#I hope the writer is having a great day today

[ilypaigebuckets]

I Hate it Here

pairing: paige bueckers x reader

plot: based off of the tiktok trend from taylor swift’s new album ttpd. in which paige sees the tiktok you made about her.

also posting on my other acc! @kenzlovesyou

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paige returned home from practice to find you asleep in your shared room. she was sweaty and tired but the sight of you looking so precious made her face soften. she noticed you had a tendency to do that; make her soft.

paige put her bag down and walked up to you, kissing your forehead. “hey y/n, baby. i’m back,” her tone was sweet as she shook you awake, “i’m home!”. you groaned a bit as your eyes fluttered awake. “paigeyyy” you said, still half asleep as your arms reached to hug her. she smiled and reached down to hug you. you nuzzled into her neck, you’d missed her a little extra today. she stood up fully and you got out of your bed, hugging her tightly once again. “babe i’m sweaty. let me shower, then we’ll spend some time ok?” she lightly unhooked your arms from around your neck and gave you a soft kiss on the cheek. you sighed, already missing her touch.

you decided to go on to couch and watch a show while you waited for paige to finish showering. after finally settling on a show you spaced out into it, watching intently. paige finally finished showering and came out of the bathroom onto the couch with you. she saw the show you chose and wasn’t particularly interested, but still wanted to spend time with you. you laid your head on her shoulder and snuggled close to her. she looked down at your precious head and kissed the top of it.

she decided to scroll on tiktok while you watched your show. she scrolled past videos on her for you page, not finding anything entertaining enough to like but not boring enough to scroll past without watching. she then switched to her following feed. she watched the dancing video she and kk had made earlier in the day, before practice and laughed to herself. then she stumbled upon your account. you weren’t too active on social media, so it was always a treat for her to view something you’d posted. it was one of those slideshow tiktoks, with a new song from Taylor Swift playing in the background. the first picture was a cute picture of you azzi had taken of you with your hood on your heading, looking grumpywith the words “i hate it here so i will go to”.

paige quickly realized what trend you were participating in and was excited to see what you thought your “secret garden” was. she assumed it would be Uconn, as you’d mentioned how happy going to school here had made you and how it’d brought you out of your shell. she slid to the next photo. “secret gardens in my mind” she read and saw a mirror picture of the two of you. nobody else. just her. she was your secret garden. she mattered most to you. she felt like tearing up. she’d never meant this much to someone. even though it was just a tiktok trend, she was overcome with emotion. “baby?” she looked over at you.

“hm?” you hummed over at her, still immersed in your show.

“hey, welcome back to the real world. i saw the tiktok you made about me. i love you so much. ” she lifted her arm up and put it around you.

“you like it?? it’s not too annoyingly coupley and cringey?” you asked.

“no, y/n. it’s perfect. i wish i could be with you all the time. i love spending time with you.”

you looked at her and smirked. she wasn’t this soft when she first met you. you’d changed her.

“going soft on me, bueckers?”

“OK MOMENT RUINED” she jokingly pushed you off her even though she knew she’d be holding you again not even 2 minutes later.

my first one shot 🥳🥳 ik it’s short but i felt like writing something!! feel free to send in fic requests, dialogue prompts, song lyric prompts, etc! hope you guys like this, ik im not the best writer but i just like to do it for fun!! have a great day/night <3 :)

[orionsangel86]

Suddenly remembering the best and funniest Good Omens fanfiction I ever read which was set at a mutual Heaven and Hell "work party" and all the demons had bets to see who could bed an angel by the end of the night. It was hilarious and of course you read it presuming that Crowley will win but be gentlemanly enough to not claim the prize - which of course is what happens, but at the last minute it hits you around the face by revealling that Beelzebub hooked up with Gabriel

and well.

I think I'm gonna go reread that fic...

[frozenambiguity]

[esoterium]

there's nothing like a huge hug from a biker..

// to simply brighten your night when you need it most. last night this old biker dude with the wildest, craziest stories came into my work. he's a regular and i love seeing him walk in all the time. cause i know my night's about to get interesting. welp. here he comes. and i was just hanging out chatting with the girl working the bar.

and he sees me on the other side and just walks up and is like 'i haven't seen you in FOREVER!!!' (it's literally only been a handful of days but that's okay! lol!) and wraps me up in the biggest hug.

and lemme tell ya. hugs from old biker guys.. when they just wanna hug ya to hug ya cause they love ya? those are special. they make you feel loved and welcomed and just protected. and that was exactly what i needed right in that second.

so, thank you, old biker dude with crazy stories about your badass biker mom who rode with outlaw gangs and how you thought your best friend's ex old lady who picked you up alongside the road was a 'hooker in a monte carlo' circa 1970something trying to make a quick buck cause she had smokes, beers and was offering you a ride til you figured out who she was and that she was just feeling obligated cause she knew ya even though you forgot her face and you still feel like you messed up 40+ years later. or how now you own a huge piece of land that nomad, free spirit bikers can just come hang out on like free range cows who need a place to chill.

last night? you were my hero.

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 145

Adjective: Ravenous

Noun: House

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Ravenous: extremely hungry; (of hunger or need) very great, or voracious

House: a building for human habitation, especially one that is lived in by a family or small group of people; the people living in a house, or a household; a family or family lineage, especially a noble or royal one, or a dynasty; a building in which animals live or in which things are kept; a building in which people meet for a particular activity; a business or institution; a restaurant or inn; (dated) a brothel; a theater; a religious community that occupies a particular building; a residential hall at a school or college; (formal) (British) a college of a university; a legislative or deliberative assembly; the House of Representatives or (in the UK or Canada) the House of Commons or Lords; a style of popular dance music typically using synthesized drum and bass lines, sparse repetitive vocals, and a fast beat; (astrology) any of the twelve divisions of the celestial sphere, based on the positions of the ascendant and midheaven at a given time and place, and determined by any of a number of methods; a celestial division represented as a sector on an astrological chart, used in allocating elements of character and circumstance to different spheres of human life

[etherealising]

feels a tad bit insane that half of the interactions with aiekoy are my own reblogs and responses to comments. it’s like me and the same 5-10 people are keeping this fic alive and thriving lol

[leclsrc]

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich. 

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

— 

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast. 

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time. 

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink. 

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober? 

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

16

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him. 

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

[2soulscollide]

The right FREE tools to write a book

hello hello, it's me!

today I was thinking of how much you loved my masterlist featuring some free tools for writers, and I thought I would do something like that again but, this time, featuring just one or two tools per step while getting the best of "the writer's workbook" (which is also free).

before going any further, for those who don't know, "the writer's workbook" is, as the name says, a workbook for writers, with over 90 pages. it has lots of sheets divided into categories, to help you build the skeleton of your novel. (know more about it here).

however, we can get the most out of it using other complementary tools to ease this process.

Brainstorming

Reedsy generator - it's one of my favorites, and it can be quite useful when you're stuck and want to get an idea. you're free to make changes to it so that it is as unique as possible.

Mindmap

Lucidspark - although it has a premium version, I find it so helpful when it comes to making a mindmap. I've used it multiple times before, including for college assignments, and it's one of the best I've found so far.

Mindmup - I'm sharing this one here as an alternative to lucidspark, since this one doesn't require to create an account, and you have access to unlimited maps. however, in my opinion, it is not as good or intuitive as lucidspark is.

Come up with names

Behind the name - it's a classic, but one of my favorites. you can search every name you could ever imagine, and get its meaning, history, variations, etc. it still has some tools you can use such as a name generator, anagrams, and much more.

Make a profile

Fake person generator - although it was not created for authors, you might find it useful since it gives lots of details and you can be interested in some fields.

Character generator - this one was made for writers, and is simple and easy to use.

Family tree

Family echo - it's so simple yet so helpful.

Maps

Inkarnate - it has a paid version, but you can use it for free and create a great map.

Politics

Filteries - this is sooo complete and accurate!

hope this was helpful! have a nice day <3

[thewriterg]

♡︎𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞♡︎

Pairing(s): Stu Macher x Fem!reader, Billy Loomis x Fem!reader, Poly!ghostface x Fem!reader

Summary: Billy and Stu knew they were a lot on your shoulders but deep down they knew they would be lost without you and what better was to show you then on your birthday? —kinktober day;19—

Word count: 500+

Request: Hi!!! Todays my birthday! (Oct 29th) and I was wondering if you did write for them could you write ghost face (Billy and Stu) celebrating? Something short maybe NSFW? (Fem!reader) Thanks so much have a great day&lt;3

Warning(s): oral —f receiving—,  somnophilia, pet names, kisses, birthday celebration!!!, and language

A/n: —GIFs aren’t mine— First off Happy Freaking Birthday Writer! I do in fact write for them and I hope you have the most wonderful day ever! Scorpio squad Frl 🙄

“Would you shut up!” Billy hissed quietly your —favorite flavor— cake in his hands unlit candles resting the at the top as Stu had practically tripped over nothing entering the darkness of your your shared room

It was at least 9:00 am the boys having to want to get an early start on the your day and as they entered further they started to see the lump of your body still resting in the middle of the bed with the covers over your head

Billy sat the cake on your desk that was decently organized only a few highlighters out of their cups that sat on the surface while Stu was already softly inching on the bed it dipping softly under his weight He grabbed your hips softly turning you on your back peeling the duvet from your frame to reveal you body you had on a pair of one of their boxers that Stu couldn’t identify at the moment and one of your tank tops

Billy sat the cake on your desk that was decently organized only a few highlighters out of their cups that sat on the surface while Stu was already softly inching on the bed it dipping softly under his weight He grabbed your hips softly turning you on your back peeling the duvet from your frame to reveal you body you had on a pair of one of their boxers that Stu couldn’t identify at the moment and one of your tank tops

His fingers had slipped into the waistband slowly rolling them down your hips stopping momentarily when you shifted slightly before continuing his journey down your thighs and placed one of your legs up on his shoulder giving him a clear view at your cunt

Billy then began to make his own way to the bed while Stu spread your lips with his lanky fingers before pressing hot opened mouth kisses on your cunt not getting a full reaction out of you until he began to kitten lick your bud before taking it in his mouth whole

Bill lied next to side of your body kissing down your neck lifting your tank top over you chest to reveal your boobs as he took one of the buds in his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingers

You finally began to whimper subconsciously rolling your hips into the source of pleasure that visited your pussy before you finally began to blink the sleep out of your eyes letting light breaths escape from your lungs

“Happy birthday babe” Billy muttered against you neck before bringing pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth

“Yea, happy birthday honey” Stu spoke into your cunt the vibrations shooting up your spine and had one of your unoccupied hands flying to his hair bringing him deeper into your mound

“Thank you boys” You panted softly before turning to Billy bringing him into a kiss your other hand that wasn’t occupied in Stu’s hair to cup his jaw

“Oh, oh shit baby” Your moans were muffled while Billy swallowed them whole but Stu still couldn’t help but let it be his favorite sound Billy bringing his own fingers in the front of your glistening mound before rubbing his fingers in small circles the combination of Billy’s fingers and Stu’s tongue was enough to kill a nation

“I’m gonna come! Don’t stop fuck, don’t stop” Billy’s mouth left yours and went back to the comfort of your nipples bringing the bud between his teeth before flicking his tongue over the surface

“Scream for us baby, go on pretty girl” Billy muttered into your ear the coolness of his breath tickling your neck before you came with a loud cry your legs slightly shaking around Stu’s head while he licked a final stripe up your cunt lapping up the mess you’d made that he didn’t catch in his mouth while you lied panting

That was one way to start out the god damn day

[imaginespazzi]

Part 5: One Perfect Day

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Let me photograph you in this light (in case it is the last time that we might be exactly like we were)

(In which a procrastinating writer procrastinates giving her ship happiness)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Pining, Some Fluff

Words: 7.5K

TW: Swearing, Alcohol, Alludes to Sexual Content

A/N: Good evening my lovelies <3. As many of you have reminded me it is indeed Friday and so here we are, nobody needs to yell at me! I know I'm years too late with this but I hope y'all like it anyways, even though this is very much mainly hurt with very little comfort. But for things to get better, they have to get worse and remember, it's all for the plot! There's plenty of creative liberty taken this chapter with how hotels and post-championship celebrations work and other logistics but I wrote it how I needed to so just go with it. Did I edit? Yes. Are there typos and errors anyway? Probably. As always, tell me what you liked, what you disliked and what you'd like to see next. Have a wonderful weekend lovelies!!

March 2019 

The final buzzer echoes through the Williams Arena, and the disappointment of the last couple of years is finally drowned out as the Hopkins Royals win the state championship. Surrounded by the cheers of her teammates, Paige doesn’t know if she’d call this the happiest moment of her life, the stomach flu symptoms haven’t quite faded yet, but she knows it’s definitely on her mount rushmore of times when life was great. 

For a second, as she’d been crouched over the toilet with Azzi’s hands soothingly rubbing her back, feeling her soul leave with the remnants of last night's dinner, Paige had almost lost hope. But she’d never been taught to give up without a fight. And so it hadn’t mattered that she definitely looked a little green or that standing up was taking twice the energy it normally did, Paige was going to play today. It hadn’t been a flashy scoring night but she’d done everything else her team needed. And as that lead had built and built and built, Paige knew, the moment was still hers. 

“Paigeyyyyy,” Drew is the first one to find her after her and her teammates break apart, launching his tiny body into her legs, “you won!”

Paige laughs, lifting her brother into her arms and spinning him around, “I told you I was gonna didn’t I?”

One by one, her whole family, the epitome of a modern family, pull her into hugs and then they gather into one large group hug, with Paige at the centre of it all. Her siblings look at her with pure admiration while her parent’s eyes are filled with pride. And it fulfils that part of Paige that has always lived a little more for her family than for herself. 

As her family moves away slowly, Paige finds herself face to face with Azzi’s shining smile and her heart skips a beat. And she doesn’t really know when it started or even how really, but it gets a little more difficult every time she sees Azzi, for Paige to convince herself that that fluttering in her chest is nothing. 

“You look a little pale white girl,” Azzi teases, taking a couple of steps towards the blonde, “glad you didn’t vomit all over the floor.”

“Nah no bullshit flu is stopping Paige Bueckers. The flu is scared of me,” Paige juts out her chest with a smirk, earning her a patented eye roll from the younger girl. 

“Oh yeah, you’re real scary,” Azzi indulges before pulling Paige into a bone-crushing hug, “I’m proud of you P.”

Paige smiles into the crook of Azzi’s neck, basking in the glow of the compliment. It’s these little moments they have in between their constant banter, where they let themselves be each other’s biggest cheerleaders, that makes them Paige and Azzi. They pull away, still grinning. and Paige’s eyes roam over the Team Paige jersey framing Azzi’s body. It makes her feel some type of way to see the younger girl wearing her name across her chest, but it’s not a feeling Paige is quite ready to accept. Perhaps it’s been written in their destiny that someday things will change, that eventually they’ll both have to confront the something more that’s simmering underneath it all, but for now, Paige just wants to protect what they already have. 

“That’s a pretty jersey,” she says with a wink, fingers rushing over the soft material. 

“I was forced at gunpoint to wear it,” Azzi sighs dramatically, “I was actually cheering for Stillwater. Their pg’s kinda cute.”

Paige bristles at the comment, the queasiness from this morning returning with vengeance, “she’s mid as hell on and off the court.”

“Don’t be petty Paige. You think she’d let me wear her jersey instead?” 

“You know what,” Paige fights a losing battle with the quick surge of anger that’s taking birth in her stomach, “how about you take off my winner’s jersey and go to the loser’s locker room and beg for her jersey instead.”

She knows Azzi’s joking, knows the point guard on the other team isn’t even really Azzi’s type, knows that even if Azzi’s being serious, Paige doesn’t have a right to feel this way. But that green eyed monster is clawing at her heart, squeezing it and making it hard to breathe. 

“Oh- hey hey hey,” Azzi’s quick to grab at her when Paige tries to storm off, “chill dude. You know I’m just kidding.”

“Well it wasn’t funny,” Paige pouts, aware that she’s being unnecessarily childish. 

Azzi opens her mouth, about to make some smartass quip but there must be something about how genuinely frustrated Paige looks that softens her expression, “I came to watch you P. I have no idea what that other girl was doing. I was cheering for you the whole time.”

“You’re so sappy,” Paige snorts, throwing a handful of confetti at Azzi, but inside, the ice cold jealousy melts into something warm and lovely, spreading through her heart into her veins. 

“Can’t even say nice shit without you being a dick about it,” Azzi rolls her eyes, as she links her arms through Paige’s,  “now come on, let’s go celebrate you.”

***

It’s almost 2 a.m. when Paige’s teammates finally begin to filter out of her house, leaving with droopy eyes and tired smiles. She and Azzi stand in the doorway, waving goodbye to every last one of them and it feels a little domestic, like a couple after a dinner party. Paige shakes that thought away the minute it begins to form, forcing herself to ignore the burst of wouldn’t that be lovely that blooms in her chest.

“What if I just fell asleep here?” Paige sags against the doorframe. 

“You’d probably fall flat on your face and I’d get an epic video of it.”

“You’re so fucking mean to me.”

“Oh yeah right because you’re so nice to me.”

“Am to,” Paige retorts, before she makes grabby hands towards Azzi, “carry me?”

Azzi swats her hands away, “Absolutely not lazy, it’s one flight of stairs.”

“That’s like 20 steps,” Paige whines. To be honest, she’s not that tired. Out of the two of them, she’s probably closer to being a night owl. But Paige is nothing if not a little bit of nuisance, especially when it comes to Azzi. 

“Are you an athlete or not,” Azzi chides, rolling her eyes. 

“Bro I just won a championship AND I had the flu. And you won’t even carry me? What kind of best friend are you?”

“Paige.”

“Azziiiiii.”

“Paige I’m tired.”

“Pleeeeeaseeee.”

The younger girl sighs, a sign of her caving in, before turning around so her back is facing Paige's front, “fine, get on you big baby.”

“YES-”

“Dude shut up, you’re gonna wake everybody up,” Azzi groans, always the responsible one. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Paige whispers as she jumps onto Azzi’s back, the force of it causing the brunette to take a couple steps forward, “fucking hell Azzi don’t drop me.”

Azzi lets out an indignant squawk, as she regains her balance,  “with that attitude, I should drop you.”

“If you’re too weak to carry me, just say that,” Paige teases, wrapping her legs firmly around Azzi’s torso.  She buries her shit-eating grin in her best friend’s neck, as she loops her arms around Azzi’s shoulders.

“It is not my fault you’ve put on like a hundred pounds since I last saw you.”

Azzi squeals when Paige pinches at her ribcage and the blonde immediately slaps a hand on her best friend’s mouth, “what happened to being quiet? Now, onwards horsey- OW! Did you just fucking bite my hand!?”

“What happened to being quiet?” Azzi mocks, adjusting Paige’s weight on her back as she begins to walk towards the staircase, grumbling something under her breath about ‘ungrateful best friends’ but Paige knows she doesn’t mean a word of it. She snuggles further into Azzi’s neck, letting herself breathe in the scent of the younger girl. 

When Azzi had first left Minnesota, after they’d spent every second since the plane ride back from Argentina, Paige had thought that that hollowness in her chest was temporary, that it would fade once she got back into daily life. It didn’t. And the thing is the word miss had existed in Paige’s dictionary before too but she doesn’t think she really understood what it meant til she started to miss Azzi. 

As soon as they reach Paige’s bedroom, Azzi’s already swatting Paige off her back. The blonde falls back onto the pillows on her bed with a content sigh, watching with a cheeky grin as Azzi pretends to stretch out the muscles on her back and her arms.

“I think that might have broke my fucking back,” the younger girl groan, face scrunching up in mock exhaustion, “and I have to sit on a plane again tomorrow.”

That wipes the smile straight off Paige's face. It’s so easy to get lost in the moment with Azzi, so easy to forget that they spend less time together than they do apart. They haven’t bothered with the actual lights but even in the dim glow of the moon through Paige’s windows, Azzi sees her best friend’s change in expression clearly, her own face becoming melancholic. Sighing, she climbs onto the bed herself and lies down next to Paige, intertwining her hands with the older girl’s. 

“You could stay a little longer,” Paige says after a moment, eyes resolutely focused on the ceiling. 

Azzi let out a wistful sigh, “I wish. But you know I can’t.”

“You can, you just won’t, little miss goody-two-shoes,” the light-hearted teasing eases some of the mood as they both let out soft giggles. They dissolve into a comfortable silence before, “I can’t wait til we’re playing for UConn together.”

Paige misses the way Azzi stiffens a little next to her, too enthralled with imagining a future where she and her best friend could conquer the world together. She knows Azzi, with all her indecisive tendencies, hasn’t quite come around to being anywhere near ready to pick a college team yet but Paige still has time to convince her and Paige Bueckers is nothing if not persuasive. 

“So it’s definitely UConn then?” 

“Yeah. I mean it’s UConn dude. The UConn. They’re the best. All these other programs are nice but when UConn calls, you don’t say no to that shit,” and Paige means that with all her heart. As the number one recruit in her class, there had been no shortage of offers and of course Paige had entertained them for a little while. But the minute Geno Auriemma had given his offer, everything else had become obsolete. She hadn’t committed yet, still maintaining a façade of being in the decision stage, but all of that was just a front. Paige knows she’s meant to be a UConn husky, there’s no way around it. 

“I think you’ll make a pretty damn good Husky,” Azzi says with a soft smile, as she absentmindedly plays with Paige’s fingers. 

“We’ll make damn good Huskies,” Paige affirms. 

“I don’t know P, California’s pretty tempting,” it’s said teasingly but a hint of seriousness slips through the cracks anyway. 

Paige scoffs, “cause it’s hot? Bruh that much heat would be boring. Connecticut gets all four seasons. We’d get the heat and the snow.”

“I get all of that in Virginia already,” Azzi points out with a huff, “maybe I want something different.”

“You do get something different. You get to play with me. That’s different.”

“Yeah but-”

“Dude why are you fighting me on this? Do you not want to be on the same team as me or something?” Paige asks agitatedly, suddenly feeling frustrated with the turn the conversation had taken. 

“Okay breathe,” Azzi gives her a stern side-eye, “I was just saying California’s nice. Of course I want to be on your team. Did the shirt not make that obvious?”

Involuntarily, Paige has to smile at the memory of Azzi’s jersey, the team Paige that had been loudly imprinted across her chest, “right, sorry got a little carried away. I just always want you on my team, you know?”

“I’m always on Team Paige. I always have been. I always will be,” Azzi says firmly, as if it’s the most obvious truth in the world.  

When Paige turns her head to look at her best friend, the younger girl is already looking back at her and the sincerity in Azzi’s eyes makes Paige’s heart stutter. The moon shines against Azzi’s face and Paige swears she can see every little detail in the dim light. And the thing is Paige has always known Azzi’s a pretty girl, she’s not blind. But it’s different tonight. Tonight Azzi’s the kind of beautiful that Paige wants to memorise until it’s imprinted in the back of her eyelids, the kind of beautiful that she wants to lock away in a treasure chest and preserve only for her own eyes to ever see again. The kind of beautiful that Paige knows she isn’t allowed to think of Azzi as. But still, right now, Azzi’s the kind of beautiful that makes Paige want to try and see if maybe, just maybe, there’s the possibility for something more. 

That night, when she finally falls asleep to the sound of her best friend’s quiet breathing, Paige dreams of UConn and championships and at the end of it all, kissing Azzi under the confetti. 

***

April 2024

There’s 14 seconds left in the National Championship game and UConn is ahead by eight points. Adrenaline courses through Paige’s veins as that one elusive dream of hers seems to finally be coming closer and closer to fruition. Winning a National Championship had been on her mind since she’d first picked up a basketball. The minute she’d committed to UConn, it had felt inevitable and yet year after year, her team had fallen just a little short. But this afternoon, it seems like it’s finally within grasp. 14 seconds to go. 14 steps closer to having her perfect moment. 

Except, every time Paige had imagined this moment, she’d expected her best friend to be there. In the beginning, before everything, she’d dreamed of them being on the court together, running into each other’s arms the minute the buzzer sounded. And then, until the last second today before she had to take the court, Paige had just assumed that when she’d look in the stands, somewhere in the crowd, there’d be the one face she wanted to see most in the world. But no matter how much she squinted, that face had been nowhere to be found and Paige had forced herself to compartmentalise her disappointment, and focus on the game. She hadn’t looked at the crowd since. 

The ball is in the other team’s hands, their point guard, diligently calling out plays before she inbounds it. Coach’s words echo in Paige’s head, try for a clean steal but don’t under any circumstances foul. Their pg inbounds the ball and the shot clock starts to count down. The ball bounces through the hands of different players on the other team but the UConn defence is stifling. Their coach is out of timeouts and it isn’t until the last millisecond that they heave up a prayer shot. And it doesn’t matter if it goes in, it’s a two point possession game, but Paige’s eyes are glued on the basketball anyways. 

The shot is an airball. The buzzer sounds through the arena. UConn wins their 12th national championship. 

For a second, everything goes silent around Paige. The normally over-excitable girl, known for her insane golden retriever energy, is perfectly still. It takes a couple more seconds for the adrenaline to hit. And then she’s screaming, pummeling her body into the rest of her teammates as the bleed blue crowd goes wild. She loses herself in the noise of her teammates cheering and the bright lights of cameras flashing nearby. They did it. And it doesn’t erase just how fucking hard the last couple of year had been, but it makes the burden significantly lighter. 

Paige rushes through the handshake line, the opposing team’s coach giving her an appreciative review of her performance before she’s recaptured into a group hug by her teammates. It’s a surreal feeling really, one that’s far better than even her most wonderful dreams. For the first time since the game began, Paige lets her gaze wander over to the family section who are all tearfully hugging, smiling at her parents and then her siblings and then- 

When her eyes meet Azzi’s, it’s like the last piece of the puzzle has finally settled into its rightful place, completing the perfect picture of Paige’s perfect moment. A #5 UConn jersey hangs loosely against Azzi’s hips as she smiles shyly at her best friend. And Paige is scared to blink, scared if she looks away, the girl in front of her will disappear. It takes everything in her to not rush into the stands, pull her best friend into her and kiss her under the confetti. 

Azzi doesn’t budge when the rest of the family and friends crew start to move towards the court. There’s too much attention, too much media, for that to be a feasible option. Paige wishes they would all just disappear, let her have her moment the exact way she’d pictured it. She thinks she’d like to fulfil that dream of hers, kiss Azzi in the confetti, twirl her around, and between it all, let the world know that she was Paige’s. 

As always, Drew is the first person to reach her. He’s a little too big for her to pick up, but she spins him around anyway. 

“You won Paigey,” her little brother squeals and he might be older now, but that innocent admiration of his older sister is as palpable as always, “I knew you could do it!”

“Thanks for always believing in me, little dude,” Paige says softly, leaning her cheek against the top of Drew’s head.

Over the top of her brother's head, Paige realises with sudden panic that Azzi’s not there anymore. Dread filters into her bloodstream, the voices in her head screaming it was too good to be true. The way her body tenses doesn’t go unnoticed by her mother who’s quick to hold her. 

“She said to tell you she’d see you at the hotel later,” Amy Jo says with a knowing smile, before letting Paige’s body sag into hers. She rubs her daughter’s back as relief settles into the younger girl's features, “proud of you Paigey.”

Paige smiles into her mother’s chest. Last year had been the hardest of her life and for a while the light at the end of the tunnel had been hard to see. Today, she feels the light surrounding her, washing away all the darkness from the last few years, bathing her in the glow of happiness. 

***

“I always knew you’d look good in a UConn jersey.”

Azzi’s eyes fly open and Paige smirks, leaning her body against the wall. The last couple of hours had been a whirlwind of media, champagne and excited chatter about what the after party would be like. Paige’s focus had been on celebrating, but the thought of getting back to Azzi had been a constantly lingering presence in the back of her mind. And as the bus had gotten closer to the hotel, anxiety had creeped in because what if Azzi wasn’t there? What if she’d changed her mind? 

Paige had smiled for the fans outside the hotel, diligently posing for pictures and signing autographs, ignoring the heaviness in heart. But as soon as she was far away from prying eyes, she was bolting towards her room. And then everything was okay. Paige has heard a lot of cliché things about love, about how it makes you hear violins and see stars and all of that, about how it increases your heart rate and makes you flush. But Paige thinks all of that can’t quite be right. Because when she’d seen Azzi, curled up in her sheets, #5 jersey crumpled but still fitted around her body, Paige had only felt a sense of calm. And that Paige thinks, is probably the actual truth of love, it’s about finding peace and to Paige, Azzi has always been her peace. 

“I’d look great in any jersey,” Azzi claps back groggily, moving to sit up. 

“But you look the best in mine. You always have,” Paige tries to keep her voice teasing, but it comes out sounding rather wistful, and the next words are even softer, “you came.”

Azzi bites her lips, looking down at her fiddling thumbs, “you asked me to.”

Those four little words carve themselves into a little crevice in Paige’s heart as if they’ll stay there forever, as if they’ll echo through her entire body for the rest of time. She practically throws herself onto the younger girl, the force of it pushing Azzi back down into the pillows, as she buries her head in the crook of Azzi’s neck. Their legs slot together of their own accord and it’s a little bit like they’re trying to meld into each other’s skin the way they press themselves as close as possible, til there’s barely space for air in between them. They lie like that for god knows how long; it goes by in a rush and yet ever so slowly. 

“I’m really fucking happy you’re here,” Paige whispers into Azzi’s skin, “really fucking happy.”

Azzi doesn’t say anything, humming into Paige’s hair as she tightens her grip on the blonde’s waist but Paige can tell by the way she stiffens underneath her, that Azzi’s holding herself back from something. Her heart hammers in her chest as she lifts her face from Azzi’s neck to inspect the younger girl’s face. 

“What aren’t you saying to me Az?” she whispers quietly with a sinking feeling.

“Paige,” Azzi closes her eyes. And just that is enough for Paige to understand exactly what’s going through her best friend’s head and suddenly she wishes she’d never asked, just let them have this moment. 

“Never mind, I don't want to hear it.”

“That’s not how that works. I- I wanted to wait a little but we- we need to talk.”

“No we don’t,” Paige retorts stubbornly, fighting the tears threatening to spill, “I don’t want to.”

“Paige-”

The girl in question pushes herself off of Azzi, rising to sit on her knees, “this is meant to be the best day of my life Azzi.”

“I know- I’m sorr-”

“What game are you playing, Azzi? Why even fucking come if you were never gonna stay?” Paige spits out. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” Azzi says softly, as she sits up “maybe- maybe I should have stayed away. But it’s you Paige, it’s you and I- I’ve never been that good at staying away from you. And maybe I’m just really selfish but I- I told you once that I wanted to be there when your dreams came true and so- here I am.”

They’d barely known each other when Azzi had said that, when they had just been young innocent girls with a tentative friendship, lying in the grass and sharing their dreams. Back then, the words had thrown Paige off. She hadn’t quite understood why they had meant that much to her, why they had filled her with more warmth than the sun shining above them. But she’d tucked them away in a little corner of her heart hoping she’d understand it better when she was older. She’s older now and she understands. Except every single emotion she’d felt at fifteen is heightened with the realisation that the words had meant something to Azzi too. And-

Paige surges forward to kiss Azzi. She’s pretty sure this bipolar act of theirs will be the death of them someday but it’s the only thing in the moment that makes sense. Azzi is hesitant at first, clearly too in her head, always the overthinker, but she gives in when Paige squeezes at her waist. It’s not as if they’ve kissed that many times before but it feels familiar, a little bit like coming home. She moves to straddle Azzi’s hips and they can’t get any closer really with every bit of their bodies pressed together now, but Paige tries anyways, tries to etch please don’t leave me into the other girl’s skin. And she isn’t sure if the salt she can taste is from the tears steadily streaming from Azzi’s eyes or the ones free-falling from her own. 

The minute Azzi pulls away, Paige misses her. 

“We can’t-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Paige cuts Azzi off immediately, resting her forehead against the younger girl’s, “please.”

“Paige,” Azzi breathes out, “I have to go.”

“No you don’t,” Paige says stubbornly. 

“Paige please-”

“Stay- fuck please- Azzi- just give me tonight. Tomorrow we can talk and you can-,” Paige swallows, not wanting to say leave out loud, “but please- tonight can we just pretend? Can you give me that? Fuck- can I just have tonight? Please- just- stay.”

Azzi lets out a shaky breath, “it won’t make it hurt less.”

“I know- fuck- I know but I just don’t want it to hurt right now.”

“Okay,” Azzi whispers slowly, thumb caressing Paige’s wet eyelashes, “okay, I’ll stay tonight.”

Paige kisses her again. 

***

The UConn team falls in love with Azzi in a matter of hours. No one had been shocked when Paige had shown up to the after party a.k.a everybody gathering at the hotel bar, fashionably late and with a nervous Azzi teetering behind her. It had been awkward at first; everyone was a little unsure of how to act around the new presence. Not only was Azzi from a rival team, but everyone was at least a little aware of her tumultuous relationship with their star player. But then KK had wanted to film a tiktok that needed someone to do random camerawork and when everybody else had groaned, Azzi had quietly volunteered. Much to KK’s delight, Azzi turned out to be quite the cameraman. And that apparently was all that was needed and Paige marvels at the way Azzi just fits.

She moves around Paige’s team as if they’re just as much hers. One second she’s timing some stupid drinking game that KK and Ice are playing, the next she’s sitting in a corner laughing with a more subdued Ash and Q. 

Aubrey and Ayanna gush over their girlfriend and Azzi’s coos over their pictures, a hint of wistfulness on her face when she meets Paige’s eyes. 

The team does their routine of teasing Aaliyah’s about being vegetarian and Azzi diligently backs the Canadian up with a spiel of how tofu isn’t actually that bad. That gets her a hi-5 from Aaliyah despite the eye rolls from the rest of the team. 

Despite being a little tipsy from having been dragged into doing shots with Amari and Carol, the two other people she knows pretty well, Azzi diligently lets Inés and Jana teach her little bits of Portuguese and Egyptian. 

Even Nika sheds her frostiness, amused by Azzi’s curiosity to learn her native language beyond just the curse words, and teaches the younger girl a couple of words. Azzi rolls her eyes fondly when she realises she’s been taught to say UConn is the best team ever in Croatian and amidst Nika’s laughter, Paige knows is a hidden acceptance. 

But the best part of it is that although Azzi’s suddenly being pulled in all different directions by various UConn girls, she never really leaves Paige’s side through it all. There’s always a little bit of them touching, whether it’s their shoulders or their knees, even when they’re both involved in completely different conversations and activities. It feels oddly domestic and Paige is reminded of the part after her state championship all over again. The burst of i want this forever that stirs in her chest makes her want to sob because it collides head first against a wall of this is only for tonight. And Paige knows that one night won’t ever be enough for her. 

“Aye Paige’s girl, come play truth or shots with,” KK’s loud voice breaks through Paige’s cloud of distress and it’s eclipsed by the implication of those two words. 

Paige’s girl. The phrases makes itself home in Paige’s heart, sounding so fucking right. She hasn’t let herself acknowledge it truly ever but that’s how it’s always been in Paige’s mind. It’s how she’s always thought of Azzi. As hers. Her Azzi. Her girl. 

“I’m not-that’s not-” Azzi’s cheeks are tinted pink as she stutters through her words, withering under KK’s cocked eyebrow. 

“Uh-okay if you say so,” KK rolls her eyes, holding her hands up in a sarcastic defensive position, “guess we’re starting off truth or shots by lying.”

The rest of the team laughs as Azzi’s blush grows even deeper and Paige can’t even try and hide her smile, her own neck tingling a little bit as she tucks herself into Azzi’s side. And it’s not real, they’re not anything, but in this moment it feels a little bit like they’re everything. 

“You guys are sickening,” Ice accuses when she notices the two of them cheesily smiling at each other, “it makes me gag.”

“They’re cute. Leave them alone,” Caroline chastises, ever the supportive friend. 

Azzi leans back against Paige’s arm as the group goes around the circle, asking each other ridiculous questions, cheering like little kids when their teammates opts to drink instead of answering a vaguely invasive question. When it’s her turn, Paige can already tell by the glint in KK’s eyes that her menace mini-me is about to cause trouble. 

“Paigey cakes, when’s the last time you had sex?”

Next to her, Paige can feel Azzi stiffen immediately. The shot feels heavy in Paige’s hand as she seriously contemplates taking it. She knows why KK asked the question, probably having concocted some idea of exposing Paige and Azzi. She’d known by the waggling eyebrows that the whole team had thought the two of them were late because they’d been fucking but that couldn’t be further from the bitter truth. 

Paige chances a look at Azzi’s face as she bites down on her lips. The younger girl’s face is stoically devoid of any emotion and Paige knows she’s thinking about the night of the crash (or as Paige likes to call it, the most terrifying night of her life) except- 

“November, last year,” Paige says slowly and Azzi whips her face around to look at her, lips falling apart in shock. 

“Don’t play, there’s no fucking way,” Ice guffaws and Paige shrugs. 

“It’s the truth.”

“Bruh what the fuck,” KK looks a little shell-shocked, “how the fuck did you survive that long?”

“Some of us actually know what to do with our own fingers,” Paige quips defensively, trying to ignore the butterflies dancing in her stomach at the way Azzi’s still looking at her. 

“I bet Azzi knows all about your fingers huh Azzi?” and even that, KK’s unhinged commentary, isn’t enough to get Azzi to pull her gaze away from Paige. It’s almost as if she hadn’t heard it all. 

“You didn’t- that night?” Azzi manages to get out. 

“Couldn’t do it,” Paige mumbles, “she wasn’t you.”

Despite the horde of people around them, they’re in their own little bubble now. There are a multitude of questions swimming in Azzi’s eyes and Paige wants to answer all of them if it means that maybe just maybe, she could prevent the inevitable misery tomorrow would bring. 

“Okay Azzi, it’s your turn,” Amari’s voice draws Azzi’s attention away and Paige feels cold without the heat of it. She doesn’t know how she’ll survive tomorrow. Living in the present isn’t working and Paige finds herself already feeling the emptiness she knows will become her reality in a couple of hours. Her fingers tap an incessant pattern on her thigh as she tries to keep her focus on the game, 

Azzi swallows nervously before mustering up a grin with false confidence, “I’m ready. Hit me with your best, I’m not drinking.”

“We’ll see about that,” KK smirks, diabolically rubbing her hands together, before she turns to Nika, “all yours Nik-Nik.”

The other girls “ooh”, knowing  Nika’s reputation for being notoriously good at this game. The Croatian grins at Azzi, as she sits up from where she’d been lazily lying on the love seat, a glint of mischief in her eyes. And then her eyes meet the forlorn ones of her twin and something shifts. When she looks back at Azzi, there’s a more serious look on Nika’s face. 

“Have you ever been in love?”

There’s pin drop silence once the gravity of the question registers. The light-hearted air in the room is replaced with anticipation, as all of Paige’s teammates look back and forth between their point guard and her best friend. Paige isn’t sure if she wants to know the answer, doesn’t know if there’s an answer that wouldn’t break her heart just a little bit. For a second, it looks like Azzi’s going to drink until she puts the shot down on her hand rest until- 

“Yes,” she confesses in a whisper, and Paige feels her heart begin to race, “I have.”

“How many times?” Nika prods

“That’s not how the game works. I already answered your question.”

“Different rules for newcomers,” Nika shrugs. It’s a blatant lie but nobody says anything. Paige is still caught up in her own head and the other girls won't challenge Nika, not when they’re just as curious, “I get to ask questions til you drink.”

Azzi narrows her eyes, knowing it’s all bullshit and maybe if she wasn’t a little bit tipsy and competitive, maybe if she couldn’t feel every inch of Paige’s side pressed against her, she’d walk away but she can’t. 

“Only once,” she answers. 

“With your ex-girlfriend?” Nika asks. The way she raises an eyebrow suggests there’s only one right answer to the question. Paige doesn’t know if there’s a right or wrong answer, only that there’s an answer that would shatter her. 

“No. I was never in love with her,” Azzi directs the answer towards Nika, but everyone knows it’s meant for Paige’s ears. And despite the tornado still roaring in her body, the blonde lets out a sigh of relief. 

Nika’s intimidating demeanour cracks a little bit when that answer makes her smile, “are you in love with someone right now?”

Even if it’s not said out loud, the implication of Nika’s question, the someone, is clear. And suddenly Paige doesn’t want to hear the answer, not right now, not when they’re both a little tipsy, not when they’re surrounded by all her teammates, not when their future is so unclear. 

“Drink,” Paige cuts in, holding the shot in front of Azzi, “don’t answer it.”

“Paige-”

“Drink Azzi,” Paige says firmly. 

Azzi looks equal parts relieved and frustrated as she downs the drink, happy to have gotten out of the uncomfortable round of questioning but a little annoyed at losing in front of the UConn girls. 

“And you said you wouldn’t drink,” Nika sneers, as she hi-5’s her teammates. 

“Because you bent the rules; she did great,” Paige defends immediately and everyone snickers, the mood in the room returning to something more casual.

“So fucking pussywhipped,” Ice teases. 

“Shut up,” Paige whines, hiding her face against Azzi’s shoulder as everybody else laughs. If the voices in head screaming this is just for tonight would shut up for a second, Paige thinks maybe she could fall in love with this moment, surrounded by her found family. 

It’s almost 3 am when the team decides maybe they should start going to bed, knowing they have a morning flight back to Connecticut. Everyone else is still in a jovial mood, sufficiently drunk of both alcohol and the high of a championship but Paige’s stomach pools with dread. Every minute is a step closer to a goodbye, she’ll never be prepared to say. 

They get to the lobby of the hotel when Paige turns to Azzi, ignoring her anxiety to be a nuisance instead. 

“No,” Azzi says immediately when she sees Paige making grabby hands at her, “there’s literally an elevator Paige.”

“So? That just makes it easier for you. This is tradition.”

“In what world is this a tradition?” Azzi sighs exasperatedly. 

“Since I won the state championship,” Paige grins, “pleeeeease, I’m tired, my feet hurt.”

Azzi gives her an unimpressed look, “you’ve been sitting for the last couple of hours.”

“And before that I was winning a championship, after beating your team by the way,” Paige’s smirk widens when Azzi guffaws at catching a stray. 

“Oh fuck off. Reminding me of that is not the way to get me to carry you by the way.”

“C’mon Az, you know you’re gonna give in anyway. You know you wanna sleep, stop wasting time.”

Azzi rolls her eyes with a dramatic sight before doing exactly what she always does, giving into Paige, “hop on then you big baby.”

Paige cheers, latching on Azzi’s back as her knees circle around the other girl’s waist. Unlike when they were younger, Azzi’s doesn’t stumble anymore at the additional weight. She’s stronger now, completely solid and steady underneath Paige and that absolutely doesn’t trigger any inappropriate thoughts in the older girl’s brains, absolutely. 

“Y’all are so cringe,” KK crinkles up her face when she turns to look at them as they wait for the elevator, but there’s a certain amount of fondness in her voice, “but Azzi’s cool. Much cooler than you P boogers. You should bring her around more often.”

Paige’s smile vanishes in tandem with Azzi letting out a strangled noise. KK looks between the two of them, slowly realising maybe she’d just put her foot in her mouth. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Paige answers noncommittally, trying to keep her voice steady. 

Much to her relief, the elevator dings open, saving her from having to say anything more. She wraps her arms tighter around Azzi, burying her face as far into the other girl’s neck as she can and closing her eyes, trying to lose herself in Azzi, instead of in the jail of her own mind.

She doesn’t look up from where she’s nestled into Azzi’s skin, when the rest of her teammates start towards their own separate rooms, telling Azzi how lovely it was to meet her. 

“Can you get off her back, so I can give her a hug?” Ice pinches Paige’s arm but the older girl just shrugs her off. 

“No. Go hug someone else.”

“Bro you’re so fucking annoying,” Ice groans and Azzi sends her an apologetic wink but it doesn’t go unnoticed that she doesn’t try to shake Paige off like she normally would. It heals something in Paige to know that Azzi doesn’t want to let go either. And she doesn’t understand why they’re doing this, why they’re fighting this, when neither of them want to. 

“I think your teammates might like me better than you,” Azzi teases when they finally get back to the room and Paige climbs off of her back. The blonde is too lost in her thoughts to come back with a smart quip. And of course her best friend notices it immediately, nudging her quietly, “P? You good?”

Paige blinks up at Azzi, and even before she says the word, she knows Azzi’s already read them in her eyes, “I don’t want you to go.”

“Paige,” Azzi sighs tiredly, “what happened to pretending tonight?”

“Fuck pretending,” Paige blames the alcohol for how loud her voice comes out, guilty only because it makes the girl in front of her flinch, “I don’t want just tonight. It’s no where near fucking enough. I want forever. With you.”

“That’s not- Paige- we live on different sides of the country.”

“For now, but we can make it work. It’s us,” Paige pleads desperately. 

Azzi scoffs, stepping away from Paige, “you say that like it a good thing.”

“What-”

“Us! We don’t- it’s not- being ‘us’ is not a good thing Paige. May us from before but us now? Us now is complicated and messy and hard and I just- I can’t do this Paige.”

“You can- we can- Azzi- just- think about it okay- sleep on it- you’ll see. You’ll see, I’m right.”

Azzi shakes her head, closing her eyes as a single teardrop leaks out, “you’re making this so fucking hard Paige.”

“I don’t want to- I’m sorry- I’m so sorry baby,” the term of endearment slips through Paige’s lips before she can catch it, “but I need you to think about it once please.”

She moves to cup Azzi’s cheeks, thumb caressing away the tears, “please.”

“Okay, okay,” Azzi nods, resting her forehead against Paige’s, “I’ll think about it.”

They’re quiet as they get changed for bed, thinking about the same thing. Co-existing together comes naturally to them after years of inhabiting each other’s space and the. there's no getting in each other’s way, even if they’re both dead silent. It’s awkward when they finally get into bed, both of them lying on their back, resolutely staring up at the ceiling. Paige is the first one to move, turning onto her side so she can face Azzi. The moon shines against Azzi’s face and Paige thinks that so much has changed, but Azzi’s still that kind of beautiful, the same kind of beautiful Paige had thought of her as since the state championship. 

“What was your answer going to be,” she asks quietly. 

“To what?”

“To Nika’s question. Are you in love with someone right now?”

Azzi hesitates a little bit, before turning her own body to face Paige, “you know the answer Paige, you don’t need me to say it.”

Paige doesn’t prod, knowing they were too volatile for her to keep pushing. Instead she reaches over to intertwine their hands together. 

“Do you know what my answer would have been?”

“Yeah,” Azzi says softly, squeezing her hands, “yeah I do.”

Maybe there’s peace in knowing. Or maybe there’s only more pain. Paige doesn’t know if the truth sets her free, doesn’t know if she could ever even be set free from the shackles that bind her to Azzi, doesn’t think she even wants to be set free. But at least Azzi knows too. Maybe there’s peace in drowning together. 

***

Paige wakes up in a panic when she reaches over and finds the other side of the bed empty. She gets up with a jolt, eyes frantically searching for Azzi, until they finally land on the girl sitting on the couch next to the bed. 

“Fuck,” Paige’s voice is still wracked with sleep, “I thought you left.”

“That’s more your style,” Azzi says and Paige flinches at the reminder, “how’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good. How about you?”

“Pretty shit actually” Azzi admits, “I woke up every two seconds, scared you’d be gone.”

“Az-”

“You asked me to believe in you- to believe in us and I-” Azzi draws in a sharp breath and Paige knows she’s not going to like where this is going, “I want to- I really, really, wish I could. But I don’t. I can’t- I can’t be with you Paige- not when I’m scared you’re going to break my heart every second.”

“Azzi,” Paige scrambles across the bed, stopping when the girl in question holds her hands up. Everything in her feels like it’s on fire. There are no burn marks on her skin but she swears she’s been turned to ashes underneath. 

“And you deserve better than that too Paige. You deserve someone who- who’s not scared. Who can give you all of herself without- without holding back and I- I can’t do that.”

“You can- fuck- Azzi you can- please,” desperation leaks through every syllable as Paige fights what she knows is a losing battle. 

“Not right now. Too much has happened between us and we can’t- we can’t just ignore all of that and start something new- maybe someday- but not right now.”

Azzi stands up from her seat, hesitantly walking over to Paige’s side of the bed. She cups Paige’s face, watery dark brown eyes meeting crystal blue ones that are glistening with tears. 

“Azzi please,” Paige begs, feeling everything slip away before she’d even had a chance to fight for it. 

Azzi presses her lips to Paige’s forehead, holding them there for what feels like the briefest of seconds until she’s pulling away, “I’m sorry P.”

And then she’s gone and every part of Paige’s heart is gone with her. 

[alessiasfreckles]

i'll always look after you (part 2) (alessia russo x reader)

Your girlfriend is grumpy when she's sick. Part 1 here!

a/n: part 2 of the lessi sickfic! based on this request. i hope you like it! also big thank you to @wosoamazing for helping me out with the writer's block!!

-------

“I hate being sick,” your girlfriend grumbled, pouting. “It’s so boring.”

“I know, baby,” you said, giving her a quick kiss. “What did you get up to today?”

It was the third day of Alessia having to stay at home with an extremely stubborn cold. On the first day, she had almost enjoyed having a day off, using the day to sleep. On the second day, she started to get restless, annoyed by her own constant sniffling and coughing. Today, the third day, she was just downright grumpy. Your phone had been buzzing nonstop during training, making the other girls tease you about how bored Lessi clearly was. 

“Nothing!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms up dramatically. 

“Nothing?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve just been lying here all day, not moving, not texting me, nothing?”

Your girlfriend rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and pouting again. “Okay, fine. I watched some tv, rewatched some old matches, maybe went for a small run, scrolled through instagram-”

“Wait, baby, did you just say you went for a run?” you asked incredulously.

“Maybe…” 

You sighed, sitting down next to her on the sofa. “You know you’re meant to be resting.”

“I know, I just. I hate being sick,” she sniffed. “And I thought maybe a little run would be okay, just to get me moving, and into the fresh air, y’know?”

“I know, baby,” you said, pulling her in to lean against you. “How was it?”

“Awful!” she said, bottom lip quivering. “I got to the end of the road and then started coughing and couldn’t stop and had to come back home.”

Tears of frustration brimmed up in her eyes, threatening to spill over. 

“Only a few more days, and then hopefully you’ll feel well enough to come back to training.” you tried to console her, but she pulled away. 

“I do feel better, though! It’s just this stupid cough and this stupid runny nose and-” she said, tears starting to stream down her face, and she hiccuped as you pulled her into a tight hug. “I miss playing football and training with you and all the girls. I know it’s stupid, we spend so much time training and playing, but I still miss it.”

You nodded, your heart breaking for her. “It’s not stupid, baby, I promise. I know exactly what you mean.”

You sat quietly for a moment, the silence broken by occasional sniffs from Alessia. 

“I have an idea,” you said, and she looked up at you. “What if we do some stretching together? I know it’s not the same, but at least you’ll be moving your body.”

She thought about it and then nodded, a small smile on her face. “Does that mean you’ll wear those leggings that make your bum look great?”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes. “I can do, if you want.”

“Yes please,” she said with a grin, and then quickly pouted. “I’m sick, remember? It would help make me feel better.”

“I was going to wear them anyway, you don’t have to play the sick card,” you laughed, getting up to go and get changed. 

You kept the stretching session relatively easy, not wanting to push Lessi’s body further than necessary, especially when she really should have been resting. You could understand her restlessness though, you felt the same when you were sick. Afterwards, she leant over to give you a kiss, resting her forehead against yours. 

“Thank you, baby,” she said softly. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

“Anything for you, my love,” you replied, your heart full. 

The two of you spent the rest of the evening watching a film and cuddling, before heading to bed early, ignoring your girlfriend’s protests that she didn’t need any more rest. It paid off, however, when the next day she woke up and declared that she felt well enough to come back to training with you. 

Being worried for her health, you tried to convince her to spend one last day at home. She kept you distracted with kisses and wandering hands until you realised that you had to get ready and leave now, otherwise you were going to be late. You didn’t have enough time to debate with her whether she should stay home or not anymore, so you gave up, making sure that she was bundled up in multiple layers so that if she was going to insist on going to training, at least her cold wouldn’t get any worse.

When you arrived at training, your teammates teased you for not having your girlfriend under control. 

“Don’t blame her,” Lessi said with a grin and a wink. “I can be very convincing when I want to be.”

The team doctor was not impressed by her return, but begrudgingly agreed that she did seem healthy enough to participate in the morning gym session, and that they would see how she felt at lunch before deciding whether she was cleared for training on the pitch in the afternoon. You couldn’t help but smile at the look of relief on the blonde’s face as she entered the gym. 

You were at the far end of the large hall, in the weight area, when you heard some coughing from the treadmills at the other end of the gym. You waited a beat, seeing whether the coughing would let up, but when it got worse you dropped the weights you were holding and rushed over. 

Lessi was doubled over next to one of the treadmills, Kyra stood next to her with a hand on her back. You bent down beside her, rubbing her back gently, offering her a water bottle, but she was coughing too hard to take a sip. 

“Shit, Ky, can you get the doctor?” you asked anxiously as your girlfriend stopped coughing long enough to take a quick breath but immediately started again. The Australian nodded before running out of the gym, returning a minute later with the team doctor. Lessi was still coughing, but not quite as badly as she had been. 

“Right Alessia, I need you to try and take some deep breaths for me, okay?” the doctor said, placing a stethoscope against the blonde’s back. She nodded, trying to take a breath between coughs. “I’m just going to take a quick listen.”

You rubbed a thumb against the back of your girlfriend’s hand as the coughs subsided and she was able to breathe again, face pink from exertion. After a couple of breaths, the doctor removed the stethoscope and stepped back in front of her. 

“It doesn’t sound too bad, but I’d like you to stop training for today, and take tomorrow off as well. And I’ll talk to Jonas about the game on Sunday, but you definitely shouldn’t be starting. Have you been drinking enough? Not just water, you need hot drinks as well. Cough drops couldn’t hurt either,” she said, and you watched Lessi’s face fall. 

“Okay,” she said miserably. “But I can play on Sunday?”

“Come and see me on Sunday morning, and if you’re healthy, I’ll tell Jonas that my recommendation is that you can play as a sub, alright?”

The blonde nodded, chewing at her lip. After the doctor left, you pulled her into a tight hug. 

“Can we go somewhere else?” she asked. You nodded, leading her into an empty  equipment room nearby. Once the door was closed, she let her body sag and her face fall into her hands. “I just feel so stupid. I shouldn’t have pushed, I shouldn’t have tried to go for that run yesterday, I should have stayed home today, I just-”

“Oh, baby,” you said, quickly pulling her into another tight hug. You stayed like that for a minute until you felt her body soften against yours, her arms wrapped around you. “You’re not stupid. Anyone else probably would have done the same.”

Just then, a soft knock sounded at the door. It opened quietly to reveal Leah, poking her head through.

“Less, you okay?” she asked, a concerned look on her face.

Your girlfriend shrugged, then nodded. Leah raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Fine,” Lessi slumped down. “I’m still poorly, I guess.”

Leah sighed. “You have to take care of yourself,” she started. Her voice was stern, but kind, and when your girlfriend’s lower lip started to wobble and tears filled her eyes, the England captain pulled her into a tight hug. “I know you wanted to come back, but it’s important for you and for the team that you’re in full health. And it’ll be even longer until you’re back to full health if you push yourself too hard. Believe me, I know how hard it is. So, y/n is going to take you home, okay? We’re mostly done with training for today, so neither of you will miss too much.”

Lessi sniffed and nodded, wiping a tear away. “Okay, Lee. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Less,” Leah said, her eyes kind. She turned to you. “That okay with you, y/n?”

“Sure,” you nodded, taking your girlfriend’s hand. “Come on, trouble. Let’s get you home.”

[folkloresthings]

i have just read through all your stuff while on a road trip and i will be reading it again to make sure i appreciate it properly!

can we get a lance stroll x barbie actress! reader where they’ve been in a relationship since like…16 but the world only found out when lance went to the barbie premier 🙏🙏 ly tyvm

writers note: i’m 🥲 this is such a sweet little message! thank you sweetheart!! i’m always down for writing baby boy lance stroll so ofc &lt;3

LIFE IN PLASTIC / LS18.

in which he’s succeeding massively in the racing world, and she’s one of the biggest actresses of this year. but no one knows, they’re desperately in love with each other.

( lance stroll x actress!au )

✩⡱ warnings: none

INSTAGRAM.

liked by alexandrashipp, lance_stroll, and 689,121 more

yourusername this barbie is a mermaid!!! 💖🌊🧜‍♀️ barbie is out july 21, this movie is so close to my heart. i hope you enjoy.

view all 550,349 comments

nicolacouglan my favourite mermaid 💓

⤷ yourusername my favourite diplomat 💕

user SHE’S A BARBIE GIRL

ncutigatwa she IS the moment

NOTIFICATION! lance_stroll shared this to their story!

INSTAGRAM.

liked by astonmartinf1, maxverstappen, and 19,437 others

lance_stroll hello miami!! great qualifying race today, bring it on tomorrow! 💓🌸💕

view all 14,937 comments

estebanocon can’t wait for tomorrow!! let’s race!

astonmartinf1 race engineers request you “stop singing barbie girl every time you overtake” thanks 👍

⤷ lance_stroll no can do, sorry

yourusername we should get you on the soundtrack 💘💘💘

⤷ lance_stroll omw to the studio now

⤷ user ariana what are you doing here

yourusername added to their story!

INSTAGRAM.

liked by chloestroll, fernandoalo_official, and 238,620 others

lance_stroll my sister got married! lots of love to chloe and scotty, such a fun day & night ❤️

view all 18,682 comments

chloestroll ❤️❤️❤️

user am i going mad or is that the dress from y/n’s story?

⤷ user i saw she was there too!! i didn’t know they knew each other

⤷ user they’re both from montreal!

yourusername the best night 🥺

user i am looking: suspiciously

INSTAGRAM.

liked by lance_stroll, barbiemovie, and 989,327 others

yourusername world premiere baby!!! this barbie loved the pink carpet (this ken got tired very quickly) 💗💖🌸💕🌷💞💓💘

view all 17,444 comments

user LANCE????

⤷ user the crossover we didn’t know we needed

jvn STUNNING 🤩

lance_stroll 🧎🧎🧎

⤷ charles_leclerc simp

INSTAGRAM.

liked by yourusername, yukitsunoda0511, and 740,917 others

tagged: yourusername

lance_stroll my barbie girl 😍 i’ve been head over heels in love with you since high school and watching you on the big screen, doing what you’re made for, only makes me love you even more. i’m so proud of you, darling ❤️

view all 733,518 comments

user talk about HARD LAUNCH

yourusername and he’s just ken 🫶

⤷ fernandoalo_official i like her more than you lancestroll

yourusername jk i love you more than this earth. thank you for being my rock and shoulder to cry on. i truly don’t deserve you 🫶

comment liked by lance_stroll, and 83,482 others

user they’ve been dating since high school and we’re only finding out now😭😭😭

landonorris how did you manage that, man

⤷ lance_stroll i’ve been asking myself the same question for 8 years

[brooooswriting]

Hello! I’m sorry to hear you got writer's block :(

May i request “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”, with Jenna Ortega please?

I hope it helps! 🫶🏼

Funny story

Jenna Ortega x reader

Being an actress in a relationship with another actress isn’t always the greatest thing. There are fans, paparazzis, other celebrities and more things that will try to pull you apart but sometimes our self destructive minds are enough to do that.

The moment you and your girlfriend, Jenna, heard that you were cast in the same movie you were over the moon. You’ve always loved the scream movies and playing in one was a dream come true, especially since you have already met a big part of the cast due to Jenna.

The ‘over the moon’-phase was over when you got the script, you were still unbelievably happy but the fact that you’d play somebody else’s love interest wasn’t ideal. You didn’t really mind that much and Jenna, well she acted like she didn’t, but deep down it nagged her.

You’d play ‘cute girl’ (you’re taking cute boys place), Sams love interest from next door. You were happy to work so close with Melissa as she was incredibly nice and thoughtful making the whole filming a great experience.

“Y/n, wanna hang out later? We could run some scenes and get to know each other better, it makes the whole filming easier” Melissa said as she sat down on her chair next to you, “sure, Jenna is filming late today anyway” you quickly texted your girlfriend to let her know where you were before grabbing your jacket and walking with the older woman.

After you guys were out to eat you went to a small park where you ran some lines, practiced some movements and arrangements until it was completely dark. “Shit, it’s pretty late. I should get going, I bet Jenna’s waiting” you said your goodbye and hugged her before walking to your car.

“Baby, I’m Home” you called out when you entered the apartment but you didn’t receive an answer. “Baby?” You called out again as you went into the bedroom where you found your girlfriend sleeping with your pillow in her arms. You cooed before you got ready for bed and went to join her. She grumbled when you pulled the pillow out of her grip but shut up when she noticed your present next to her.

The next morning was like every other morning, you guys woke up, got ready then made breakfast and quickly ate before driving to the set. “So, where were you so long yesterday?” The brunette in front of you asked as you drank a sip of your coffee. “Oh, Melissa and I went to eat something and then we ran some lines” you answered with a small smile before asking how her day had been.

The moment you arrived on set Melissa pulled you away to discuss something causing Jenna to scoff before making her way to the makeup department. Jenna didn’t see you until you had to film a scene where Tara, Sam and their friends were in their apartment and you had eye contact with Sam from your window. While your girlfriend was already walking towards you to greet you with a kiss, the director had different plans as he immediately send her back so they could start filming.

She hated this, all of it. She hated the way the actress looked at you and even worse, she hated how you looked at and smiled at the other actress, it seemed too real. So the moment the scene ended she sprinted towards her trailer leaving everybody confused.

As it was your last scene for the day you had enough time to look after Jenna. “Jen?” You carefully whispered when you entered her trailer to see her sitting on a chair in the kitchen. “What’s wrong hun?” You wrapped your arms around her shoulders and kissed the back of her head causing her to melt into you. “Nothing, I was just a bit overwhelmed” it wasn’t hard to see that she wasn’t 100% truthful but you decided to give her space.

“Jenna, we need to film the next scene. Oh and y/n, Melissa wants to see you” Jasmin yelled from behind the door causing your girlfriend to jump up and walk off. But you quickly grabbed her wrist to pull her back into your arms, kissing her softly, before letting her walk away. You followed behind the two to find Melissa.

The filming has been rather weird, you barely saw Jenna as either you were spending time with Melissa or she was off doing who knows what. She barely talked to you at the moment, making it hard for you to concentrate and even worse, it made you crave physical touch. You missed her hugs and you missed the cuddles, the kisses and holding hands.

People on set seemed to notice that there was something wrong as especially Melissa and Jasmin offered you a whole lot of hugs whenever you wanted. It did ease it a bit but it was nothing compared to Jenna.

After barely seeing you for two weeks the small brunette finally decided to watch one of your scenes, possibly the worst scene she could have chosen. It took place after Tara’s and Sams fight where the older girl sat in the lobby waiting for you.

Melissa sat on the stairs playing with the rings on her fingers while you got yourself ready behind the door you’d walk through. Jenna sat on a chair behind the cameras.

As soon as the mark came you pushed the door open and went to get your mail, counting to five in your head before you made your way toward the older carpenter sister. You walked past her in a normal pace and slowed when you reached a certain mark on the floor, it gave Melissa the time to reach for your wirst and pull you back. Once you were situated in the right place she nearly threw herself at you, her hands on your shoulders pushing you against the wall while yours landed on her waist. In a matter of seconds her lips landed on yours in a aggressive and passionate kiss, you loved Melissa but it was uncomfortable. You could feel Jenna stare right through the woman.

When you parted you saw Jenna fuming and as soon as the scene was over she grabbed your hand and pulled you away. You were deeply confused by her behavior, not just today but the last weeks.

And then again you were pressed against a wall with someone’s hands on your shoulders, but this time it felt like home. Sure, the kiss wasn’t gentle or anything, it was rather the opposite. It was like she was trying to show anyone who could kiss you like that and god, did she know your buttons. In a couple of seconds your knees were bucking and you had to suppress your moans which was when she started to attack your neck.

In that moment Jenna wasn’t completely focused on you, she was making sure that Melissa saw how you melted under your touch, grinning when she was how the woman looked away embarrassedly.

You lightly pushed her away, “let’s get to my trailer okay?” This time you grabbed her hand and pulled her away. Her eyes were focused on Melissa, a wicked grin sporting her face while the other actress was rather confused.

As soon you entered the trailer she was on your neck again, biting down to leave a mark. “You’re mine” was the only thing she whispered against your neck and at that moment the lightbulb on top of your head lit up. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” You giggled as the other woman only grumbled.

After a small moment of silence she finally spoke up as she threw herself onto the bed. “How couldn’t I? She’s been taking all of your time, I barely saw you, people have taken pictures of you wan started shipping you and you guys have to kiss, like constantly” she was throwing her hands around as she was clearly frustrated.

You felt sorry for her, you didn’t know that she felt like that. You sat beside her and pulled her into you. “I’m sorry you feel that way, I didn’t know. When you distanced yourself I actually felt rather lonely and Melissa was there so I guess I used that. But I love you more than anything else, Melissa is just a friend and who cares what the fans think? I love you and that won’t change”

“I love you too”

@yourinstagramname

@yourinstagramname: the only love of my life ❤️

The next day Jenna said sorry to Melissa before making it clear one more time that you were hers. “Jenna we talked about this, and she has a boyfriend” Your girlfriends face fell and turned red. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Let’s just say Melissa couldn’t stop laughing.

At least it was a funny story.

[alcestas-sloboda]

Why Ukrainians didn’t produce a Tolstoy?

there are a lot of things that can piss me off, today it was this tweet:

and all i wanted to do was to ask this person, why the fuck do we need a racist misogynistic piece of shit as a standout author if we have Shevchenko as our prophet?

but you don’t know who he is? of course, you don’t. that is the thing with imperialism: you destroy other cultures while promoting yours as the only way to legitimise your rule. even if those territories are of higher cultural development. but there is always a way out of it: kill them all. kill anyone who poses an existential threat to your hegemony. throw them into jail. forbid them to write and paint. send them to gulag. kill them. torture them. execute them.

if you don’t know Ukrainian literature, it doesn’t mean that it‘s nonexistent. if you don’t know "a Ukrainian Tolstoy", it means there is a Ukrainian Bahrianyi, who was sent to the gulag but ran away and was the first person in the world to openly criticise USSR in his pamphlet Why I am not going back to the Soviet Union. "I don't want to go back to the USSR because a person there is worth less than an insect"

there is a Ukrainian Symonenko and a Ukrainian Stus. there is a Ukrainian Lesya Ukrainka and Olha Kobylyanska. a Ukrainian Kotsiubynskyi, Ukrainian Drach, Ukrainian Olena Pchilka and Ukrainian Lina Kostenko. and so many more of the bravest people who despite all wrote in the Ukrainian language about Ukrainian people and for Ukrainian people.

there are thousands of beautiful texts that weren’t translated because this would’ve harmed the empire. that is why you are reading Dostoevsky and not Khvyliovyi.

but there are also thousands of texts that were never written. just how many more poems would’ve Stus written if he wasn’t killed by the Soviet regime? how many more texts would have Pidmohylnyi, Semenko, Yalovyi, Yohansen, Zerov written if they weren’t shot at Sandarmokh?

just how many texts have the world missed out on because Khvyliovyi committed suicide as he couldn’t live in the world with Stalin’s repressions. "today is a beautiful sunny day. I love life - you can't even imagine how much", - he will write in his death note as he shot himself with his friends waiting for him in the next room.

or maybe there was a Ukrainian Nobel Prize in Literature waiting for Tychyna? maybe, but he submitted to Soviet authorities and started writing hails for the regime, suddenly forgetting his own literary style and living his entire life in fear. fear of what? fear of getting caught. of getting destroyed just as all of the previous Ukrainian intelligentsia.

I’m tired of my people being silenced. I’m tired of my poets being undermined by "great” russian literature. it’s not worth a single Symonenko’s poem. it’s not worth a single paragraph of Bahrianyi‘s prose.

the greatness of russian literature lies on the bones of Ukrainian writers. to be this high, they killed hundreds and they are still doing it today.

the body of Ukrainian children’s writer Volodymyr Vakulenko was found in the mass grave in Izium in September 2022.

there will be a Ukrainian Nobel Prize in Literature, and there will be more Ukrainian books. there will be Ukrainian Zhadan and Zabuzhko, Liubka and Izdryk, Deresh and Kidruk. there will be Ukrainian literature.

another funny thing is that this person is Indian and let me tell you: the fact that you stand up for one empire even when your own country has suffered from the doings of another is evidence of deep colonial trauma and I hope you will cure yourself soon

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 253

Adjective: Remarkable

Noun: Soul

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Remarkable: worthy of attention, or striking

Soul: the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal; a person's moral or emotional nature or sense of identity; emotional or intellectual energy or intensity, especially as revealed in a work of art or an artistic performance; African American culture or ethnic pride; soul music; the essence or embodiment of a specified quality; an individual person; a person regarded with affection or pity

[shroomaz]

First Encounters with the Disaster Twins

A/N: I wanted to try something new- by NO MEANS am I a writer but I'm trying to tap into the turtle-ness that are these brothers. SO I thought why not for a start do a READER first encounter? I rushed Donnie's story a bit but that's because I had to do some things today...enjoy!

💜DONNIE - (ROOFTOP...at night...half rescue-) 

You were on top of the roof admiring the scenery, frustrated at the troubles of the day. It wasn't your fault that you had the computer stolen, Kendra and her purple dragons managed to get their grubby hands on it, and then you were blamed for losing it.

You swore that you would get it one way or another, however, you never thought of a plan for it...

You were drowning in the scene so much that you had no awareness to what was going on...in other words, you were called "too emotional" for your own good, not that it was your fault. Just the overall scenery and quietness made everything much more vibrant...until you heard the sound of a crash. You turned your head and looked over to where the sound had come from; down in the alley.

Rushing; you had gone to see what it was.

Then it all came to you, there they were - the Purple Dragons.

You scowled at the very look on Kendra's smug little face.

Kendra was about to speak before getting bumped on the head with what seemed to be a metal part....wow. Is she okay??? It seems like her henchmen were thinking the same thing.

Whilst they were dragging her away hoping that she was at least ALIVE, you look up to see something floating around the buildings unevenly. Quickly grabbing the metal piece that fell, you rush your way in the direction the figure went.

Not even caring about the dragons that would soon follow you.

Climbing your way up the building's stairs, you lay your eyes upon a turtle with a purple shell and purple bandana. Looking frustrated and seemingly fixated on something. "All that I told Nardo to do- was leave the controls alone and nothing would happen. And what does he do? Touch. My. Things..." his eye twitches from the thought...and hissing too. "And great...I'm missing something! Round of applause anyone? Anyone?...Ah great now I'm talking to myself. I'm becoming Raph." He visibly shivered at the thought as he gave himself a slight face palm.

You couldn't help but try to make your way out of the situation, in shock that a turtle is even capable of moving like that, that tall and that smart and can TALK???? Its like something from a Jupiter Jim movie.

You took a step back but you missed your footing and tripped backwards.

"GAHHH---!!" You cried in terror as you- ya know- nearly fell to your death at 115 ft. But your body was grabbed by four claws that dragged you up.

Unknowingly, you were squirming to get out.

"Fear not dear fellow human, for I am but your most excellent SAVIOR!" he gloats to himself. "Against my tech, you are unable to break free from my heroic grasp from. Yours truly: Othello Von Ryan!" He gloats again, seems like he's trying to show how smart he is.

"....Othello Von Ryan?" you looked up at him confused. "Is that your name-"

"I-" he opened his eyes and raised his eyebrow with his arms slightly crossed. "Do you have a problem with that?" he questioned you.

".....No?" You squeaked out to him.

The Turtle seemed to bring his attention over to the piece that you had in your hand. His eyes glimmering. He looked so happy! So content in passion.

"Hey...you found the piece! That's what I'm looking for!" he exclaimed.

His claws put you down so that you could walk towards him and give him the piece. "Was this yours?" You asked handing him the metal part.

"More or less... it's for something very precious of mine.-" He looks He takes the piece before you both get surprised by the Purple Dragons. Kendra seemed to hiss when she saw the turtle.

"Get them Jas!" she had her "brother" try to take care of the situation with his invention that seemed to be in the form of a spider. "Get Donnie this time! Make yourself of use!" I mean- she's angry cause she got hit on the head with a metal part... it's understandable.

Suddenly you feel a hand wrap around your waist along with the turtle saying. "Hang on!!" You grip on without thinking before the turtle's purple shell grows to drone-like wings and starts hovering to get the two of you away from the situation.

"Donnie huh...?" you thought to yourself looking up at the softshell. 

🩵LEO - (IT WAS A RESCUE...it was by accident-)

You were walking back home from work.

It wasn't most ideal but your car had been in an accident so you had no way of transportation...and crime was spiking, so you had already made up your mind to not take a cab. However, this was fine, you made sure to stay on the right shortcut home and that there was a light where you went...and above all, you had your BEATING STICK! +lucky charm.

(insert sparkling image of a dinky self-defense weapon here...along with the charm of your choice.)

What could go wrong?

Is what you said to yourself....but it was too late--

Suddenly; a glowing blue light appeared from above. Looking up to see what it was- your fight or flight response immediately made you leap across the street when a mutant hippo came crashing down with a mutant turtle following behind.

"HOHOO--- BOYY!" the turtle in blue started to exclaim as he came crashing down into the pavement on the Hippo.

"Blasted! You teleported me away from the 'Cards of Devant'! Curse you turtle! What is it that I possibly have to do to get you turtles off my hide." The hippo cursed at the red-eared slider in an accent, floating rings surrounding him.

"You're telling me...I could be catching my beauty-zs right now, but you have to try to get your tricky fingers on those magical cards-!"

The turtle was using his odachi to create more portals to deflect the spinning rings coming at him; you were too stunned to speak- but you tried your best to sneak away until you heard a snort from the hippo mutant. You slowly made eye contact...and then awkwardly smiled.

The hippo seemed to give a grin.

"Eh? Whatcha looking at-- ohhhh boy..." the turtle looked in your direction too. How could he have not seen you before- he didn't know but all he could do was try to play cool.

It was only then that the turtle knew what to do. He couldn't stay longer- but he couldn't leave you there either. He left his brothers behind where the cards were, so he knew they would be safe...I suppose it's time to do what any hero would do.

He leaped at you whilst you grabbed your BEATING STICK as a way of self-defense. Not knowing what was happening-

The hippo pounced, but you managed to sledge him straight in the head with your BEATING STICK losing it in the process; with that being said the Hippo missed and the turtle fell through the portal with you in one of his arms.

"Adios! Hippos!" the turtle called with a laugh following after. The hippo seemed outraged before the portal closed...then it was quiet.

You both fell on a floor that seemed to be the top of a roof; an apartment complex. You groaned...and then he groaned. It seemed like he didn't think that he could hit back first onto a hard floor. However...you both did.

Rubbing the back of his head and looking over to make sure you were okay, he seemed to lose his face-man grin that turned into a look of worry.

"Are you okay?" the blue turtle helped you up.

"I'm okay...what are you...?" you rubbed your eyes and looked upon the features of the slider turtle. You were frazzled...he could understand, it is not every day you meet a sentient turtle.

He moved with ease.

The turtle seemed in thought before laughing slightly and rubbing the back of his head.

"I think a better question would be what is your name..." He puts his odachi back behind him before lifting your lucky charm in the other.

"You can call me Leo." he smiled at you, which was strangely calming.

"....Y/N."

(END)