hand, half a smoothie in the other.

You forget how to hold the box for a second. You blink.

“Wait—are you serious right now?” you say.

Her grin widens. “I’m pretty strong,” she says, flexing one arm dramatically, then snorts. “You looked like you were about to just sit down and let the box win.”

“I was,” you say. “It was winning. Completely dominating me. No contest.”

She laughs. Sets her smoothie on the ground. “Here,” she says, and takes the box from your arms like it weighs nothing. “Which floor?”

“Third.”

“No elevator?” she asks, walking beside you now.

“Of course not,” you mutter. “Welcome to college.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. She’s calm. Like this is normal. Like helping someone move into a random dorm is something she just does. Her pace is easy. Her shoulders loose.

You reach the stairwell. She goes first. You trail behind, still slightly disoriented.

“I didn’t know you were in this dorm,” you manage.

“I’m not,” she says. “I just got here early for practice. I was grabbing something from the student center and saw you on the sidewalk. Thought you looked familiar. Thought—‘hey, that’s the breakdown girl who made my mom cry.’”

You groan. “You just had to bring that up.”

“It was cute,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. She’s still talking about it.”

“I’m gonna change my name and live in a hole.”

She laughs again, and you swear it echoes.

By the time you reach the room, your heartbeat isn’t just from the stairs.

She sets the box down and wipes her hands on her shorts. “There we go.”

You try to think of something cool to say. Something not weird. Something that doesn’t scream… I’ve had a crush on you from the moment I saw you step behind a screen and bury a three like it was nothing.

What comes out instead is, “So like… how does it feel?”

She tilts her head. “How does what feel?”

“Being Azzi Fudd,” you say, then wince. “Sorry. That sounded—”

“No, I like that question,” she says, still smiling. She leans against your desk, arms folded now. “It feels… crazy. Like, people say the name like it’s a brand. Or a stat sheet. But I still wake up with my bonnet half-falling off and toothpaste on my shirt, you know?”

You laugh. You can’t help it.

She shrugs. “It’s humbling being here, honestly. UConn’s where all my heroes came from. And now I’m just hoping I don’t trip over my own feet in front of Geno.”

“You won’t,” you say, automatically. “You belong here.”

Azzi pauses and looks at you for a beat.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “You really think that?”

“I mean… yeah. I’ve been watching this program my whole life. I can tell who’s got it. And you? You’ve got it.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Not just amusement now. Something warmer.

She nudges your desk chair with her foot. “And what about you? You’re finally here. After all the years in the stands.”

You exhale. “I still don’t believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.” You look at her. “It wasn’t,” she repeats, and her voice is firm now. “You worked for this.”

You sit down on your bed because your legs are suddenly a little wobbly. “I didn’t even play basketball. I always loved it from the outside. Like I was watching through a glass wall. But now I’m here. With an official pass. And a class schedule. And a mini fridge.”

“And a camera that makes players nervous,” she adds, grinning. “Seriously—do you know how many people talk about your videos? Paige loves them.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Paige Bueckers?”

She nods. “She’s my best friend. We played USA ball together. Trained together a ton. I’m hyped to be on her team again.”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. No. Yeah. She’s insane. Her court vision? Unreal.”

Azzi perks up. “Right? You get it. Most people just talk about her scoring.”

You grin. “No, her reads are the most dangerous part. It’s like she sees into the future.”

Azzi points at you. “Exactly!”

You both pause. Smiling. The room quiets.

“So,” she says, nudging her shoe against yours. “Now that we’re both here… what happens next?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You think of ten possible answers. You settle on one.

“I guess we both do what we came here to do,” you say. “You win games. I tell stories.”

She holds your gaze for a second.

“I like that,” she says. “Sounds like a pretty good team.”

Your cheeks burn.

You smile. “Yeah. I think so too.”

You weren’t planning on staying late.

You just needed to print a last-minute syllabus, maybe jot down a few class notes before the chaos of syllabus week turned into real deadlines. The main library was packed, the dorm lobby was loud, so you wandered until you found the tiny study lounge tucked between the chemistry building and the dining hall.

It’s quiet. Almost sacred.

Dim yellow light. One humming vending machine. Two long tables. One outlet that works. You set your laptop down at the far end, earbuds in, hoodie up, world shut out.

Until you hear the soft scrape of sneakers against tile.

You look up.

Azzi stands in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, curls tied up, water bottle in one hand, textbook in the other.

She sees you and smiles like it’s not even surprising.

“Oh hey,” she says. “I knew I’d run into you eventually.”

You blink. “In the library?”

She laughs. ��Exactly where I thought you’d be.”

You gesture to the empty seat across from you. “Welcome to the land of procrastination.”

She drops her bag with a soft thud. “My favorite.”

At first, it’s quiet. You’re working on class notes. She’s flipping through a textbook—sports psych, you think. Every so often you hear the soft tick-tick of her highlighter, or the slosh of her water bottle when she takes a sip.

It’s… easy.

Too easy, maybe.

Until she looks up and says softly, “Do you ever think about how weird this is?”

You glance up. “What part?”

“This,” she says, waving vaguely at the room. “Like… you and me. Sitting here. Same school. Same campus. I used to watch UConn highlights on my phone between homework and shooting workouts, and now I’m just… here.”

You nod slowly. “I do think about that a lot.”

She rests her chin on her hand. “I think sometimes people expect me to feel like the version of myself they know from the internet or YouTube or whatever. Like I’m supposed to always be locked in. Always the brand.”

You don’t say anything. You let her keep going.

“But here,” she says, voice lower now, “it’s kinda nice just being Azzi. Not the basketball player. Just me.”

You swallow. And carefully, gently, you say, “What’s just you like?”

She looks at you. Really looks. Like she’s surprised you asked.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m still figuring that out.”

You nod. She shifts a little, lets her leg bump yours under the table. Doesn’t move it.

“I’m quiet,” she says. “At first. I like routines. I don’t like attention off the court, even though I always seem to get it. I like Twizzlers more than I should probably admit. And I can watch the same movie three times in one week if I’m stressed.”

“What movie?”

“Coach Carter,” she says, grinning. “Judge me.”

You shake your head. “I’d only judge you if you said Thunderstruck.”

Her whole face lights up. “Okay wait—objectively one of the worst basketball movies ever made.”

“Thank you!”

She bites her bottom lip, still smiling. “I was worried you were gonna say it’s your favorite.”

“I make videos, Azzi. I have taste.”

She laughs again, leans back in her chair. Her posture’s looser now. Like she’s shedding something.

You watch her for a second. The quiet under the lights. The way her gaze lingers on the ceiling tiles like she’s somewhere else for a moment—maybe in her own head, maybe somewhere she hasn’t told anyone about yet.

“Why UConn?” you ask.

She looks down. Twirls the cap of her highlighter.

“Because I wanted to play for Geno,” she says. “Because I wanted to wear the jersey I grew up watching. Because Paige is here. Because I wanted to be part of something bigger than just my name.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

She glances at you. “What about you? Why here?”

You pause. Think. Not about the rehearsed answers you gave in essays or to your guidance counselor. You think about the answer you’ve never really said out loud.

“Because it’s always felt like home,” you say. “Even when I was just a face in the stands. It felt like where I was supposed to be.”

She tilts her head. “Even though you never played?”

You smile. “Especially because I never played. Watching was playing. In my head. In my notebooks. It’s how I learned to love the game.”

Azzi stares at you for a long second.

“I think that’s beautiful,” she says softly.

Your throat goes a little tight. You look back at your screen. “Don’t say stuff like that or I’ll start writing a poem about you and post it on Twitter.”

She laughs again. “Do it. I dare you.” You open a Word doc. Start typing. She leans across the table. “No you won’t.”

You keep typing. She squints at the screen.

Roses are red Huskies are blue Azzi Fudd walked in And I forgot how to function like a normal person who knows how to make eye contact—

She snorts. “You’re such a weirdo.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

By the time you check the clock, it’s past 1 a.m. The building is silent. Just the hum of the vending machine and the click of your keys as you pack up. She stands at the same time you do. Your shoulders brush. Neither of you steps away.

She looks at you under the soft yellow light. “Wanna walk back together?”

You nod. You both walk out into the night. The air’s cooler now. Softer.

She nudges your arm gently. “Hey.” You glance over. “Thanks,” she says. “For tonight.”

“For carrying your half of the friendship so far?”

“For letting me be Azzi,” she says.

You smile. “Anytime.”

You mean it.

It’s your second week working student media and your first real UConn Women’s Basketball practice.

You’ve got the press vest, the clunky video camera, checked out of the digital lab, a spare battery in your back pocket, and a nervous buzz running all the way through your limbs like static. You’re supposed to be filming highlights for a pre-season hype reel, which means getting clean, tight shots of drills, scrimmages, Geno being Geno, and—if you’re lucky—some personality.

You try to stay out of the way. Hug the wall, step behind the scorer’s table, film from above when the angle works. You know this gym. You’ve grown up in this gym. But today, it feels like walking through a dream that keeps touching you back.

The team moves like music—chaotic, precise, loud. Shoes squeaking, balls slamming into hardwood, whistles sharp. Azzi is everywhere. She’s vocal. Focused. Cutting sharp and fast like her legs are on springs. You track her without even meaning to.

You’re filming from midcourt when it happens.

She glances over during a break, wipes sweat from her brow, and smirks.

“Yo, Y/N—you getting my good side or what?”

You fumble the focus.

“Uh,” you say, stupidly. “You… have more than one.”

She raises an eyebrow. Grins like she just scored.

“Nice save,” she says, turning back toward the drill line.

From down the court, Aaliyah lets out a loud “OHHHhhh she’s FLIRTIN’ again!”

Everyone laughs.

Dorka claps. “That’s like the third time this week.”

Azzi doesn’t flinch. “I’m just making sure the videographer stays focused.”

Paige leans over to you. “She only says that to people she likes.”

You choke on your spit.

Later, you're crouched on the baseline, capturing close-ups during a half-court scrimmage. Azzi drives hard to the right, fakes a pass, pulls back, and buries a three so smooth it could’ve been filmed at half-speed.

As she jogs backward, she turns slightly toward you, throws two fingers up at her temple, and mouths, “Get that?”

You nod, too stunned to speak.

Behind her, Paige—who’s just arrived and is watching from the sideline with a Gatorade—calls out, “If you make a mixtape just for her, I swear to God.”

Azzi calls back, “Don’t worry, it’s for her personal archives.”

Everyone oohs. You just bury your face in your hands, camera shaking.

After practice, you’re transferring footage onto your laptop in the media room when you hear sneakers on linoleum. You look up.

Azzi leans in the doorway, fresh out of the locker room. Hair damp. Hoodie slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, a little softer now.

“Hey.”

“You got the shot, right? That step-back?”

You nod. “In high definition. It’s practically a religious experience.”

She grins. “Good. I wanna send it to my mom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna send your mom a clip from my camera?”

She walks in, shrugs. “You shoot me better than the actual team page does.”

Your cheeks burn.

She eyes your screen. “Wanna sit in the stands sometime? Like… not for work. Just as friends. Watch the men’s practice with me?”

“Friends watch practices together?”

She shrugs again. “They do if they’re secretly scouting each other.”

You laugh, shake your head. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re blushing.”

You are. Fully.

You shut your laptop slowly. “Yeah, well. You are my favorite player.”

She pauses. Smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Good. Because you’re kinda becoming one of mine.” Your breath stutters. You say nothing. And she just smiles wider. “See you around, camera girl.”

She disappears back down the hall.

You sit frozen for a beat before whispering into the empty room, “Oh my God.”

It’s a Thursday afternoon when the gym lights flicker on overhead and the thump of basketballs begins to echo like a heartbeat. You’re back again, perched behind the camera at the scorer’s table, watching the team warm up. Same camera. Same assignment. Same angle.

But everything feels a little different now.

Because this time, Azzi keeps looking at you.

Not subtle glances. Not maybe she’s checking the clock kind of looks. No—this is head up, eyes locked, tiny grin tugging at the corners of her mouth every time she sinks a shot. She doesn’t break her stride. Doesn’t call attention to it. But it’s there. Like she’s playing with the gym but performing for you.

You try to stay focused. Try to pan smoothly. Try to track the drills without letting your hands shake. But every time she glances over, you feel it in your spine.

And when scrimmage starts, it only gets worse.

It’s a loose five-on-five, full-court with a few new sets they’re testing. Paige’s running point. Dorka’s working on her inside presence. Azzi starts slow—light on her feet, reading the floor, not forcing anything.

But midway through the second possession, Paige kicks it out to her beyond the arc.

One dribble. Step back.

Three.

Swish.

You instinctively follow the shot through your lens and catch her turning—eyes to you. She lifts her eyebrows once, like you get that?

You give a barely-there nod.

Next play, Azzi curls off a screen from Nika, gets the handoff, barely sets her feet.

Second three.

Net again.

This time, when she turns to jog back on defense, she says just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m telling you—Y/N’s my lucky charm.”

You freeze behind the camera.

Paige, mid-transition, snorts. “Oh my god.”

Aaliyah yells, “Here she goes!”

You catch Dorka dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from her brow.

On the next trip down, Paige feeds her again. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

Third three.

This one rattles in. Still counts.

The gym erupts in the usual “Woooo” from the sideline, sneakers squealing as players shuffle back into place.

But this time, it’s Geno who steps in from the wing with his whistle in his hand and that familiar, half-exhausted, half-amused look on his face—the one you’ve seen a thousand times on television but never this close. He points at Azzi, then points directly at you, sitting behind the camera.

“You two dating yet? Do I need to start charging her rent for attention?”

The gym explodes with laughter. It’s immediate, loud, relentless. Nika claps like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Paige almost falls to the floor. Aaliyah shouts, “Coach, please!!” and covers her face with a towel. Dorka gasps like she’s scandalized.

And you? You short-circuit. Fully. You duck your head behind the camera, ears burning, heart punching holes in your chest.

Azzi grins. “Don’t worry, Coach,” she says, still breathing a little heavy from the play, “if we were dating, I wouldn’t be missing any shots.”

Geno just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “god help me.”

You don’t say a word. You keep filming. But your mouth won’t stop smiling.

After practice, you stay behind to upload footage. Azzi wanders over slowly, towel around her neck, sweat still glistening across her brow. She doesn’t sit. Just leans on the table beside your laptop and glances at the playback.

“That third one was ugly,” she murmurs. “But it went in.”

You click back and replay it. “Your arc was a little flat. You were leaning.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t notice.”

“I did.”

You play it again. She watches the ball drop clean through the net, the gym behind her erupting in sound, and smirks.

“And I noticed you,” she says.

You look up. She’s watching you now, not the screen.

“I meant it, by the way,” she adds. “You really are my lucky charm.”

You try to laugh it off. “I think your jump shot deserves most of the credit.”

“Maybe,” she says, standing straighter, slinging the towel around her shoulders. “But it’s more fun thinking it’s you.”

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to. She takes a step back, but her eyes linger.

“Text me the clips?” she says. “I wanna post the second one.”

You nod.

“Cool. And…” she bites her bottom lip, hesitates for a second. “You free tomorrow?”

Your breath catches.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I can be.”

“Great,” she says. “Let’s grab dinner. My treat.”

You blink. “Like… just us?”

She nods. “You know—lucky charm privileges.”

You laugh quietly. “I’ll bring the magic.”

She smiles. “I’m counting on it.”

And she walks away, leaving you in the quiet echo of the gym, sitting behind a camera that finally stopped rolling.

You’ve checked your shirt twice in the mirror and fixed your collar three times before you even leave your room. Not because you’re trying to impress her—well, okay, yes, because you’re trying to impress her—but not in the way people expect. It’s not flowers and cologne and rehearsed lines. It’s… subtler than that. Tucked shirts, pressed pants, a clean watch and your best calm voice.

You open doors. You walk on the outside of the sidewalk. You ask if she’s warm enough before you even think of your own coat.

You’re a little shy about it. You don’t broadcast who you are. You just show it.

And somehow—Azzi sees it all anyway.

She picked a little place off campus. Not too far, just past the edge of the college town strip, a small family-owned spot with warm lighting and quiet booths. She’s already waiting when you get there, tucked into the corner table with a water glass sweating beside her and her phone face down.

She sees you and smiles slow, soft, like she’s glad you’re real and standing in front of her.

“Hey,” she says, standing up before you can pull her chair out for her. “You clean up nice.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Was aiming for something between ‘student media’ and ‘my mom raised me right.’”

She laughs and gestures for you to sit. “Well, you nailed it.”

You take the seat across from her, hands resting loosely in your lap. The menu’s already waiting, but you don’t open it right away.

She watches you for a second before saying, “It’s weird seeing you without a camera.”

You smile. “It’s weird not having one.”

“Do you ever turn it off?” she asks.

You blink. “The camera?”

“No,” she says gently. “You. The part of you that’s always… watching.”

You sit with that.

“No one’s asked me that before,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, leaning in a little, “tonight I want you to not be working. Just be you.”

You glance down, then back at her. “And who’s that, exactly?”

Azzi tilts her head. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Dinner is easy.

Conversation flows like it’s been waiting to happen—never forced, never performative. You talk about your childhood in Hartford, about taking the bus to games alone when your parents were working, about the first time you saw Diana Taurasi play and how you didn’t blink the entire fourth quarter.

Azzi tells you about her first time meeting Geno. How nervous she was. How Paige teased her about her handshake being “too polite.” She mimics it—stiff, formal, laughably awkward—and you laugh harder than you expect.

She talks about Paige a lot, but not in the way that threatens you. It’s soft. Familiar. Like a big sister figure she admires and still wants to impress. There’s affection in every mention, but it’s different from the attention she’s been giving you.

And she gives you a lot of it.

Her eyes don’t wander. She leans closer when you speak. And when your fingers brush lightly while reaching for your water, she doesn’t pull away. Not even a little.

“You really love this school,” she says at one point, after you’ve told her about your acceptance video, your old journals, the posters that still hang on your childhood bedroom wall.

“I do,” you admit. “It raised me. Even when I didn’t know it.”

Azzi looks at you for a long time after that. Not just watching, but seeing.

“You’re different,” she says quietly.

You shift slightly in your seat, brows tugging together. “How do you mean?”

She’s still looking at you, expression unreadable. But not cold. Just open. Bare.

“You don’t look at me like the rest of them do.”

You pause. Swallow. “How do the rest of them look at you?”

“Like I’m a story they already wrote,” she murmurs. “Like I exist on highlight reels and shoe deals and media day quotes.” You don’t speak. She lifts her gaze. “But you… you watch me like you’re still figuring me out. Like you’re not trying to own any part of me. Just… witness me.”

You feel the words in your chest before they reach your brain.

“I think you deserve that,” you say. “To just be.”

Azzi’s lips part like she wants to say something back but decides against it. Instead, she just exhales and leans back in the booth, letting the silence sit between you—warm, unhurried.

After dinner, you offer to walk her back. Of course you do. It’s late, and the air has gone from cool to crisp. You take her empty smoothie cup and toss it into the trash can outside before she even has to ask. She thanks you without looking, like it’s natural now.

Halfway back to her dorm, she stops.

You turn with her.

She’s smiling. Just a little.

“Can I say something weird?” she asks.

You nod. “Always.”

“I wasn’t planning on liking you this much.”

You blink. “I wasn’t planning on being liked this much.”

Azzi laughs. It’s soft. She tucks a curl behind her ear. “That makes two of us.”

There’s a quiet moment where she’s just looking at you again. Not speaking. Not teasing. Just… soaking you in.

She steps forward, and you think for a second she might kiss you. She doesn’t. Just bumps her shoulder into yours and says, “Same time next week?”

You smile. “Same table?”

“Only if you wear the same shirt.”

You pretend to groan. “I have three shirts, Fudd. Don’t make me waste all my charm too fast.”

She laughs again and steps into the lobby of her building. You stay on the sidewalk a minute longer, watching the door slowly close. And you swear, just before it shuts, she turns and smiles at you one more time.

You and Azzi don’t make an announcement. There’s no sit-down conversation, no hard lines drawn or expectations set. It just… happens. You start showing up for each other in the smallest, quietest ways. Ways no one really notices until they suddenly do.

She texts you when she’s leaving the gym late and asks if you’re still up. You are. You always are. So you meet halfway between your dorms and split a bag of vending machine pretzels under flickering lights while the rest of campus sleeps.

You start bringing her iced coffee to morning classes on Wednesdays. She doesn’t ask for it, but she starts texting you her order anyway.

You study together on Tuesdays in the tiny music library with the bad Wi-Fi and the good sunlight. She wears glasses she never wears anywhere else. You never tell her how unfairly good she looks in them. But she catches you staring one day and says, “Stop that,” with a smile so soft it curls your ribs.

Your playlists start to blur. Your snacks. Your hours. She starts calling your hoodie hers without really asking, and you never take it back.

People don’t really ask questions at first. They just assume you’re close. Until it’s clear you’re not just teammates or classmates or campus acquaintances.

You’re something.

And that’s when Paige corners you.

You’re filming light drills during a morning practice. Most of the team is stretching, quiet murmurs floating around the gym. You’re crouched at midcourt, fixing your focus, when a shadow steps into your peripheral vision.

You glance up.

Paige Bueckers stands there with a smirk and a half-empty Gatorade bottle. Her hair’s a mess, and she’s already got a sweatband tied loose around one wrist.

She squints at you like she’s inspecting an exhibit.

“So,” she says slowly, “what are you two, exactly?”

You blink. “Huh?”

She points her Gatorade bottle in your direction. “You. Azzi. The subtle stares. The hallway walks. The hoodie swaps. The fact that she basically glares at anyone who gets within six feet of you.”

You lower the camera. “I don’t… I mean, we’re just…”

“Don’t say friends,” Paige cuts in. “I have friends. I don’t look at them like I want to memorize how they laugh.” Your mouth opens. Closes. She steps closer. “I’m her best friend. I’ve seen her with a million people. I’ve seen her pretend. But with you?” She shakes her head. “She’s not pretending.”

You swallow. “She hasn’t said anything.”

“Yeah, well,” Paige mutters, “she’s Azzi. She doesn’t always say things. She does them.”

You look down at your hands. They’re shaking a little.

“I don’t want to rush her,” you say softly. “I just… like being around her. I’m happy to wait. Or not wait. Or just—exist next to her.”

Paige watches you for a long beat. Then she softens.

“She trusts you,” she says. “That’s rare. Just don’t let her down, okay?”

You nod.

And she smirks. “Also, if you hurt her, I will dunk on you emotionally.”

You laugh. “I think I could survive that.”

“You couldn’t,” Paige says, and walks away.

Later that night, you and Azzi are sitting on a bench outside the student union. You’ve got fries between you and the cold air biting at your hands. She’s wearing your hoodie—oversized on her, sleeves swallowed up—and she’s scrolling through her phone while your knee bumps hers, back and forth, like a slow rhythm.

Out of nowhere, she says, “Paige talked to you, didn’t she?”

You glance over. “Yeah.”

“What’d she say?”

“That you glare at people who get too close to me.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, she’s so dramatic.”

“Is it true?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away. “Only a little.”

You smirk. “Possessive much?”

She bumps her shoulder into you. “No. Just careful. I don’t like sharing what feels good.”

You glance down at your hands. She’s not holding yours. But she’s close enough. And when she exhales and leans into your side, you let her stay there.

And the feeling that this—whatever it is—is something you’re both building brick by brick.

It’s nearly 1:30 a.m. when you hear the knock.

Three soft taps. No urgency. But enough to pull you from your reading.

You glance toward the door, confused—because no one comes to your room at this hour. Not without texting first. Not without a reason.

When you crack the door open, Azzi’s standing there in sleep shorts and an oversized UConn t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair’s loosely braided, face bare, a faint crease in her cheek from where she must’ve been lying down earlier.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just shifts from foot to foot like she’s working up the courage to speak.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, eyes tired but steady. “And I… didn’t want to be alone.”

You open the door wider without hesitation. “Come in.”

She steps past you quietly, her hand brushing yours just for a second.

Your room is dim. Only the lamp on your desk is still on. The bed is small—UConn twin bed small—but you shift over instinctively, pushing your laptop and pillow aside, making space that doesn’t exist but somehow still feels enough for her.

She climbs in slowly, careful. Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to let her guard down here.

But when she finally settles, she curls up beside you—tucks herself into the space between your body and the wall. Her knees brush yours. Her shoulder rests against your bicep. She lets out a breath you swear she’s been holding all day.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

She nods, but it’s small.

“I’ve just been… in my head,” she says. “It gets loud in there sometimes.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t press.

Instead, you turn just enough so your body faces hers. “You want me to talk? Or just stay quiet?”

She shakes her head, eyes closed. “No talking.” Then, barely above a whisper, she adds, “You calm me down.”

You don’t answer. You just reach out and lightly place your hand on the curve of her waist—gentle, grounding. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. She exhales again. And this time it sounds like relief.

You don’t fall asleep right away, but you stay still. Let her breathe against you. Let your body mold around the shape of hers, careful and quiet and steady. You memorize the weight of her knee over yours, the rise and fall of her chest against your side, the slow soft shift of her hand under your arm as she finally, finally relaxes.

At some point, you do fall asleep. And when you wake up—she’s still there.

Fully tucked into you, head resting right over your heart, one arm draped across your ribs, the other curled tight between you like she’s trying to stay anchored. Your hoodie—which she must’ve pulled over in the middle of the night—covers half her face.

And she’s still asleep.

Peaceful.

Like the noise is gone now.

Your first instinct is not to move. Not even to breathe too loud. You look down at her, lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted just slightly.

You shift only enough to tighten your arm around her. Pull her closer.

She hums softly at the motion—barely awake, maybe not at all—but leans in like her body already knows it belongs there.

And you lie there in the quiet morning light with her tucked into your chest, her breath warm on your skin, and all you can think is…

This… this is home.

The room is soaked in that soft gray-blue that only happens just before the sun fully breaks over campus. You’re still beneath the thin dorm blanket, your arm wrapped gently around Azzi, her body pressed close—like she molded herself into the curve of your chest overnight.

You haven’t moved in twenty minutes. Not because you’re asleep. But because this is the stillest you’ve ever felt.

And then she shifts. Just a little. A quiet inhale. A slight roll of her shoulders. Her head nestles deeper against your chest. You glance down. Her eyes are open now—barely. Still hazy. Still blinking off sleep.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Just… breathes. Lets her hand flex against your ribs, lets her fingers move slightly against the fabric of your shirt like she’s checking if you’re still real.

And then, in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard her use, she whispers, “I don’t want to leave yet.”

Your chest tightens.

You could answer a million ways. Could make a joke. Could nod. Could say nothing and just kiss the crown of her head. But you turn your head slightly and speak gently, as soft as she is.

“Do you want to stay?”

Azzi lifts her chin just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment she doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak—just looks at you like she’s never been allowed to look at anyone this long.

Then she nods. A small, certain nod.

You shift just slightly, enough to tuck your other arm under her, enough to cradle her properly. She sighs, one hand sliding up to rest lightly over your collarbone. Her forehead presses against your throat, and she lets her whole body relax into yours like gravity doesn’t exist outside this bed.

You hold her like she’s something delicate but sure. Something you’ve always known how to protect. Neither of you says anything else. There’s no need.

Outside, the campus starts to wake up—faraway doors opening, a soft burst of laughter down the hall, sneakers squeaking in the stairwell. But in this tiny corner of the dorm building, in your twin bed barely built for one, it’s just you and her.

And she’s still. Still in your arms. Still letting you hold her like this isn’t new.

You don’t think about the team. You don’t think about Paige, or Geno, or the next practice or the classes you’re missing. You don’t even think about what this is.

You just hold her. Because she asked to stay. And you want her to. So you stay like that for another hour. Until the sun finally reaches your window. And even then, neither of you moves. Not yet.

It didn’t happen with fireworks or a kiss under stadium lights.

It happened slowly and then all at once.

One night, she stayed over without asking. The next, she came back with her pillow. Then her toothbrush. Her hoodie. Her charger. One morning, she was brushing her teeth in your mirror, hair tied up, wearing your sweats and her socks and you looked up from your side of the bed and just—knew.

You were already hers.

And she’d already been yours.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t do you want to be together?

It was, we are. We just are.

Azzi touches you like you’re something safe. Holds your hand under tables. Rest her head on your shoulder during film nights. She lets you fix her braid when it comes undone in your room, even though you're not very good at it.

You bring her iced coffee before morning lifts and wrap your arm around her waist when she’s got a towel over her head after practice, sweat still clinging to her neck. She mutters, “gross,” but doesn’t pull away. Never pulls away.

She calls you “babe” now, but only when she’s sleepy. Or really happy. Or trying to get you to give her the last of the sour gummy worms.

One night after a win, Paige stops you in the tunnel, eyebrow raised.

“So it’s official now, huh?” You don’t answer. Just nod once, calm and easy. Paige grins. “Good. She deserves someone who sees her the way you do.”

Later that night, Azzi kisses you in your kitchen. Long. Sure. With her hands tucked under your shirt and her forehead resting against yours when she pulls back.

“You’re the first thing that feels… still,” she whispers.

You hold her tighter.

Now?

You’re on the couch in your apartment just off campus, her legs draped across yours, both of you pretending to study. The TV’s on mute. There’s a plate of shared fries on the coffee table, and her sock-covered foot keeps nudging your thigh every few minutes like she wants you to look at her.

You do. She smiles. You lean forward. Press a soft kiss to the inside of her knee, just because you can.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“You’re wearing that smug face again,” she shoots back.

“I don’t have a smug face.”

“You do,” she says. “You get it when I call you mine.”

You smirk. “Say it again.”

She shifts, climbs into your lap, arms loose around your neck, forehead against yours.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs, quiet and warm.

And you smile the way you always do when you hear it. Because she’s yours, too. No question. No hesitation.

The game wasn’t perfect.

UConn had trailed in the first half. Turnovers were sloppy. The defense looked a step slow. But it was one of those classic second-half comebacks—the kind that made you fall in love with the program in the first place. Gritty. Relentless. Blue-blood basketball that didn’t panic when the rhythm broke, just reshaped itself until the song made sense again.

And Azzi? Azzi was the pulse that pulled it all back together. You don’t say her name in the video. Not out loud. But it’s all about her.

You set up your phone against a stack of books on your desk, flip your hoodie inside out to hide the logo, student media rules, and hit record just past 11 p.m., your voice calm but low, steady in that familiar tone that says, You’re watching something that mattered.

“Tonight’s game wasn’t about dominance,” you begin. “It was about control. The kind of control that looks quiet from the outside, but is doing all the heavy lifting behind the scenes.”

You play the first clip. A curl off a down screen. The ball never touches the floor—just one clean catch-and-release, a perfect arc, the net singing as it snaps.

“This is a shot you don’t attempt unless you trust yourself,” you say. “You don’t take it unless you’ve put in the hours when no one’s watching. You don’t make it unless your feet know what to do before your brain tells them.”

The next clip rolls. She’s off-ball now. Moving without drawing attention. Setting an off-screen that forces a mismatch. Two passes later, someone else scores.

“She won’t show up on the stat sheet for this one,” you say. “But she broke that play open with her movement. With her patience. That’s what makes the difference.”

You show a transition possession. A swing pass. A stop-and-pop jumper.

“She doesn’t shout with her game,” you continue. “She whispers. She hums. And by the end of the night, you realize she’s been the melody the whole time.”

You pause the tape. Just your face now. Calm. Still.

“This team doesn’t just need shot-makers. It needs tone-setters. Players who make the floor feel settled. Balanced. Trusted.”

You breathe out slowly.

“There’s one player on this roster who does that every time she’s out there.”

You don’t say her name. But everyone knows.

You post the video with a caption that just says, Game recap—the quiet ones always carry the weight.

You close the app. Put your phone down.

Fifteen minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth, it buzzes on the counter.

azzi: just watched it. i don’t need you to say my name. i heard every word.

You stare at the screen.

good. because every word that i said? i meant it.

azzi: come over? i want to fall asleep hearing your voice, not just watching it.

And you don’t even hesitate.

It’s strange being the oldest now.

Not in life—just in this world. The UConn world. The practice jersey, locker room, Gampel at dawn world. You’re still in your early twenties, but somehow, senior year settles in your chest like the last page of a chapter you’re not quite ready to close.

You wear the same media badge, now faded at the edges, and carry the same camera you’ve had since freshman year. But your presence isn’t tentative anymore. Coaches nod when they pass you in the tunnel. Freshmen ask if they can “maybe be in the next clip.” The film room plays your edits before games. They say your name when they talk about the program now.

And Azzi?

Azzi is everything you knew she’d become.

She’s the co-captain. The shooter. The calming force. She’s the one they look to in timeouts, the one the little girls in the stands scream for, the one ESPN mics during pregame because her voice means something now.

She’s also still the one who texts you during film study from across the room, your girl just cooked that closeout. admit it.

You look up. She doesn’t even glance your way. Just smirks into her Gatorade.

You send back, you’re lucky i love you.

You’ve been together for three years now.

It’s not new anymore. But somehow, it never feels old.

You still get the same warm chill when she knocks on your door and slips inside without speaking. When she wears your shirt to bed. When she sits between your legs on the floor during game replays, her back against your chest, your fingers tracing light shapes over her ribs as the room glows blue with the paused footage.

Azzi still doesn’t talk a lot about her emotions. But she shows them. In how she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking. In how she adjusts your hoodie drawstrings without saying a word. In the way she always asks if you’ve eaten before she lets you start editing film. In the way she asks—quietly, but directly—if you’ll stay the night, even though she never has to.

You’ve been with her through everything. Through the rehab stint after her knee scare sophomore year. Through the championship loss in junior year that kept both of you up in silence. Through every early-morning workout, every late night edit, every moment where the pressure started to make her forget she was more than what she could score.

You never let her forget. And she never stops choosing you.

Now, it’s senior year.

And you’re both carrying the weight of lasts.

Last home opener. Last conference road trip. Last Midnight Madness.

There’s talk about what comes after—draft declarations, sports media job offers, maybe even that apartment in New York you bookmarked but never showed her. You don’t say it out loud yet. But you feel the shape of it behind everything.

Still, tonight’s not about what’s next.

Tonight is about the now.

The two of you walk into Gampel together for a game against South Carolina, the final non-conference home game of the season. You’re filming as always. Azzi’s in uniform, headphones in, locked in. She slows near the tunnel just enough to let your shoulder brush hers.

You catch her eye.

She mouths, “Watch this.”

And you do.

She drops 27 points. 6-for-7 from beyond the arc. Four assists. Two steals. One dagger of a three with a minute left that sends the crowd into a frenzy.

And when she walks off the court, towel around her neck, teammates bumping her shoulder, she doesn’t look for the ESPN cameras or the press row.

She looks for you.

And when she finds you—camera down, hands shaking just a little from trying not to scream during that final shot—she smiles like she already knows what you’ll say.

But you say it anyway. “Jesus Christ, Fudd.”

She laughs.

Then steps in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Right there. Right in front of everyone. The crowd still buzzing, the team still cooling down, the band still playing. No hesitation. No secrecy. Just her lips against your skin and her hand resting at your side like it’s home.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. She’s yours. And she always has been.

The confetti’s still falling when she finds you.

She should be somewhere else. On the stage. On the podium. With the cameras. Holding the Most Outstanding Player trophy in one hand and the net she cut down in the other. But instead, she’s weaving through the chaos like she’s been looking for you the whole time.

Your camera’s still rolling, half-raised, the screen shaking slightly from adrenaline. You’ve been filming through tears—yours, theirs, everyone’s. Geno’s last timeout. Paige’s final assist. Azzi’s ice-cold three with 1:13 left that sealed it. You haven’t moved from the baseline since the buzzer sounded.

And suddenly she’s there. In front of you.

Grinning like her whole body is full of light. Hair matted to her forehead, jersey drenched, eyes glassy and shining beneath the overhead lights. She’s not crying. Not yet. But she looks like if you said one thing too soft, she would.

So you don’t say anything. You drop the camera. And open your arms. She crashes into you. Hard. Not careful. Not composed. Just Azzi, all of her, colliding into you like you’re the only solid thing left in the universe. You catch her.

Wrap your arms around her and feel her fists clench behind your back as she buries her face into your shoulder. She shakes once—just once—like the win finally hit her in your arms, not when the clock hit zero.

“I did it,” she whispers. “We did it.”

“You did it,” you say, pulling her tighter. “You were unreal tonight.”

“I was scared,” she breathes, muffled against your neck. “I didn’t know if I could—”

“You did,” you cut in. “And you didn’t just play, Azzi. You led. You carried. You earned every second of this.”

She pulls back, just enough to look at you.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, laughing a little.

“So are you,” you reply.

Her hand finds yours. Palm rough with resin, trembling slightly. You squeeze three times.

Five minutes later, she’s called back to the main stage. Reporters. Flashbulbs. A camera crew trying to wedge into your space, asking her for comments. She’s too polite to ignore them but too distracted to fully focus.

Before she turns to go, she tugs your wrist. You lean close. She kisses your cheek. Quick. Sure. Public. Everyone sees it. And she doesn’t care.

“They’re gonna ask me how I stayed calm all tournament,” she says. “I’m gonna want to tell them it was you.”

You smile. “You can’t. I’ll get fired.”

Azzi shrugs, already walking backward into the media swarm. “Fine. I’ll just say I had a secret weapon.”

You call after her, “Tell them your lucky charm came through.”

She flashes a grin over her shoulder. “Always.”

Later—much later—the arena’s mostly empty. Security’s doing a final sweep. You’re sitting on the court again, knees bent, her championship hat askew on your head and your camera shut off for once. Azzi’s beside you, her legs stretched out, her shoes untied.

The net’s tied around her neck like a necklace. Her trophy rests in her lap, her fingers brushing over the engraved plate like it still doesn’t feel real. She doesn’t say anything. So you do.

“Did you hear the crowd when you hit that three?”

Azzi exhales. “Felt like everything got quiet.”

You nudge her thigh with your knee. “That’s because you silenced the world.”

She leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder.

“I didn’t want to look for you until I was sure we’d won,” she says. “I told myself I’d run to you if the buzzer went and we were still standing.”

You nod. “You found me.”

“I always will.”

You turn. Kiss the top of her head. Smell the salt, the resin, the weight of four years coming to rest all at once.

She glances down at the trophy. Then up at you.

“This is ours,” she says.

And you believe her.

Because for four years, you’ve watched her become this. Not a headline. Not a name on a graphic. Not a logo on a sneaker deal.

But Azzi. Fully. Wholly. Yours.

She didn’t declare.

Azzi Fudd, consensus top-ten pick, Most Outstanding Player, national champion, walking bucket—stayed.

Everyone thought she’d leave. Follow Paige, The mock drafts said she was gone. The WNBA teams practically started designing her jerseys. But when the time came, when the lights dimmed and the confetti settled and the press release was ready to drop, she looked across the kitchen table at you in a hoodie and sweats and said, “I’m not done here.”

And she stayed. One more year. One more season at UConn. One more chance to wear that jersey with the same grace and grit she always had. One more year of being the leader, the big sister, the captain.

You didn’t try to talk her out of it. You just said, “Then we go all in.”

Because this time, you weren’t filming from the student section. You weren’t hiding behind a school media vest. You weren’t the wide-eyed kid from Hartford anymore.

You were you now.

It happened fast after graduation. The videos you’d built over four years at UConn had long outgrown the platform. Coaches shared them. Players reposted them. Parents sent them to their kids. And when networks started knocking, you told them no.

Because you didn’t need a desk job in a studio. You were already building something better. You went independent.

Self branded. Self scheduled. Self funded. You called it Court Vision—a solo platform for women’s basketball storytelling. You didn’t just cover stats. You covered rhythm. Identity. Psychology. You saw what others missed. That same calm voice you used in dorm rooms was now playing in thousands of ears across the country.

Everywhere you went, players greeted you like family. Coaches asked if you could send your breakdowns. Parents told you their daughters learned the game watching your videos. You had press credentials at every arena. Interviews on every court.

You weren’t just in the room anymore. You were the room.

And yet—even with all the traveling, all the acclaim—when UConn’s schedule dropped, the first date you circled was Storrs.

Because Azzi stayed. And she was yours.

You fly back on a Thursday. The gym smells the same—pine and sweat and polish and history. You show your credential at the tunnel and get waved through with a nod. No questions. Everyone knows you by now.

Geno’s mid-practice, yelling about tempo. KK is courtside talking to her phone sipping a smoothie. But you don’t look at anyone else.

She’s there.

Number 35. Ponytail flying. Eyes locked in.

Still Azzi.

She hits a three off a staggered screen, doesn’t even glance toward the bench—but she sees you. Feels you. After the whistle, she jogs over like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just come from a courtside interview in Atlanta the night before. Like you don’t have a flight to L.A. in three days. She stops short of touching you. Still sweat-soaked. Still in game mode. But her eyes burn like fire under soft lashes.

“I was wondering when you’d show,” she says.

You smirk. “Had to see the return of the queen in person.”

“Is that what your analysis is gonna say?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you make it worth it.”

Azzi narrows her eyes. “You want a quote?”

“I want a win,” you say.

She laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m still your girl.”

You raise an eyebrow. “UConn’s princess, technically.”

Azzi steps a little closer, low and quiet.

“But only yours after the buzzer.”

After practice, you sit in the bleachers while she finishes her lift. Geno walks past you muttering, “If she plays the way she smiles at you, we’ll win by 40.”

You shout back, “She usually does.”

When Azzi joins you, towel around her neck, hair damp, you hand her the protein bar you brought from a gas station in Chicago.

“Romantic,” she says, unwrapping it anyway.

You kiss her cheek. “You still owe me that postgame.”

She nods. “I’ll give you the best quote of your career.”

“You promise?”

She grins.

“Only if you stay the night.”

You didn’t think it could top the first one.

The chaos, the confetti, the hugging, the laughing, the relief. The night she hoisted the trophy with sweat-slicked hands and kissed your cheek in front of thousands like there wasn’t anything left to hide.

But this year? This year, it was different. Because it wasn’t about proving anything. It was about finishing everything right.

Azzi Fudd. Fifth-year senior. Leader. Anchor. The face of UConn’s redemption arc. Back-to-back championships. Back-to-back Most Outstanding Player. Twenty-nine points. Seven rebounds. Five assists. No missed free throws. And a quiet dominance that wove the whole game into something sacred.

You stood behind the press row, camera at your side, heart pounding harder than it ever had. Not from nerves. But from knowing.

Because you’d already decided. Tonight was the night.

You let the postgame chaos swirl without you.

You held your camera when she smiled for photos, laughed when KK fake-posed with her and said “This is your last chance to change your mind,” and nodded quietly when Geno found you afterward and muttered, “She’ll always be ours, but she was yours first.”

But you didn’t ask for a moment yet. Not until later.

After the crowd filtered out. After the media cleared. After the net was around her neck again and the trophy sat cradled in her arms like it had always belonged there.

You found her in the tunnel. Still in her jersey. She lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “Did you see that pass in the third—”

You kissed her. Right there. One hand on her cheek, the other in her hair. And she melted into it, into you, the arena dim and echoing around you.

You pulled back only far enough to whisper, “Get dressed.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out.”

“Now?”

You grinned. “Right now.”

You don’t go far.

A quiet rooftop. Soft lights strung along the railing. The city buzzing far below. A table set with takeout containers of her favorite pasta because you knew she’d be starving, and a chilled bottle of sparkling cider because she doesn’t drink and you remember everything she ever said in passing.

She raises an eyebrow when she sees the setup.

“What is this?” she asks, smiling.

You shrug. “Just a little postgame celebration.”

She walks closer. “You did all this today?”

You nod. “I knew you’d win.”

Azzi stares at you. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

She laughs. “Unfortunately.”

You sit. Eat. Talk about everything but the game. You remind her of the first time you saw her live, back in that dusty high school gym. She reminds you that you couldn’t make eye contact with her until October of sophomore year.

And then, after she’s scraped up the last bit of marinara sauce with a crust of bread and leaned back in her chair, happy and full and tired in the best way—

You stand. Reach for your jacket pocket. Her brow furrows. You step in front of her. She freezes. And the world disappears.

Your hand is shaking. You can’t even help it.

She’s already gasped, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and wet before you’ve said a single word. And your voice—your voice cracks before it can carry the first line.

“Sorry,” you breathe, blinking up at her. “I had a whole speech. I practiced. I swear I did.”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s holding her breath.

“I’ve loved you since before I could say it. Since before I knew what it was. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t just another fan, or another lens, or another voice trying to tell your story.”

Your throat catches again. You pause. Try to keep it steady.

“You’ve made me better. Kinder. Quieter. Stronger. You’ve taught me how to lead without shouting. How to stand still and still be powerful. You’ve taught me what it means to stay. To love even when it’s hard. Even when we’re tired. Even when the whole world is loud.”

She’s crying now. Quietly. Openly.

“I don’t care where you play next. I don’t care what city, what team, what coast. I just want to be there. In the front row. Behind the scenes. Next to you. Always.”

You open the ring box and kneel. Her hands fly to her mouth again.

“Azzi Fudd,” you say, voice breaking, “will you marry me?”

She doesn’t say yes right away. Because she’s already on her knees. Already wrapping her arms around your neck.

Already crying into your shoulder, whispering— “Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

The city spins beneath you. But you don’t feel it. Just her. Just this. Just forever starting now.

The sun pours into your room like it's in on the secret.

It catches the edge of the champagne colored blanket half-tangled around your legs, brushes over the takeout containers you were too love-struck to clean up last night, and settles—gently, reverently—on the girl curled up on your chest.

Azzi.

Still in your hoodie. Her bare feet tucked beneath the blanket. One hand draped over your stomach, the other curled near her face. And on that hand, a glimmer.

The ring. She hasn’t taken it off. Not even to sleep. You stare at it for a long time. The way it fits. The way it already belongs there. Like it always has. You don’t want to move. But your heart is too full. Your chest feels swollen with words, with memories, with every version of you that never thought this could happen. So you ease out from under her, careful, reverent, like you’re slipping out of a church pew mid-hymn.

You grab your phone. Sit by the window. Open your camera app. And press record.

The video starts with the sun on your face. You’re in a hoodie. Hair messy. Eyes red in the soft way that comes from crying for the right reasons. Your voice is low. Calm. Familiar.

“Hey,” you say. “I don’t really know where to begin. So I’ll start where I always do. With a game.”

You pause. Glance out the window. Then look back at the lens.

“Last night, UConn won its thirteenth national championship. And if you know me—if you’ve followed me, or watched anything I’ve ever posted—you know what this team means to me.”

You take a breath. A real one.

“But last night was more than that. Last night was the end of a promise I made to myself a long time ago.”

You tap your screen. The footage cuts.

To your UConn acceptance video.

You, five years younger, sitting in your childhood bedroom. Hartford skyline through your window. A UConn pennant behind you. You’re holding your laptop with your acceptance letter on the screen, eyes wide and shimmering.

“I’ve been going to games since I was a baby. I’ve watched legends on that court. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I do know this—UConn women's basketball raised me. Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You, now, smile faintly in the corner of the screen as it cuts back to you in present day.

“That was a joke at the time. Kind of.”

You glance over your shoulder. Off screen. Your voice softens.

“But some dreams… they’re quiet. They live in your chest. They follow you until you’re ready to meet them.” You call out, “Z?”

There’s rustling. A sleepy groan. And then—her. Azzi steps into frame, barefoot, wrapped in your blanket, hair a mess, ring glinting on her left hand. She blinks at the camera.

“Wait—are we filming?” You nod. She groans, laughing. “You couldn’t wait?”

You smile. “I didn’t want to forget this part.”

She slips into your lap. Tucks her face under your chin. Her hand rests on your chest, just over your heart. The ring sparkles. It’s not the centerpiece—but it doesn’t have to be. She is.

You speak again. Voice thicker now.

“She said yes.” A pause. “I asked Azzi to marry me last night.” Another beat. “And she said yes.”

Azzi leans up, kisses your cheek, and whispers, “Of course I did.”

You laugh, blinking fast.

“She’s the one I made videos about when I didn’t even know I was writing love letters. She’s the one who saw me before the rest of the world did. She’s been my constant. My compass. My favorite player—and my favorite person.”

Azzi nudges your chin. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Too late,” you mumble.

You let the silence sit for a moment. Let the footage breathe. And then you say, “I started this journey with a camera and a dream. And now I get to spend the rest of my life beside the person who turned both into something real.”

Azzi squeezes your hand. You look into the camera one last time.

“I loved UConn before I knew what love was. And somewhere between the student section and the court, I found the person I’ll love forever.”

Azzi rests her head against your shoulder again, smiling.

You whisper to her, not to the camera, “You’re the best story I’ve ever told.”

And then you reach out.

And end the recording.

You don’t even check your notifications at first.

You post the video, drop your phone face-down on the kitchen counter, and walk back to the bedroom, where Azzi is wrapped up in a hoodie and blanket like a sleepy human burrito. She smiles as you crawl into bed next to her and whisper something about needing more hours in the day.

You fall asleep with her tucked under your arm, her ring glinting in the soft morning light like it’s always belonged there.

By the time you wake up, the world has changed.

You fumble for your phone, half-asleep, and finally open TikTok.

The video’s at 3.1 million views. You blink. Refresh. 4.2 million. The comments are… unhinged. Emotional. Beautiful.

Azzi watches it all happen from next to you. She’s curled into your side, watching you scroll through your mentions, her chin on your shoulder.

“You didn’t think it’d blow up like this, huh?” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw.

You shake your head slowly. “I thought a few people might smile. Cry a little, maybe. I didn’t think it would turn into… this.”

Azzi hums. “Think the whole world’s been waiting for us.”

You glance at her. “Are you okay with it? With it being this public?”

She holds your hand, looks at the ring on her finger, then at you.

“I’m not hiding you,” she says. “Not ever. If the whole world sees it? That’s just proof I got it right.”

You lean in and kiss her. Soft. Certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like a full circle closing.

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