#how did she hold that idea in herself for 5+ years

[chaikajpeg]

a difficult situation

photo reference: extremely loud and incredibly close (2011)

also, here's the sketch that i drew... uh. jesus christ. one year ago

[crazziforazzi]

Fighting for the love (of the game) - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Draft night

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Trope: Second chance

A/N: Hi guys, I literally got into basketball a month ago and it took me approximately 5 seconds until I found my gays. Disclaimer, I am still learning to understand the game. I hope you enjoy it!

Word Count: 7.7k words

Masterlist

Azzi POV – Draft Night, Brooklyn, NY

Azzi Fudd sat beneath the white-hot lights with her back straight and her legs crossed, the slit of her white dress slicing clean across her thigh. Sharp, elegant, a little sexy — the kind of dress you wear when you want to be remembered. When you want to say I belong here before anyone else can ask if you do.

Her fingers, polished in soft nude and curled tightly around the edge of her chair, stayed hidden beneath the table’s starched linen. She felt weightless. Not in a euphoric way, but in the way a balloon might feel just before the string slips from a hand. Untethered. Like the floor beneath her might dissolve if she dared to look down.

Beside her, Coach Geno sat with his arms folded and a slight smirk tugging at his mouth — the same one he always wore when he was pretending not to be proud. Azzi could feel his steadiness radiating like heat. He didn’t need to say anything but Azzi felt it. He had been the one who believed in her long before anyone else did, besides her family and her. Back when she had been mostly promise and pressure. Back when she had doubted whether the glittering version of herself, the one people wrote about and projected her onto, could ever be real. Geno had known better. 

Her mom sat on her other side, smiling with the kind of pride that barely disguised the nerves beneath it. One hand rested gently on her dad's, their fingers laced, grounding each other. Her dad kept fidgeting with the knot of his tie like it had a mind of its own, like maybe if he adjusted it enough, it would undo the lump in his throat. He looked proud too, proud and overwhelmed in that way dads get when they realize their daughters are no longer little girls, and the world is watching them become something else entirely.

Azzi’s gaze drifted past them, down to the last chair at the end of the table.

Empty.

She had left it that way on purpose.

Her agent hadn’t loved the idea. You can’t just leave a chair empty on the WNBA draft, Azzi. Pick someone. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

Because that seat wasn’t for just anyone. It was for the one person who should have been here. The only person she had ever imagined beside her when this moment finally came. The one who had brought her to this very ballroom, exactly one year ago, when Azzi had sat on that chair, her palms stinging from clapping too hard, her heart thudding as the cameras flashed and her name was called.

She could still feel the soft press of a kiss against her neck in that hotel suite. It was not for the cameras, not for show. Just a moment between them. Familiar. Safe. Them.

She hadn’t even been the one in the spotlight then. But it had felt like a shared beginning anyway. Like they were both on the edge of something, the start of parallel dreams, yes, but dreams braided together in the quietest, surest ways.

She remembered how it had all looked. The suite had been warm with lamplight and the soft rustle of fabric as her stylist darted between garment racks, holding up dress after dress that Azzi barely registered. She had been in a black satin robe, her arms crossed, her nerves sharp, when a low voice had called to her from the bed.

"Azz," she’d said, stretching it out with a smile after finishing her Cane’s, "you could wear the gift bag they gave us and you’d still be the hottest one here."

Azzi had tried to glare at her, but the laugh betrayed her. She always betrayed herself around her.

They’d picked the dress together. A shiny black one with a plunging neckline and a back that dipped scandalously low. She remembered stepping out from behind the divider and seeing the expression shift on her face — that slow-blinking awe, the open-mouthed pause, like she was witnessing something sacred. Azzi had felt heat rise to her cheeks. But she hadn’t looked away.

And then there was the way she looked that night. Jet-black custom Coach pantsuit, tailored like it had been stitched onto her skin, every rhinestone catching the light. Her blonde hair had fallen in soft waves, glossy and perfect. She had looked like a storm in motion. Like the kind of person the world wanted to follow.

But when she looked at Azzi, really looked at her, she softened. Always.

Somehow, in all the chaos of the night, they’d found five minutes alone. No cameras, no stylists, no interruptions. Just the mirror, and the quiet. Azzi remembered the feeling of warm fingers wrapping around hers, the gentle tug that pulled her closer.

"Jesus," she’d whispered, her voice barely more than breath. "You are trying to kill me tonight looking like that."

Azzi had rolled her eyes, laughing, but her body had leaned in instinctively. Needing. Wanting. When their lips met, it had been soft. Not rushed, not performative. Just a long, slow inhale of everything they didn’t say out loud. A kiss like a promise. Like a map.

"This is the closest to my prom night outfit I could give you."

There had been plans. Not just whispered ones. Real ones. Apartments they’d toured in cities they hadn’t yet moved to. Lists on their phones titled "someday." Grocery store habits. Dog names. A playlist titled our kitchen mornings. She used to tuck her head into Azzi’s shoulder at night and say, "We’re going to do this. All of it. We are gonna be the ones who make it."

Azzi had believed her. Azzi had let herself believe in it. In them. A quiet, fearless kind of belief. Until that night 9 months ago.

The host’s voice sliced through her memories, too bright, too smooth. Scripted. A video reel flickered onto the giant screen behind them.

"And of course, last year, the Dallas Wings selected Paige Bueckers…"

The name cracked through Azzi like glass under pressure. She turned instinctively, eyes flicking toward the screen already knowing which clip was coming.

There she was. One year ago. Confident and beautiful. Her mouth parted in a polite smile, her shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of the moment. They had rehearsed what she needed to do; hug her mom first, then her dad, and then she is allowed to give one to Azzi. 

But when they called her name, she didn’t follow the script.

She turned straight to Azzi. Wrapped her up like she couldn’t help it. Like there wasn’t another choice in the world.

There had been cameras. Reporters. Other players and coaches. 

But all Azzi had felt was the anchor of her arms. The press of her breath against Azzi’s cheek. In that moment, under all the lights and noise, it had felt like the start of something unshakable. A choice. Not for the cameras. For them.

Azzi had whispered it into her hair, voice breaking: I love you.

And the reply had come as soft as breath, as certain as thunder.

I love you too.

It had felt like a forever kind of night. But forever is fragile when the world keeps pulling you in opposite directions.

Now, Azzi sat in the same room. Same lights. Same stakes. But alone.

But there was no hand to reach for. No crooked smile across the table. No five minutes of softness carved from chaos. Just an empty chair. Silent, unyielding, echoing with all that was supposed to be.

She swallowed hard. Straightened her shoulders. Coach Geno leaned in slightly, gave her a look. Warm, knowing, proud.

The crowd quieted as the host adjusted her mic after the video ended, voice rising just enough to cut through the low hum of anticipation. "And now," the host said with practiced drama, "after months of speculation and scouting reports, it’s finally time."

Azzi smiled gently, the corners of her mouth lifting in a quiet, thoughtful way. This moment wasn’t hers yet. At least, not in the way she had once imagined.

She had accepted that, and more importantly, she had found peace in it.

Everyone in the room, and really, everyone watching, expected Lauren Betts to go first. That was no secret. The analysts had said it. The former pros had agreed. The fans had assumed it. And Azzi herself had believed it. Lauren had earned it. She had led fearlessly, played with dominance and control, and carried herself with the quiet power of someone who didn’t need to prove anything. Throughout the season, Lauren had risen to every challenge and delivered every time until UConn stopped her as a team in the semi-finals. Azzi had admired her, not with envy, but with genuine respect.

There was no bitterness in her heart.

Azzi knew what it meant to be the one people doubted. She had lived with that for years — not in the form of loud criticism, but in the subtler, more painful way doubt creeps in when people stop asking about your future and start talking about your past. Injuries had stolen more than just playing time from her; they had taken away the certainty she used to feel when people said she was destined for greatness.

There had been days, long, quiet days in empty gyms, where she had wondered if she would ever feel whole again. Days when the ache in her knees matched the ache in her heart. When people spoke her name with caution, as if they didn’t want to jinx her.

But this year had been different.

This year, she had felt free. Not just physically, though playing without pain had been a revelation, but emotionally, too. She had run without fear. Laughed during practice. Shot with joy, not desperation. The game had returned to her like an old friend, and she had welcomed it back with open arms. For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t chasing anyone else’s expectations. She was simply playing because she loved it.

That, she had decided, was enough.

So she sat now with an open heart, quietly anticipating the moment when Lauren’s name would be called. Maybe she, Azzi, would go second. Or third. Maybe she would be headed to the Sky, or to the young team in the Bay, the Valkyries, who were already being described as bold, bright, and full of possibility. She could imagine herself there, not as the headline act, but as something even more important: a cornerstone. A player to build around.

The host continued speaking, her voice confident and steady, drawing out the announcement with a practiced kind of suspense. The air in the room shimmered with tension.

Then, something changed.

Azzi noticed it before anyone else. The cameras began to move. One operator shifted to her left. Another crouched in front of her. A third one came in from the side, adjusting focus, zooming in. It was a subtle flurry, but unmistakable.

She felt a jolt of adrenaline. Her heart quickened.

She looked around, searching for something to anchor her. Her eyes landed on Geno.

He was watching her with that same knowing look he had always given her when she was about to do something extraordinary. His smile was soft, steady, filled with the kind of love and pride that needed no explanation.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Coach…" she whispered, not quite a question, but not yet a belief.

He didn’t say anything. He just nodded, slow and certain.

And then the world seemed to still. The noise of the crowd, the flashing lights, the nervous chatter, it all fell away. She could hear nothing but the sound of her own heart.

"With the first pick in the 2026 WNBA Draft," the host finally said, her voice ringing like a bell, "the Los Angeles Sparks select… Azzi Fudd."

Everything stopped.  Azzi didn’t move.

The room erupted, cheers, gasps, applause, but she sat frozen, her body locked in place as her mind tried to catch up with what she had just heard.

Her name. First.

She looked toward her parents. Her mother’s hands were clasped over her mouth, eyes wide and already filled with tears. Her father repeated, “Oh my God,” over and over, his voice full of disbelief and awe.

Still, Azzi remained still.

Because in that moment, she wasn’t just hearing her name. She was hearing all the years of work. All the hours spent rebuilding. All the nights spent wondering if this dream had quietly slipped away while she wasn’t looking.

She had let go of the need to be number one. She had finally, fully accepted that her worth wasn’t tied to any ranking or headline. She had come into this year with a lightness, with joy, and with nothing to prove.

And somehow, that had brought her here. To the top. Not as a gamble. Not as a question mark.

As the answer.

Geno was on his feet now, clapping with quiet pride. There were tears in his eyes too. Beside him, Tim wiped at his own face, beaming with joy. Kate was already crying openly, one hand pressed to her chest as if she could hold the emotion in.

Azzi felt something rise inside her — not shock, not pride, but something deeper. Something gentler.

Gratitude.

She was grateful for every moment that had led her here. Grateful for the people who had believed in her when she didn’t believe in herself. Grateful for the girl who never stopped showing up, even when her body begged her to give up.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her dress floated around her legs, and her heels clicked softly against the floor as she turned to hug her mother. They held each other tightly. Her father kissed her forehead and whispered something she would only remember later.

When she turned to Geno, he embraced her fully, holding her like a second father.

"You earned this," he said, his voice thick. "Every damn bit of it, Azzi."

Azzi nodded against his shoulder, eyes closed, letting the truth of that statement settle into her bones.

When she stepped away, she glanced to the chair beside her. It was still empty. 

But Azzi didn’t linger there.

She turned toward the stage, toward the light, toward everything that waited for her on the other side of this moment.

Azzi Fudd. Number one overall pick in the 2026 WNBA draft.

The noise never really stopped.

Not during the photos, not during the on-stage interview, not even while she was trying to catch her breath behind the curtain with someone from the Sparks' PR team asking if she wanted water or soda or a second to sit. It was all a blur. Reporters leaning in with questions, UConn teammates pulling her into tight hugs, everyone smiling so wide it almost felt choreographed. She was dizzy with it. Dizzy in the best possible way.

The rest of the draft was still unfolding in real time. The screens overhead kept announcing new picks, cameras swivelling, more applause erupting every few minutes from different corners of the room. But to Azzi, it all sounded underwater. Like her name had been called and now the volume of everything else had been dialled down, as if the night was making room for her moment.

Azzi could barely catch her breath before someone grabbed her wrist again and yelled, "UP! One more time!" and suddenly she was airborne, her feet kicking helplessly above a sea of navy-blue blazers and glittery eyeshadow and open-mouthed joy.

"Okay, okay, stop—" she laughed, flailing as they tossed her higher, her curls nearly smacking Jana in the face. "You are gonna drop me!"

But they didn’t care. Nobody did. This was her night. Ice was yelling something about a champagne spray. KK was already trying to start a TikTok live. Azzi’s cheeks hurt from smiling, her voice gone from screaming, and her dress was dangerously close to flying up the more they tossed her. She managed to wriggle her way down on the third throw, breathless and flushed and laughing so hard her abs hurt.

And then she heard it.

A laugh.

Not one of her teammates screaming her name. It came from deeper back. Farther behind the cameras and the velvet ropes and the backstage staff holding clipboards and headsets. It was sharp, bright, and familiar enough to freeze her in place mid-grin.

She scanned the crowd. Not with panic, with purpose. She knew that sound. That rhythm. It wasn't the kind of laugh you forgot, not when it used to belong to the person who knew every version of you, who had cracked open your ribs and seen what was inside.

The crowd was a blur, camera flashes, tall shadows, a security guard in the middle of moving someone along, but between two shoulders, just for half a second, she caught a flicker of blonde hair.

Tied back in a messy low bun. Head angled like she was looking away. A sliver of cheek, maybe.

Azzi blinked. The crowd shifted. Gone.

No way. Paige wasn’t here. She would’ve known. Right?

But for a moment, the noise disappeared. Azzi stood perfectly still in the center of it all, one foot in the past, one foot in everything she’d worked her whole life for.

A part of her wanted to chase it. Just to be sure. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Because her name was still being said over and over again by reporters, by her coaches, by kids in the crowd. 

She breathed. And let the possibility stay just that, a maybe.

Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe Paige was never there at all.

Still, as she was ushered from one interview to the next, as she took photos holding up the Sparks jersey, as her teammates pulled her in for a group selfie, Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling. Like someone had slipped into the back of the room for just a minute. Like someone had come to see her, silently. She kept glancing back toward that same stretch of crowd for the rest of the night.

But she never saw her again.

The night stretched long after the last pick was called. The team swept her away to a lounge downtown, something the Sparks organisation had organized. Velvet couches, open bar, soft lighting, a private celebration tucked above the city.

There was music, and champagne, and shouting. Someone had a karaoke mic, and Jana wouldn’t stop singing "Eye of the Tiger" in an exaggerated Southern accent. Ice stood on a chair and delivered a fake speech. Azzi ended up dancing barefoot with her arms around KK and chicken fingers in her other hand.

It was everything. And still, the moment haunted her. That laugh. That flash of blonde hair. That impossible maybe.

She didn’t tell anyone about it.

The morning came slow.

Azzi woke in a hotel bed tangled in white sheets, wearing only boxers and a tank, one false eyelash still clinging to her cheek. The Sparks jersey from the draft crumpled on the chair beside the bed like proof she hadn’t dreamed any of it. 

Her phone was face-down on the nightstand, its buzz long silenced. Her head throbbed lightly, not from drinking, but from feeling too much too fast.

She didn’t reach for it right away.

She just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the hum of the AC and the distant clink of room service trays being wheeled past in the hall. Her body ached in a good way. Eventually, she rolled over, arm heavy, and grabbed her phone.

Notifications swarmed the screen. Mentions. Group chats. Draft clips. DMs from old teammates, trainers, that one camp coach she hadn’t heard from in four years.

And then—

Her thumb froze.

PAIGE 0.22 a.m.

Congrats, Azz. I’m so damn proud of you. Go make them remember your name. They have no idea what’s coming.

Azzi stared. The room spun a little, but this time it wasn’t from champagne or adrenaline.

She read it again. And again.

She didn’t know if Paige had been there last night. If that laugh had been real, or if it had just been a phantom stitched into her memory. She didn’t know if that flicker of blonde hair was coincidence or wishful thinking.

But she knew this: Paige had seen her.

And somehow, that made her chest ache and swell all at once. She read it twice. Then once more.  Then she closed her eyes and let herself feel it. All of it.

Paige POV - Draft Night, Brooklyn, NY

She had promised herself she wouldn’t come.

She told her agent, her friends, even her own reflection in the mirror that she was going to stay home. That she didn’t want to make it about her. That the last thing Azzi needed on her night was a ghost hovering in the rafters, reminding everyone, reminding her, of what used to be.

But the truth was, Paige had made that decision too many times before. To stay away. To pretend that silence was kindness.  And when the lights went up, and the music swelled, and the draft began to breathe with the electricity of dreams about to come true, Paige knew she couldn’t sit on her hotel room’s couch a few blocks away and pretend she didn’t care. 

She needed to be in the room. Even if no one else knew she was there.

So she came. Quietly. Wrapped in a tailored black suit that swallowed her broad shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in tight, low bun. She arrived long after the press had moved on, after the carpet had been cleared, when the cameras were already all inside.

Her seat was arranged discreetly, a favour from someone at the league, who didn’t ask why. Tucked into a dim corner near the back, out of frame. A pillar blocked the view, but if she leaned a bit to the left, she could see Azzi's table. And anyway, the monitors were visible. The sound carried. She was here.

And that, she kept telling herself, was enough.

She tried not to stare too hard at the screen when it cut to Azzi’s table. Tried not to flinch when she saw her, radiant in a breathtaking white dress, curls soft around her face, eyes bright with nerves and wonder. Her parents were beside her. Geno too, steady and warm. 

But there was a fifth seat at the table. Empty.

That was supposed to be hers. 

Her throat tightened, thick with guilt.

She was supposed to be the plus-one this time. The support system. The calm touch under the table, the whisper in her ear: You are ready. You have always been ready. She was supposed to be the one zipping Azzi into that dress, brushing her curls to the side, kissing her shoulder in the mirror and saying, They have no idea what’s coming.

Instead, she watched from the dark.

God, she missed Azzi.

Paige had convinced herself she was doing the right thing when she let it end, or more accurately, when she let it fall apart without fighting. She had let the pressure and the pain and the headlines swallow her, convinced herself that love was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not while everything else in her life was slipping out of her hands already.

She had been wrong. So wrong.

She should have said it back then: I will give up anything but you.

But she didn’t.

And now she watched the best night of Azzi’s life play out from the shadows. A ghost with a perfect view of everything she had lost.

The room shifted.

Paige realised it before the crowd did, the way producers moved toward Azzi’s table like magnets. That silent ripple of realization. That sharp, expectant energy.

On-screen, Azzi turned toward Geno, brows furrowed like she was asking a question. Geno smiled and nodded once.

Then the host stepped to the mic.

"With the first pick in the 2026 WNBA Draft… the Los Angeles Sparks select Azzi Fudd."

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. The silence was total, not the absence of sound, but the stunned, collective stillness of disbelief catching fire. A second of suspended time.

And then Paige was on her feet.

Clapping.

Before anyone else. Before the cameras cut to the right angle. Before the broadcasters found their words. Her hands moved on instinct, fast, hard, unrelenting, the kind of applause that wasn’t for the crowd, wasn’t for the cameras, wasn’t for show. It was for her. Because Azzi Fudd just went first overall. And Paige fucking believed she would.

She was crying and didn’t even realize it until the tears slipped past her jaw, hot and constant, soaking into the collar of her suit. Her shoulders shook, barely, but she stayed standing. Stayed clapping. Stayed locked in, eyes trained on the screen as the people around her finally caught up — gasps, cheers, whistles all crashing into the air like fireworks. But Paige was already gone, already in the swell of it, swept under by something deeper.

She was so damn proud. Proud in a way that felt like breaking.

Azzi stood slowly at the table, one trembling hand to her chest, her curls catching the lights like something divine. Her face crumpled, joy, disbelief, tears she wasn’t trying to hid, and Paige could feel it like it was happening to her, like her own chest had split open to make room for it all. That radiant, stunned smile. The way Geno’s hand landed on her back like an anchor. Her parents enveloping her in that long, aching hug.

And the empty seat. Right beside them.

Paige’s hands finally stilled, but her tears didn’t. They just kept coming, quiet and relentless, carving lines down her cheeks while her heart screamed behind her ribs.

She should have been there. God, she should have been there. To squeeze her hand. To whisper, "I knew it. I never doubted it for a second." To pull her into her arms and kiss her forehead and tell her, "You deserve all of this. You always did."

But she wasn’t. And she had no one to blame but herself.

Still, even from the shadows, Paige clung to the sight of her, the way Azzi’s eyes shone through the blur of emotion, the way she waved softly at the crowd, still stunned, still her. The love in Paige’s chest ached like a bruise, tender and deep, and all-consuming.

She didn’t even bother to wipe her tears. Let them fall. Let them testify. Because if this wasn’t love, she didn’t know what was.

Azzi Fudd just went number one overall.

And Paige Bueckers had never been more devastated, or more proud, in her entire life.

She knew she should have left.

The cameras had moved on. The spotlight was dimming, the draft winding down. The night was officially over, at least the part she cared about. But her legs wouldn’t move. Her body wouldn’t listen. She stood rooted in place like a ghost trapped between rooms, unable to cross over.

Because how could she walk away when Azzi was right there?

For months, Paige had only seen her through other people’s eyes — sideline cameras, fan TikToks, grainy highlight reels she watched alone with the sound low, always in secret. Never liking. Never sharing. Never giving herself away. She had made it a habit, keeping her distance like a wound she refused to poke. But tonight?

Tonight, she couldn’t look away.

Azzi’s smile was radiant. Open and unguarded in a way Paige hadn’t seen since before everything broke between them. And it made something sharp twist deep in her gut. Not jealousy. Not quite. Just a longing so big it felt like grief.

Paige stayed. She stayed even when she told herself not to. Even when the voice in her head whispered you don’t belong here anymore. She stayed anyway, selfishly, hungry for one more glimpse, one more memory to take with her back to the quiet apartment and the echo of what-ifs she never dared name.

She laughed under her breath when she saw chaos erupt around the bar — Sarah, KK, Jana, Ice, Kayleigh — all of them crashing into Azzi like a hurricane of sequins and shrieks. Azzi disappeared in the crush of limbs and champagne-slicked hugs, her voice muffled but unmistakable: "Put me down, you’re going to drop me!"

God, her chest ached.

She should’ve been up there. She should’ve been the one smoothing Azzi’s dress, cracking some terrible joke to make her laugh right before the pick was announced. She should’ve been the grounding hand at the small of her back when the nerves hit. The first person Azzi looked at. The one she whispered, “I did it” to.

But she wasn’t. And that wasn’t on fate. That wasn’t bad luck or cruel timing. That was her. That was all on her.

She took a slow breath, blinking hard. Her eyes were stinging, but she barely registered it. Just one more minute, she told herself. Just one more second of looking at Azzi in the flesh. One more secret memory to carry back to the quiet.

And then—

A hand landed gently on her shoulder.

She tensed instantly, breath stalling in her chest. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull, distant hum. She turned her head slowly, heart in her throat.

Geno Auriemma. Coach.

Still impossibly composed, arms crossed, half in shadow. Wire-rimmed glasses. That same unreadable look that had once terrified her as a freshman, but now, at twenty-four, just made her feel seen. Exposed, even. Like he could see through the armour she’d pieced together for this one night.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just… looked at her. Like he was watching something play out inside her head and waiting for her to stop pretending it wasn’t.

Paige opened her mouth, but her voice caught.

"You’re not as invisible as you think," Geno said, his voice low, even. Not unkind.

She swallowed hard. "Coach."

He gave a tiny nod. Then his gaze flicked down, briefly, and Paige followed it, realizing for the first time that tears were falling freely down her cheeks.

She swiped at them quickly, clumsy and embarrassed, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t have to.

"You didn’t think I’d notice you?" he asked softly, not accusatory. Just… patient.

She gave a sheepish smile, looking down. "Tried not to be a distraction."

He didn’t smile, exactly. But his face softened. "You are not. Not to her. Not to me. Maybe just… to yourself."

That one hit. She looked down at her shoes. It felt like someone had slid a blade between her ribs.

He let the silence sit for a beat. Then, without ceremony, opened his arms. She stepped into them instantly.

And it wasn’t the kind of hug that made you cry harder. It was the kind that made you remember — the kind that reminded you that love didn’t always leave, that belief didn’t disappear when you walked off the court for the last time. That someone still saw you as whole.

He held her for a long moment. Then pulled back and studied her face.

"You still know how to fight."

Paige furrowed her brows. "What?"

"For whatever the hell matters. Playing again for the love of the game. Making peace. Telling the truth. Whatever you are scared of." He nodded toward Azzi. "That? That doesn’t have to be a memory."

Her throat tightened. "It’s not that simple."

"I know," Geno said. "Simple is for stat sheets. This? This is life. It’s messy. It hurts. But it’s not over."

He paused, glanced toward the crowd. Then added, quieter, "You let the wrong voices in. You shut yourself out. You let fear win. You let other people’s voices drown out your own. But the people who know you, the ones who love you, we never stopped listening. Azzi never stopped."

Paige inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the air out of her.

He leaned closer, his voice gentler now. "She still looks for you in every room."

A pause. Then...

He gave her shoulder one last squeeze and started to step away. But then he paused, glancing back.

"If you are still in love with her," he added, "maybe stop trying so hard to pretend you are not. You fight like hell on the court. Do it for her too."

And just like that, he stepped back into the sea of people, leaving her standing there, heart wide open, skin buzzing, eyes locked on the girl who never stopped believing in her.

And this time, Paige didn’t look away. She let herself feel it. All of it. The pride. The ache. The love that had never gone anywhere.

She kept thinking about what Coach said.

The words didn’t hit her all at once, they didn’t echo like some clean, cinematic lesson. No, they dug in slow, like seeds planted in soil she hadn’t realized was still fertile. 

You still know how to fight.

She kept hearing it, over and over, like he’d whispered it into the lining of her jacket, and now it wouldn’t stop clinging to her.

What did he really mean? Of course she knew how to fight. That’s all she had done since her own draft night.

Paige drove with her eyes fixed on the road, one hand loosely on the wheel, the other tapping against her thigh like her body couldn’t sit still. Her chest was tight. Not painful, not yet, just knotted, like her insides were still waiting for the whistle to blow.

She thought back to her rookie season.

Her rookie season felt like it had aged her a decade. Everyone had called it a solid start. The analysts, the talking heads on those sports shows she hated watching but still doom-scrolled through. They all said she was doing well. "Holding her own." "Showing promise." "The future of the franchise". But none of them knew her own standards. None of them knew what it felt like to be Paige Bueckers and feel behind. To feel ordinary.

Then the concussion hit. Then the flu that wouldn’t go away. She missed games. Too many. Her rhythm thrown off completely. And just when she was clawing her way back, Chris, their so-called head coach, started benching her more. 

"To protect her," he’d said. "To manage her minutes."

But Paige knew what it really was. He didn’t trust her anymore. 

The media had followed suit, like they always do. The same people who hyped her up as a generational pick now started questioning if she was a bust. They talked about her like she was a failed investment. Like she was some stat gone wrong.

So Paige did what she always did. She shut her mouth and showed up.

She buried herself in the training facility. If she wasn’t running drills with the team, she was shooting alone. Or with her personal trainer. Or watching film until her eyes burned. Every night she left long after the janitorial staff, and in the rare moments someone did catch her, usually a rookie assistant coach, she’d flash a tight smile and lie: "Just finishing up."

The gym became her whole world. She gave up the rest of it without even realizing. She stopped going out unless it was team-mandated. Let calls go unanswered. Texts turned to grey bubbles she meant to answer and never did.

And the worst part?

It actually worked.

By August, Chris couldn’t justify benching her. The team played better with her. She was dropping 20+ a night. She picked up three triple-doubles in under a month. She adapted.  Stopped waiting for plays that didn’t exist. Took the game into her own hands. Selfish basketball, sure. But in a system with no structure, someone had to lead. She hated it, resented what it turned her into, but it was the only way to survive in Dallas.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

They didn’t make the playoffs. Her stats didn’t matter. Her effort didn’t matter. Not really. The franchise moved on like it always did. Rebuild year. Again.

And now here she was, parked under the flickering neon sign of some mid-range hotel, wondering what Geno had seen in her tonight that she couldn’t see in herself.

You still know how to fight.

For what?

She shut off the engine but didn’t move. Let her forehead fall against the steering wheel.

She was fighting. Every damn day. For minutes. For space. For recognition.

What else was there to fight for? Or… was he talking about something else? Her chest tightened.

Fighting for herself.

Not just for her place in the league, or her stats, or her name on a jersey. But for her. The girl who used to laugh while playing. The one who used to dream about more than just surviving the season. The one who didn’t see love as a distraction, but as fuel.

She hadn’t thought about that version of herself in a long time. The version who smiled after games. Who joked in the locker room. Who threw behind-the-back passes not for show, but for joy. 

Maybe Geno meant that. Fighting to come back to life.

She closed her eyes, tired in a way that minutes and stat sheets couldn’t explain. Was there still something to fight for beyond basketball?

She missed being seen. Missed the girl whose smile could light her up from the inside out. Missed Azzi. Not just in the vague way you miss an ex. But in the way you miss home.

Paige let the thought land. Let it sit in her chest without trying to bury it.

If Geno was right, if there was still a fight in her, then maybe it was time to figure out where it should really go.

It was 11.11 p.m. when she made the call. The call that, in hindsight, changed everything.

She sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, remote dangling from her hand. The TV flickered through draft highlights. Azzi’s face had lit up like someone flipped a switch inside her chest. All joy, no apology. Paige had known that look once. Knew what it felt like to be lifted by a moment, surrounded by belief, kissed by legacy. UConn made you for that kind of stage. Or at least, it used to.

She muted the TV. Sat still.

And for the first time in a long time, let herself really think.

Not rehearse. Not compartmentalize. Not survive.

Think.

About what this last year in Dallas had really been.

She’d come in determined to make it work, to prove she could turn a broken system into something that functioned. That she could be the cornerstone, even when the foundation was already cracked. There had been flashes of brilliance, a 28-point game in Phoenix, a near triple-double against the Liberty, a couple of clutch blocks that turned heads.

But the flashes never turned into fire.

The coaching staff kept rotating lineups. There was no system, just chaos disguised as “development.” She wasn’t trusted with the ball late in games, wasn’t allowed to be the vocal leader they claimed they needed. And after Chris still did not get fired after 15 straight losses, the team stopped pretending they cared.

By then, she’d been playing through swelling in her right ankle for five games. No one checked in. No one noticed when she started icing it.

That silence had been the loudest thing of all.

She’d told herself it was a test. That she could outwork the noise. That if she kept grinding, kept putting her body on the line, something would shift. She’d earn the role she knew she could fill.

But it never came. Dallas never became hers.

And now? Now they were dangling promises again. Possible a new coach next year. A "fresh start." A culture reset.

They said they wanted to build around her. That she was part of the future.

But Paige had heard enough locker room speeches this year to know the difference between vision and lip service. They didn’t want her. They wanted the idea of her, the name, the brand, the press clippings. Not the player she was becoming. Not the woman who had clawed her way back from every injury, every setback, every whispered doubt.

She glanced at her Ipad remembering the file her agents sent months ago. She hadn’t opened it since July.

SPARKS OFFER — FINAL, expires 8/1

She’d told him not to bring it up again but she remembered the proposal.

L.A. had come calling when their guard rotation cracked midseason, made a trade offer for Paige that would’ve shifted both rosters. And she’d said no. She was loyal. Stubborn. Too proud to leave before finishing what she started.

But watching Azzi tonight, glowing, surrounded by love, stepping into her next with full ownership, something inside Paige shifted.

What exactly am I still holding onto?

The loyalty? It hadn’t been returned. The pride? It was fraying. The jersey? It felt heavier every game.

And then came the quiet voice she’d buried all season:

You deserve more than surviving.

She stood and crossed the room. Picked up her iPad. Pulled up the document with the Sparks logo on the corner.

Her hands didn’t tremble.

She already knew what it said. Salary. Minutes. A coach who actually called her by name in interviews. A real backcourt partnership with veterans and young platers she respected. A franchise looking for leadership, not just talent.

They wanted her. For real.

And, maybe more than anything , it was L.A. Where Azzi would be playing. Practicing. Living. Not that Paige would ever admit to anyone that this was what tipped her over. But maybe... maybe it mattered.

Maybe she was allowed to want proximity to something, someone, that reminded her what happiness looked like. What belief sounded like. What it felt like to be seen not for what you used to be, but for what you still could become.

But that offer was gone now. Dead paperwork. A door she had closed before it was even open.

And tonight, she wanted it back.

She exhaled slowly and hit the call button. It rang twice before he picked up. "Paige?" Her agent’s voice was hoarse with sleep. She didn’t care.

"I need you to call L.A.," she said. Straight, no hesitation.

A pause. "L.A.?"

"The Sparks."

"...Paige, that ship sailed months ago. They moved on. You told me not to push it."

"I need you to push it now," she said flatly.

"I don’t even know if they’d take the call."

"Then make it worth taking."

She stood and crossed to the window, the skyline blurred behind the heavy hotel glass. Her reflection stared back at her. A little older, a little quieter, and suddenly very clear.

"You told me back in July they saw me as a fit," she said. "That they liked my game, my court vision, the way I lead under pressure. You said the coach wanted another point guard who could take ownership of the floor."

Another beat. He exhaled slowly. "Look, I’m just being real with you. They drafted Azzi Fudd tonight. She is the future of that backcourt. I don’t know if there’s room now."

Paige’s jaw tightened, not at the name, but at the implication. And then, with startling clarity, she said:

"Then that’s exactly why they should take me."

He was quiet.

"No one has what Azzi and I have," she continued, voice low and steady. "Not in this league. Not coming out of college. You put us on the same floor and it’s instant. It’s instinct. We read each other without speaking. We cover each other’s blind spots. You don’t need to build chemistry from scratch when it already exists."

Pressing her palm against the cool glass, New York City sprawled beneath her.

"We would be unbeatable from day one," she said. "They want to build around Azzi? Fine. Then give her what she deserves, someone who knows her game better than anyone. Someone who will make her shine."

Her agent was quiet again, but this time it was the kind of silence she could feel leaning forward.

"You sure about this?"

She turned from the window, nodding before realizing he couldn’t see it. "I’m done waiting for things to work in Dallas. I want to be somewhere that sees me. That wants me. I’ll prove I’m worth whatever it takes."

He sighed, sharper this time. "I’ll make the call. But no promises, Paige. We’re starting from scratch now. And they’ve got leverage."

"Then get creative," she said. "Incentives, media push, whatever it takes. If they want a future dynasty, we are it. Together."

There was a pause. "Okay," he said finally. "I will get back to you by noon."

She hung up and let the silence settle again. The screen dimmed to black in her hand, her reflection faint and unfamiliar. She looked older than she felt, like a version of herself that had learned how to swallow every doubt and turn it into steel.

She opened her texts. Found Azzi’s name. No drafts. No overthinking.

PAIGE 0.22 a.m.

Congrats, Azz. I’m so damn proud of you. Go make them remember your name. They have no idea what’s coming.

She read it once. Twice. No emojis. No over explaining. Just truth, stripped down and clear.

Then, before she could second-guess it, before the ghosts in her head could snatch the phone from her hands again, she hit send. 

The message flew off in silence, blue check marks appearing almost instantly. She stared at them, heart in her throat. But she didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t need one. Not tonight.

Because tonight wasn’t about answers or second chances or knowing what would happen next.

It was about doing the damn thing anyway.

It was about showing up. For herself. For the game. For the girl she never stopped loving.

And for the first time in months, when she finally lay down and pulled the covers over her chest, Paige didn’t feel like she was running away. She felt like she had finally taken the first step back.

[thoughtfulfiction]

Friend zone? End zone.

Author’s note: Anon requested🧡

July

Packing everything up and moving to France with no idea where you'd live or how you were going to make money, to study under some of the most well known pastry giants in the world was...crazy. But somehow, opening up your own bake shop in Cincinnati felt even more like you were losing the last hold on your sanity. You didn't know anyone here, no friends or family nearby, but Velvet Clementine was your dream. And today, the dream smelled like vanilla, caramelized sugar, and the bright zest of fresh clementines, located in the middle of the Queen City. You had your own staff, granted it was four people but still, you were the owner, the boss, of your very own place.

Cincinnati had been your home for six weeks when the bell chimed, and two men—tall enough to make your display case look like a dollhouse—ducked into the shop. They moved with effortless confidence, their voices a low rumble of laughter as they scanned the display case with the focus of someone choosing their last meal. You watched them pile on various pastries, looking through the rows of mini pain au chocolat, almond croissants and pastel de nata. The mini fruit tarts featuring clementines and red velvet cakes were the items that made you fall in love with baking, hence the name of the place. The shorter man reached for a tart, its glossy colorful slices glistening under the bakery lights, nestled in a bed of creamy white chocolate mousse. You watched as the other one picked up a croissant, giving it a slight squeeze—a soft crackle of delicate layers breaking beneath his fingers. They seemed satisfied with their various selections, happily walking over to the register, the tall one flashing his almost sinfully perfect smile as he paid for everything. You thanked them for coming in and sent them on their way.

"You can't be serious, how did you not say anything?" Your sous chef Quinn let out a breath she had probably been holding since the two guys walked through the door.

"What are you talking about?"

She scoffed, remembering the fact that you’d lived in Europe the last few years so their presence didn’t hold much weight. She tossed a dish towel over her shoulder as she turned to face you, “they’re Bengals, babe. Like, literal football gods. Also, it helps that they’re stupidly attractive."

You hummed, processing everything she just threw at you. "Well, that part I did notice. And they’re freakishly...big. Good thing we made extras of everything, because I think they just wiped out half the front shelf."

Quinn laughed, stepping around you to check for herself. "I have a shelf they can—sorry."

"Okay easy tiger,” you let out a laugh, “they're gone. Are we still on for drinks tonight?"

"Oh absolutely, I definitely need a martini or three after seeing the best receiving duo in the game, in person. My boyfriend is actually going to lose his mind when I tell him."

You shake your head with a smile on your face, walking back to the kitchen to restock, the scent of butter and cocoa bean filling the air as you slip behind the counter to arrange the freshly baked tarts.

Much to your surprise, they were back three days later. The door sounded again, and the tall one walked up to you, his broad shoulders barely fitting in the doorway. "I'm Tee."

"Hi Tee," you smile, surprised. "Didn't expect to see you back so soon. Or your friend over there." Tee turns around to find Ja'Marr loading up on cheesecakes this time, not paying attention to anything else. The sight of him, mouth half-full of a pastry, causes you to chuckle.

"I didn't either but...damn. You the owner?"

You nod, hesitant but flattered.

"Excuse my language, but yo, this shit fire—like man. We had to come get some more. Everything’s made fresh, from... scratch?"

"Yeah, every morning I get here at like 5:30 and we bake everything. From scratch."

Ja'marr appears next to him, holding a mini crème brulee. "You are VERY good at your job. You'll be seeing a lot of us now that we're back for the season. Swear you weren't here when I left Cincy, how long you been here?"

"Stop, it's not that great.” You wave him off as he continues to nod profusely, holding up his latest find with wild eyes as you laugh again. “And I've been here a little over a month, just moved to Cincinnati actually."

"From?" Ja'Marr pipes up, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

"France, lived there for a few years to perfect my pastry skills and really focus on my craft."

"That's crazy, I just got back from Paris for Fashion Week. The food was amazing and looks like the classes worked cause you definitely know what you're doing."

"Thank you guys. And spread the word will you? I heard you two are kind of a big deal around here."

"Something like that, we appreciate you for these," Tee flashes a wide grin, holding up the bag as he thanks you one more time, "you'll see us back here soon."

The next day they returned the favor and since you'd been feeding them, they wanted to take you to a special spot downtown to really introduce you to the city. Of course you brought Quinn with you. Her boyfriend didn't believe this was actually happening until he Facetimed her and saw the guys for himself. It was nice to finally feel like you'd met people you got along with without having to try to be anyone but yourself. Over the next few weeks while exploring the Cincinnati food scene, you found out that Tee and Ja'marr were funny, sweet and kind, just two guys enjoying the last few weeks of the offseason before training camp ramped up. Both of them were in the midst of contract negotiations, having to explain to you the ins and outs of NFL life. They appreciated that you didn't care about their status and never asked unless they started the conversation and you loved having people around that made this city feel so much less like a foreign country.

Ja'Marr strolled in one morning with a grin, practically bouncing on his feet as he leaned across the counter. "Hey, so listen...you gotta make those mini cakes for my housewarming on Saturday. I mean, you have to be there, since we’re your best friends now and all. It’s only right."

Quinn, who had been wiping down the counter, stopped mid-motion and squinted at him. "Excuse me? So now I’m invisible? You’re just gonna act like I wasn’t the one keeping her entertained before you waltzed in with your designer sweatpants and phenomenal taste in bakeries? Some people." She shakes her head in mock disbelief.

Ja'Marr smirked, completely unbothered. "Anyway, Imma ignore that. Jealous isn't a good look on you Quinn." He quickly turns his attention back to you, "so...you'll be there Saturday right? I'll text you the address."

"Yes, I'll be there."

"And so will I, since we wanna exclude people from the conversation." Quinn adds in from behind you.

Ja'Marr, clearly pleased with his victory, flashed a grin as he turned to leave. "Speaking in third person? You know what I'll just see y'all Saturday." Before heading out, he shot you one more look over his shoulder. "Don’t forget, mini cakes."

As he walked out, Quinn glanced at you, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Looks like you’ve got some serious new friends now, huh?"

"We," you correct her, "we have some serious friends new friends now."

As a business owner, you prided yourself in being a professional. Even at your friend's party, you wanted to be more than on time and make the cakes look as pretty as possible. Quinn had joined you in the last-minute preparations, both of you arriving an hour before the gathering started to get things in order. The large living room was already buzzing—caterers setting up a lavish buffet, trays full of appetizers being placed on side tables. Some of Ja'Marr’s friends, who you assumed were visiting from Louisiana, lounged in the corner, their laughs echoing over the low hum of video game sound effects.

You and Quinn worked in tandem, setting the delicate mini cakes on a table near the center, the soft scent of the various flavors filled the room as you arranged the treats just so. You hadn’t even noticed Ja'Marr and Tee walking towards you until Ja'Marr's voice cut through the conversation.

"You brought my favorite ones, that’s so sweet. I am gonna tear. These. Up." His grin was wide as he took in the display of your pastries while wiggling his fingers.

"Be classy, please," you teased, glancing at him, "we don’t want your neighbors thinking a wild animal moved in next door."

"Nah, it’s cool," Ja'Marr shrugged nonchalantly, glancing down to check his phone. "I think one of the neighbors just got here."

The door clicked open, and in walked a tall figure. Your breath caught slightly in your chest as your gaze followed the man’s movement. His striking blue eyes swept across the room, a faraway intensity to his expression that made it seem like he was seeing more than just the people around him. There was a quiet confidence to his posture, the kind of calm authority that made him impossible to miss. His light brown hair, a little tousled in that effortless, perfect way, gave him the air of someone who had just stepped out of a high-end catalog.

"Burrow!" Ja'Marr exclaimed, his voice shifting into an easy familiarity. "Damn...I’m really surprised you here. Didn’t think you were leaving the house for a year after your little world tour."

"We went to the same country," Joe replied, his voice steady and slightly dry. "And it was just one." He gave Ja'Marr a side hug, but the moment was strange—a quick pinky shake that made you tilt your head, wondering what it meant. Something about it felt oddly intimate.

Ja’Marr turned his attention to you. "You remember that bakery we been tellin' you about? This is Y/N, the owner. We kinda best friends now so you need to get used to seeing her around. And that's Quinn, they're a package deal."

"Nice to meet you both." Joe’s voice was smooth, but there was a slight tension in the air as he extended his hand.

You reached for it, but Quinn—who had been standing beside you—was frozen. Her eyes were wide, staring at Joe like he was some kind of myth brought to life. The words she'd been about to say caught in her throat, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to process the moment. The seconds stretched on, but she didn't seem able to move, her usual confidence wiped away by her starstruck shock.

You nudged her lightly with your elbow, snapping her back to reality. She blinked, her expression changing in an instant. “Sorry,” she said quickly, her voice higher-pitched than usual as she shook Joe’s hand. “It’s just—um—I'm, like, a huge fan. My boyfriend, too. He’s gonna lose his shit when I tell him I met Joe Burrow.”

Joe’s eyebrow raised slightly, a small, amused smile pulling at his lips as he noticed her flustered reaction. He let out a soft chuckle. "Well, nice to meet you, Quinn."

You laughed softly, shaking your head at Quinn, trying to play it off while feeling your own pulse steadily increasing. Quinn, still flushed from her sudden nervousness, was no longer frozen but her eyes were still glued to Joe, unable to hide the awe on her face.

"Okay, now that we've got that out of the way," Ja'Marr said, clearly enjoying the shift in energy. "I know you don't play about your diet but when I tell you these cakes are the best thing I've ever put in my body? I'm being serious."

Before you can roll your eyes or downplay it, the homeowner stops you. "Don't even think about it, I don't wanna hear none of that. We just need to get him to try one."

Joe grabs one with a Biscoff cookie on top and takes a bite, completely unfazed by the fact that everyone is watching. "Wow, this is. This is incredible. I get why they won't shut up about your place. This is really good."

"Thank you," you laugh softly, trying to push down the weird sense of nervousness pooling in your chest. "And thanks for breaking your strict diet to try it, that means a lot."

He nods and more people start to show up so Ja'Marr leaves to greet them and Tee grabs a few tiny cakes for himself, Quinn asking him if he wants a plate. Everyone moved on from the previous conversation but as you made eye contact with Joe, something unexpected happened—a flicker of recognition, of something unspoken, passing between the two of you. His gaze held yours for just a heartbeat longer than usual, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the room had melted away. Although you didn’t really want to, you ignored that feeling and focused on enjoying the night.

You and Quinn moved around the party, getting to know different groups of people, mingling with different players on the team, their significant others and she had to explain to you who all these people were. Of course you'd heard the names before, the buzz around the city the closer the players got to training camp and to the season actually starting. But if years in Europe had taught you anything, it was that sports fans are obsessively dedicated and somehow now you had also become an honorary Bengals fan because of Ja'Marr and Tee. And you couldn't wait to cheer them on. But right now? You couldn't wait to be home and in bed.

The exhaustion of the being up since 4:30 in the morning was continuously creeping up on you. The noise and the laughter mixing with the smells of rich food and the clinking of glasses was all becoming a bit too much after a long week of work. Your mind was constantly racing, your body tired and your spirit longed for some peace and quiet.

You slipped outside into the cool evening air, the chill of the night sky a welcome relief from the heat of the crowded room you'd successfully slipped out of. The city buzzed faintly in the distance, but it felt like a different world out here, away from the chatter and the constant movement.

You leaned against the porch railing, closing your eyes for a moment to just breathe.

The door clicked open behind you, and for some reason you knew exactly who it was. His presence was unmistakable.

“Didn’t expect you to be out here,” Joe’s voice was low, a little gruff but soft in the quiet of the night.

You didn’t answer right away, too focused on the quiet of the moment to form any words. You’d seen Joe around the party—he’d been laughing and chatting, looking perfectly at ease, but now he seemed... different. There was something in the way he stood, in the way he gazed at the horizon, that told you his social battery had run out just like yours had.

“You all good?” Joe asked after a beat, his voice a little more concerned than you expected.

You nodded, finally turning to face him. “Yeah. Just needed a minute. It’s...a lot, sometimes, you know? New city, new life, always on the go.”

Joe looked at you for a long moment, as though weighing something in his mind. “I get it,” he said quietly. “I’ve had days where I just need to...step away for a second. Guess we both needed some air, huh?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. Two people who seemed like they could handle anything, both seeking a quiet moment to themselves, at the same time. You glanced at him, noting the way his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw slightly tense. He wasn’t trying to fill the silence with empty words or forced jokes, and for that, you appreciated it.

Neither of you spoke for a while, just standing there in the cool night air, the sounds of the party muffled behind the door. For the first time, you felt the world slow down a little.

Joe shifted, and you glanced over, catching the faintest flicker of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Tee and Ja’Marr won’t shut up about you. Guess it’s my turn to see what all the hype is about."

You smiled back, the moment stretching on, neither of you in a rush to move. "Hope I don’t disappoint."

Ja'Marr had you over a few nights later to go over some film with you to get you ready for "the most important season of your life." Tee walked into the living room holding an iPad full of notes, including the presumed depth chart for week 1. Joe sat on the opposite couch, a water bottle on the table in front of him. They gave you a rundown on what everybody's role is on the team starting with Joe.

"He's QB1, you know. Heart of the team, he's our leader." The more he talked, the more it sounded like he was reciting wedding vows to his quarterback, who looked like he was bored out of his mind. You glanced over at him, but he didn’t react, just sipped his water and let Ja’Marr ramble on. You had barely spoken to him all day—just small glances here and there without taking it any further.

The same thing happened the next day. And the day after that.

Finally, you spoke up. "You're not a man of many words, are you?"

Joe barely looked up as he responded, "Depends on who it is and what they're asking." His tone was casual, but there was a weight to it, like he didn’t give away words freely. Like almost every human interaction he had was a secret interview prying into his personal life.

"Okay, well, you've attended three sessions of my exclusive Bengals 101 class, and you've barely said a word," you pointed out, shifting on the couch to face him. "But yet, every day, you're here."

"I love football," he said simply, taking another sip of water. Then he set the bottle down, finally looking at you. "And I would hate for the newest football fan of the crew to be confused in the middle of the Jungle."

"Is that what they call it? The Jungle?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at the fact that he may have just cracked a joke.

Joe gave you a half-smirk and nodded. "It gets pretty wild, Y/N," he said, standing up and patting you lightly on the back as he walked past. "You better be ready."

He always kept interactions short, never going out of his way to talk to you in group settings, refusing to join the group chat that Tee had created with you, Ja'Marr, and Quinn. Instead of treating him like an onion who needed to be peeled, you just went with it and tried to lean in and embrace his dry sense of humor.

One night, you plopped down next to him on the couch. "Hey," you said casually, tilting your head to study him. "I was just wondering—do you ever smile? Like, unprompted? Or do you just reserve happy Joe for the comfort of your gigantic house when you're alone watching SpongeBob reruns?"

Joe turned his head slightly, his lips twitching into a smirk before he quickly looked away, trying to hide it.

Too bad for him—you caught every second of it.

A few hours later, as you cleaned up after another “film session”, you caught Joe watching you from across the room. Not in an obvious way—more like he was trying to figure something out, like you were a broken play he was seeing on his tablet.

He left without saying much, as always. You figured he preferred sticking to his usual routine—keeping his world small, guarded and unbelievably predictable.

So, when you saw him on the other side of Quinn's door after days of radio silence holding several bags of food, you almost dropped the bottle of wine in your hand.

"You know, you probably shouldn't have tipped that delivery guy. He just handed me these bags when I told him I was coming up here. I could've just been some horrible person stealing a perfectly good breakup recovery meal."

"I think because you're...you know—you? He probably would've handed you anything. I’m surprised he didn't ask for a selfie."

“Oh, he did,” Joe deadpanned, shifting the bags in his arms. “I signed the receipt instead. How's Quinn?"

"Honestly? She said she saw it coming, but it still sucks. You can come in."

Before long, everyone had found a spot, the coffee table now covered in takeout containers, the aroma of fried rice and lo-mein filling the air. The soft glow of the TV flickered across the dimly lit living room as Quinn sat curled up in the corner of the couch, picking at her food while Tee animatedly recounted his worst breakup story.

“At least your ex didn’t break up with you via emoji,” Tee said, waving his fork.

Ja’Marr nearly choked on his drink. “You lyin’.”

“Bro, she deadass sent me a salute emoji and just—gone.”

Quinn let out a weak laugh, shaking her head. “Okay, that’s tragic.”

“Exactly. So if I survived that, you’ll survive this.” Tee nudged her with his elbow.

The weight in the room had started to ease, the heaviness of Quinn’s breakup quickly turned into a lighter and softer energy. You sat on the couch sharing a blanket with her, almost having to force yourself into finishing your food because it was unfortunately your first real meal of the day. Joe sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his knee brushing against yours every time one of you shifted. You told yourself it was nothing.

Every once in a while, your eyes met—quick glances during a particularly funny scene, a knowing look when Ja’Marr started yelling at the TV. He was more relaxed tonight, his usual quiet guardedness giving way to something looser, something easy.

For the first time since moving to Cincinnati, you felt it. That feeling of belonging. Of finding your people.

Quinn let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning her head against your shoulder. “I guess I’ll survive.”

“You definitely will,” you reassured her, placing your hand on hers, giving it a squeeze.

Joe shifted beside you, his voice low. “You picked a hell of a crew to stick with.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze, something unreadable in his expression.

“Could be worse,” you teased, nudging his leg slightly.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. For a second, it seemed like he might say something else—but instead, he just reached for an egg roll.

After that night, things started to shift more toward football. The usual late-night hangs became less frequent, the group chat more active with reminders about packing lists and schedules. Training camp was looming, and you could feel the weight of it, even though you weren’t the one suiting up.

One night at Ja’Marr’s, Tee stretched out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. "This is our last free weekend before camp. Y’all better soak it in.”

Quinn groaned. “Ugh. That means my social life is about to take a massive hit.”

Ja’Marr snorted. “Don’t act like we don’t have days off. We just gon be tired as hell.”

Joe wasn’t there that night—he’d taken off for a few days on his annual lake trip, something about needing to “reset.” Not that you were keeping tabs on his whereabouts or anything, but the house felt quieter without him.

Then, two nights before camp started, he walked into Ja’Marr’s house like nothing was different.

Except, everything was different.

Tee was mid-sentence when he noticed, his words dying in his throat as he squinted at Joe. “Boy, what the hell?”

Ja’Marr turned, eyes widening. "Nah. No way."

You blinked. “Did you—did you shave your head?”

Joe barely reacted, setting his keys down like this was any other day. “Yeah.”

“And bleach it?” Quinn added in, looking intrigued...and a little scared.

“Yep.”

Tee leaned forward, inspecting him like he was some rare species. “You look like a villain in a Fast & Furious movie.”

Joe smirked, rubbing a hand over his buzzed, bleach-blond head. “Perfect.”

Ja’Marr was still in shock. “Bro, what possessed you?”

Joe shrugged, completely unbothered. “Felt like it.”

You tried to stifle a laugh, shaking your head. Of course. The most dramatic change of the offseason, and he acted like it was nothing.

Quinn tilted her head, appraising him. “You know what? I don’t hate it.”

Ja’Marr ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Man, now we gotta deal with this version of Joe all season.”

Joe just grinned, casually grabbing a side salad off the counter like he hadn’t just broken everyone’s brains. Training camp hadn’t even started yet, and he was already causing chaos.

Quinn, Tee, and Ja’Marr burst out laughing, looking at each other with wide grins. "Hold up—do y'all realize what this means?" Tee pointed between them. "We all got buzzcuts now."

Ja’Marr gasped, nodding. "Oh, it’s a sign. We're about to be in sync this season. Chemistry off the charts."

Quinn snorted. "What, like you're the bald-headed Avengers?"

Tee clapped his hands. "Nah, we’re like…an Olympic relay team. Faster, stronger, better communication."

Joe shook his head, amused. "You guys are ridiculous."

"You say that now, but just wait," Ja’Marr said, stroking his chin like he was cooking up a master plan. "I'm over here manifesting greatness."

Joe just rolled his eyes, taking a bite of his food, but then he caught your expression. You were dying to say something. "Go ahead, tell me what you really think. I've heard a few. Cody Rhodes, Eminem..."

"I was gonna say a more attractive version of Jonah Hill in the 21 Jump Street flashback scenes."

Tee and Ja’Marr lost it. Ja’Marr literally had to grab the counter for support, and Tee was staggering away, gasping between wheezes. "Bro, I can see it!"

Joe stared at you, lips pressing together like he was physically restraining himself from laughing. "That’s just hurtful."

"You asked." You bit back a grin.

The chaos continued around you, but somehow, it ended up just the two of you standing there as the others got distracted by something else.

You hesitated. You shouldn’t ask. But you did.

"Why did you do it?" You tried to sound casual. "Your hair looked fine—I mean, more than fine—but… why?"

Joe leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. His lips twitched like he was about to say something stupid. Then—

"I want frosted tips."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"And I’ve never seen anyone actually look good when they just go get them, so I’m doing it the natural way."

You just stared at him. "Joe. This is the most insane way to get blond highlights, and you know it."

"Sorry you feel that way," he said, totally unbothered. "But I don’t do things halfway. Go big or go home."

He said it so casually, but the way he was looking at you? That was dangerous. The kind of look that made the room feel a little too warm, made your stomach do an annoying little flip. His icy blue eyes held yours just a second too long—long enough for you to realize that you should run for your life.

Because if you stayed here any longer, you might have to admit that you were developing a teeny, tiny, completely inconvenient crush on Joe Burrow.

August

Having a crush as an adult kind of feels like you're having a heart attack. You could be completely fine one second and then suddenly your entire being was consumed with thoughts of him so vivid it made your chest hurt.

The first preseason game was finally here, giving you the perfect excuse to focus on literally anything else. Your first tailgate was an experience, that morning of the game was by far the busiest day you'd ever experienced. Pre-orders were being picked up left and right, mini pies and cheesecakes were snatched off the shelves before 11am and the only thing that remained by the time all of you left the shop at 2pm was a lone batch of cupcakes that you ended up giving away for free at the stadium. It was easy promo.

Paycor Stadium felt like magic. A chaotic, slightly unhinged kind of magic. Fans were everywhere—some already drunk, all of them decked out in orange, fully prepared to dedicate their mental health to a 53-man roster for the next several months. You just wanted to see your friends do what they loved—well, at least two of them, since Ja’Marr was in the middle of a holdout. Or, technically, a hold-in, since he was still around the building but not practicing. You were still trying to grasp the nuances of contract negotiations, and honestly, you needed a few more Bengals 101 cramming sessions to feel more confident in your abilities to explain the situation, if anyone were to ask.

Time slowed when Joe stepped onto the field. And the stadium erupted when he threw a touchdown to none other than Tee. You swore you saw a couple of fans crying, which was kind of heartwarming but also a little funny, considering they didn’t know him personally.

Joe hadn’t talked much about his wrist injury or the recovery process after surgery, and you never wanted to pry. You figured he’d open up when he was ready. But as you watched him out there, commanding the field like nothing had ever been wrong, you couldn’t help but wonder if it had been as easy as he made it look.

He commanded the field like he commanded every room he entered. You met up with him, Ja'Marr, Tee, Quinn and a bunch of his friends from Athens along with his family to gather at his house, not only because it was the beginning of the season, but it was also a new beginning for him post surgery. The celebration was on, laughter and quiet music filling every corner of the house. You couldn't really hear it, but it had to be from Joe's never ending playlist filled with Gunna and Kid Cudi songs. People drifted in and out of conversations, drinks in hand, taking in the importance of indulging in the calm before the storm of the regular season.

At some point, you found yourself in the kitchen, away from the noise, refilling your drink. You weren’t alone for long.

Joe lingered in the doorway for a second before stepping into the kitchen, leaning against the counter beside you. His presence was quiet but steady, like he was still deciding if he wanted to speak.

For a moment, the two of you stood next to each other silently. You were perfectly happy listening to the muffled sounds of the party happening in the next room. Then, finally, he exhaled, his voice low enough that it almost got lost in the noise.

“I um—I cried last night.”

You turned to him, startled by the sudden confession. His gaze stayed on the counter, fingers idly tracing the grain of the wood.

“There were nights when I thought I wouldn’t make it back here,” he admitted. “Like, really about thought it. More than I ever have before.” He swallowed hard, jaw tightening for a second before he let out a humorless laugh. “I’ve never been afraid of failure. Not really. But this time… it was different.”

You could only imagine what that felt like—to have the thing you built your whole life around suddenly feel uncertain. To sit in the unknown and not be able to do anything but wait.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted softly, shifting so you were fully facing him. “I can’t even imagine what that must’ve been like for you.” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “But I do know I’m glad you’re here. That you made it through. And that I get to see you come out on the other side of it.”

Joe finally looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time that night, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease.

Before you could stop yourself, you sighed, "I think about failure all the time."

His brows furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

You glanced down, running your thumb over the rim of your glass. “Every single day at the bakery feels like a risk. Like one wrong move, one slow month, and it all comes crashing down. I try not to let it eat me alive, but it’s always there in the back of my mind.” You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Every day is either a risk or a victory. Some days, it’s both.”

Joe was quiet for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “I get that.”

And you knew he did. Probably more than anyone else. Maybe that was the thing about him—he understood the weight of expectations, the pressure of something you love being both the best and hardest thing in your life.

The party carried on around you, but the two of you stayed there, in the quiet.

Joe wasn’t sure when it started, but sometime after the day he met you, he’d found himself wanting to be near you. To talk to you. To hear what you had to say.

Now, standing here, watching the way your eyes softened when you spoke, he realized something that both excited and terrified him.

He liked you. He really liked you.

And when you smiled at him—soft, understanding, like you really saw him—something in his chest tightened. He was absolutely fucked. And he knew it.

The day after his ill-timed epiphany, he had to figure out a way to see you, without making it completely obvious that he wanted to see you. So he did the one thing he could think of.

"THE Joe Burrow, gracing my humble bakery with his presence?" You place a hand over your heart in mock surprise. "Did hell actually freeze over? Or did you finally crack under the pressure of living a sugar-free life?"

The quarterback looks around and shrugs, "told my parents about this place and I wanted to grab them something before they head out. What should I get? What's good here?" He laughs and you glare at him.

"Everything," Quinn interrupts before disappearing in the kitchen to go over their fall menu, "you know this."

"Well…surprise me." Joe says, when it's just you again. "You're the professional here. And I trust your opinion."

You pick out a few things, putting them in a box and handing them over to him after he tapped his phone on the tap to pay. His fingers brushed against yours on the box, just for a second. Just long enough for his slightly calloused touch to settle into your skin. He didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did you. And then, just like that, the moment passed.

Joe thanked you, turning on his heel and walking out without another glance. He told himself not to think about it. About the way your hand felt against his. About how his skin still felt warm where you’d touched him.

He spent a considerably long time staring at his palm in the car before shaking his head, gripping the wheel, and driving himself home.

September

The month came with the promise of real football. Instead, it delivered losses. Three straight. By the end of the month, they were 1-4, and the frustration was suffocating.

Losing wasn’t new to Joe—football was a game of highs and lows. But this? This felt different. This felt like clawing for air and only inhaling more water. He’d been playing pretty well but that hadn’t translated to team success so needless to say, he was frustrated.

And when Joe was frustrated, when the weight of the season pressed down on him, he did what he always did: he shut people out.

His routine became even more rigid. Early mornings. Earlier nights. Film. Practice. Ice baths. Rehab. Study. Sleep. Repeat. No distractions. No detours. Just football.

No one took it personally. Not really. This was how he was wired. How he dealt with things. But that didn’t mean you didn’t notice the way his texts became shorter, the way he started disappearing from the group chat, the way even Ja’Marr and Tee could barely get more than a few words out of him after a loss.

You weren’t even sure if stopping by was the right move. Still, you showed up at his house the day after their first win, peanut butter oat cups in hand and a ton of nerves in your stomach. You just…wanted—no needed to see him. To lay eyes on him and know he was okay.

Joe opened the door a few moments later, looking like a guy carrying a losing record on his shoulders. His hoodie was slightly wrinkled, his hair, which had already grown out tremendously, was still damp from a shower, and there was something unshakably tired about the way he stood.

But when he saw you, his posture relaxed just a little.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey.” You offered a small smile, holding out the box. “Figured you’d be on lockdown mode, so I won’t keep you. Just wanted to drop these off.”

His lips twitched like he was debating whether or not to smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” You shrugged. “But I did.”

Joe exhaled, running a hand over his face before glancing down at the box in his hand with a small smile. You were definitely going to consider this a win.

You let the silence settle between you for a moment before finally saying, “I know this is my first season actually paying attention to all this, but…I do know one thing.”

He looked at you then, a softer expression on his face as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“This season isn’t over,” you said firmly. “Not even close. I know you well enough to know you won't just give up without a fight.”

Joe swallowed hard, slowly nodding his head. He didn’t respond right away, but you didn’t need him to. Instead, you reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder—just for a second, just to ground him.

“I’ll let you do your thing,” you murmured. “I just needed to see you for myself.”

Something flickered in his expression, something almost vulnerable, but before you could place it, he sighed, releasing a significant amount of tension in his muscles.

“Come on,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I’ll walk you out.”

The morning air was cool as the two of you walked in quiet steps toward your car. When you reached the door, you turned to say goodbye, but before you could, Joe pulled you into a hug.

It caught you off guard at first, the warmth of him, the way he held onto you like he needed this moment more than he was willing to say.

And then you felt it.

The steady, rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

You weren’t sure what it meant. If he even realized how much he was giving away just by standing here, holding you like this. And as much as you wanted to say something—to push—you got in your car holding back a smile.

October

The guys were riding on a high after beating the Giants, allowing themselves to celebrate for a total of...four hours.

By the time Joe made his way to Ja’Marr’s place, the energy in the house was still buzzing. Most of the guests had gone home and it was just the core four cleaning up in the kitchen, while others made their way in and out of the house. For once, nobody was sulking over film breakdowns or injury reports. It was rare for Joe to show up to things like this—especially in-season—but a win after weeks of frustration made it easier to step outside his routine, even if only for a little while.

He kept to himself for the most part, sitting back and listening while his receivers talked over each other about plays, what went right and what they could’ve done better. But the conversation took a sharp turn when Quinn, comfortably stretched out on the couch with a glass of wine in hand, looked up and announced, “Oh, by the way, I got her on dating apps.”

Silence.

Then all hell broke loose.

“Wait, what?” Tee sat up so fast he almost knocked over his drink. “Are you serious?”

“Like, for real?” Ja’Marr leaned forward, grinning. “Ain’t no way.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Quinn smirked, pulling out her phone. “Took some convincing, but she finally caved. And now I get to be the supportive best friend who helps her swipe.”

Ja’Marr rubbed his hands together. “Hand it over. We gotta see this. Make sure ain’t no weirdos on there. Last thing I need is for you to end up on some true crime Netflix special.”

Joe stayed quiet, gripping the neck of his water bottle a little too tightly as you handed them Quinn your phone and she pulled up the profile. Tee and Ja’Marr crowded around, making dramatic noises every time they scrolled past a new guy.

“Absolutely not,” Tee muttered, swiping left.

“Oh, hell no.” Ja’Marr swiped even faster. “Why he posing like that?”

“This one’s kinda decent, though,” Quinn argued, nudging the phone toward them. “Look at him.”

Joe didn’t look. He didn’t join in on the commentary, didn’t make a joke, didn’t do anything except sit there, staring at the condensation rolling down his water bottle, wondering why there was a weird feeling sitting heavy in his chest.

It wasn’t like he had a right to feel any type of way about this. And he knew what it meant.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling it anyway no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

Between the temperature fluctuations and the sudden boom in business, your head was spinning. The bakery had never been more popular. What had started as a hidden gem over the summer had officially become one of Cincinnati’s go-to spots. Lines stretched out the door on weekends, with customers raving about the new fall menu: cinnamon swirl snickerdoodle blondies, apple cider donuts, maple pecan scones. You barely had time to catch your breath between managing the chaos and perfecting each batch, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Meanwhile, the Bengals’ season remained a rollercoaster. A solid win against the Browns gave everyone a glimmer of hope, but that optimism came crashing down when the Eagles steamrolled them by twenty. After that game, no one heard from Joe. His silent rage wasn’t unusual after a loss, but it was nevertheless, felt from miles away.

The next week, they bounced back in a big way, blowing out the Raiders at home. The scoreboard said it was a dominant win, but Joe was still visibly pissed, seen on the sidelines venting to Zac Taylor about missed offensive opportunities and a shit ton of penalties that should've been avoided. The moment went viral—clips of his animated rant flooded social media, with analysts debating whether his frustration was a sign of his competitive fire or a deeper issue brewing in Cincinnati.

That night, everyone met at Jeff Ruby’s for dinner, but Joe didn’t show. To the surprise of absolutely...nobody.

Toward the end of the night, the restaurant manager approached your table with a takeout bag in hand. “This is Joe’s order,” he explained. “He called it in, but something came up. He asked me to give it to you, is that okay?"

You hesitated for a second before nodding. “Yeah, I got it.”

It wasn’t long before you were standing outside his house, takeout bag in hand, knocking on his door. When he opened it, he looked exhausted. Not physically—no visible bruises or signs of injury—but mentally. His eyes were dull, his usual composed demeanor carrying an edge of frustration.

You gave him the bag. “Figured you should still eat.”

Joe took it with a small nod. “Thanks.”

For a second, you considered just leaving, letting him sit with whatever was weighing on him. But instead, you crossed your arms and leaned against the doorframe. “You wanna talk about it?”

He let out a slow breath, rubbing his jaw before stepping back to let you in. You followed him to the kitchen, watching as he set the bag down on the counter but didn’t open it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally breaking the silence. “I just—” He sighed. “I’m playing well, but I don’t know if we as a collective have what it takes to close out games when it actually matters. We can beat shit teams, but the moment we go up against a real contender, it’s like everything falls apart. And I hate feeling like we’re right there but just not good enough.”

You nodded, understanding the weight of what he was saying. Joe wasn’t the type to be satisfied with mediocrity. He needed to win, and not just in ways that looked good on paper. At this point, to get back on track they needed to look dominant— unstoppable. Not like kids throwing together a project at the last minute because they forgot the due date.

“I get it,” you said softly. “This is your job, your career. You don’t half-ass anything, and you don’t want to settle for middle of the pack.”

Joe’s lips pressed together, his gaze flickering to yours. “Exactly.”

He ran a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “I’m sorry for missing dinner. Just…had a lot on my mind.”

You tilted your head, a flash of curiosity taking over. “Anything besides football?”

For a second, he was quiet, debating whether or not to answer. You could see the internal battle written all over his face, his jaw tensing and flexing as he pondered the risks of honesty.

Then, he muttered, “Fuck it.”

Your brows lifted, but before you could ask, he looked at you—really looked at you—and said, “I’ve been...thinking about you.” His voice was low, steady, but you could hear the weight behind it. “More than I want to. More than I should.”

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You should’ve said something, but for once, you had no idea what to say. Instead, you took a step forward. Joe’s eyes tracked your movement, and when you didn’t pull away, he closed the distance. His hand brushed against your waist, his gaze flickering to your lips, leaning in ever so slightly—

“Yo, have you seen my phone charger?”

Ja’Marr’s voice shattered the moment like glass.

Joe immediately stepped back, cursing again under his breath as Ja’Marr walked into the kitchen, completely oblivious to what he had just interrupted.

Your entire face was on fire and you were sure your heart was seconds away from bursting out of your chest.

Joe looked like he wanted to murder his best friend.

November

Neither of you brought up what almost happened. Maybe because neither of you were sure it should have happened. Or maybe, deep down, you were both afraid of what it would mean if you admitted that it did.

So, instead, things carried on like normal—except they weren’t normal at all.

Joe still came by the bakery, though now he had a habit of showing up under the guise of casual excuses. Like when he walked in one morning, a familiar water bottle in hand, and placed it on the counter in front of you.

“You left this at my house,” he said, completely straight-faced. “Wanted to make sure you’re staying hydrated.”

You blinked at him, then down at the bottle—one of many you’d undoubtedly left behind at places far more inconvenient. “You drove all the way here for…this?”

Joe shrugged. “Seemed important.”

Quinn made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. You didn’t have to turn to know she was giving Joe a look—one that said she saw right through him.

Still, nothing was said.

The two of you danced around the elephant in the room for 17 days. Then came the bye week, and as fate would have it, or your own personal hell, you ended up at Joe’s house, standing side by side in his kitchen as you baked a pumpkin pie together. The whole thing came randomly, he mentioned in passing that it was his favorite and he was spending his entire bye week on the couch so naturally you came up with a solution. Nobody else was free so it just ended up being you and him. Of course.

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg, and warm sugar, the scent pulling you into your natural element. This was your Paycor Stadium, your stage. R&B played in the background, filling the comfortable silence as Joe rolled out the pie dough with slow, concentrated movements. The counter was dusted with flour, the remnants of your work scattered across the surface.

"You’re pressing too hard," you murmured, stepping in behind him. You placed your hands gently over his, guiding his movements. "You want it even, but not overworked."

Joe huffed out a breath, the warmth of his chuckle brushing against your cheek. "So what you’re saying is, I’d be terrible on a baking show?"

You grinned, your fingers brushing against his as you both worked the dough. "I’m saying, there's some room for improvement for sure."

Joe turned his head slightly, just enough for his blue eyes to catch yours, his expression hard to read but there was a certain glimmer in his gaze. You didn’t move away. Neither did he. This was how it had been for months now—a quiet understanding, an unspoken closeness that had slowly built between you. It was in the way he showed up to your bakery with your favorite coffee, the way you memorized his weekly schedule, the way he looked for you after every home game, his gaze scanning the crowd in the player guest section postgame until he found you.

The pie crust was ready now, but neither of you were ready to move to finish it.

Joe’s hands lingered under yours, his thumbs lightly grazing your knuckles. "I like this," he admitted after a moment, his voice low. "Us. Doing this."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Me too."

It wasn’t just about the pie, and you both knew it.

You helped him move the dough into the pan, your fingers brushing again, sending little shivers up your spine. The pumpkin filling sat ready in a glass bowl, waiting to be poured, but Joe seemed far more interested in you. His eyes traced over your features, cataloging every detail as if he was afraid he’d forget them.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

Joe shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"About?"

He exhaled slowly, rolling his lips together as if debating what to say. Then, instead of answering, he reached out to touch you, his fingers trailing down to your jawline, resting there a smidge too long. His movements were gentle, almost hesitant, as if he was giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t. You couldn't.

The space between you evaporated, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss so delicate, so achingly tender, that it stole the breath from your lungs. It was slow, unhurried, as if he was trying to memorize the feel of you against him. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you let yourself sink into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. The warmth of his body, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with vanilla extract—it was intoxicating.

Joe deepened the kiss, a quiet desperation laced within it, months of lingering glances and fleeting touches culminating in this moment. You felt his hesitation fade, replaced by something raw and real, something neither of you could ignore any longer.

But then he pulled away.

And you saw it—regret, creeping into his expression before he even said the words.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “This was a mistake.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Are you serious?”

Joe exhaled, looking anywhere but at you. He was still standing somewhat close but his hands weren’t on you anymore, making the temperature in the room instantly feel like it had dropped 20 degrees. Even the expression on his face was a little colder than before. “I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

Your heart was pounding, anger curling hot in your chest. It was the only thing fueling you and keeping you warm. “I think it's a little too late for that. Joe, things have already changed. These past few weeks—hell, these past few months—we’ve been dancing around this. We’re not in fucking high school. Just tell me the truth.”

You took a step closer, forcing him to face you. To look at you. “Do you honestly have no feelings for me?”

Silence.

Then, finally—too quiet— “I don’t.”

You flinched like he’d slapped you.

Joe must have seen it because he let out a heavy breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just—overwhelmed. The team is losing, and I’m playing the best football of my life, and I just—I can’t add another thing to my plate right now.”

You studied him for a long moment, jaw tight, hands clenched at your sides. Then, finally, you nodded.

You stared at him, waiting for him to take it back, to say something—but he didn’t. He just stood there, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the floor like he was hoping if he didn’t look at you, this would all just go away.

“You’re such a coward.”

Joe’s head snapped up, but you were already shaking your head, anger and frustration crashing into you all at once.

“You are so stuck in your own head,” you continued, voice sharp, unrelenting. “You keep everyone at arm’s length so you don’t get hurt. So you don’t have to admit that you actually feel things like a normal human being. You’re not some heartless football machine, Joe. You don’t have to live, breathe, and die this sport 24/7 to be fulfilled.”

You took a step forward, forcing him to face you, forcing him to hear you. “And you can stand there and act like this isn’t real, like there’s nothing between us, but I know there is. And you do too. Maybe it’s new, maybe it’s always been there, but I’m not stupid. At least I didn’t think I was.”

Joe’s jaw tightened, but he still said nothing.

And that? That pissed you off even more.

You scoffed, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you turned on your heel, grabbing your things off the counter. “If you want to pretend none of this is real, then fine. I won’t fight you on it.”

Joe didn’t move. He didn’t stop you.

You lingered for half a second, hoping—praying—that he’d snap out of it. That he’d reach for you, say your name, give you anything.

But all he did was stand there, motionless, watching you go.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head one last time before you reached for the door.

“Don’t burn my pie,” you muttered, then stepped outside, slamming the door shut behind you.

December

Joe told himself, over and over, that he’d made the right decision.

That pulling away had been necessary. That it was better this way.

But as the weeks passed, the reality of it settled in like a dull, persistent ache in his chest. The group dynamic wasn’t the same anymore. Quinn was firmly on your side, and Tee and Ja’Marr were caught in the middle, trying their best to act like everything was normal when it clearly wasn’t.

You only hung out with them if Joe wasn’t going to be there, and eventually, he stopped showing up altogether. Left the group chat, too, because what was the point?

So, yeah. He told himself this was what he wanted. That it was for the best.

Then one day, the night before his birthday while the Bengals were in Dallas, his house was broken into.

It was everywhere. The footage of the smashed window. The grainy security cam stills of showing the inside of his house. The headlines dissecting every detail—what was stolen, how much damage was done.

For a second—just a fleeting, stupid second—he thought maybe you’d reach out.

But you didn’t.

And why would you? It wasn’t your place anymore.

You were moving on. Meeting new people.

Like Cory.

Sweet, mature, honest-about-his-feelings Cory.

More than Joe could say for himself.

Joe wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

At all, really.

But when he overheard Tee and Ja’Marr talking about you, about how you’d been going on several dates with some guy named Cory, he couldn’t help but listen.

“Seems like a good dude,” Tee said, scrolling through his phone. “Takes her out, treats her right.”

“She actually looks happy, too,” Ja’Marr added. “Not whatever the fuck that was with Joe.”

Joe rolled his eyes, slamming his locker shut. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Ja’Marr turned to him, unimpressed. “It means you fumbled, bro.”

Tee nodded. “Big time.”

Joe exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He wasn’t in the mood for this. But they weren’t letting it go, so he told them. Everything. The kiss, the fight, the way he let you walk away because he was too caught up in his own head to admit how he really felt.

By the time he finished, Tee and Ja’Marr were looking at him like he was the dumbest man alive.

“You fumbled twice,” Tee corrected.

“She’s moving on,” Ja’Marr added. “And from the sound of it, dude’s actually putting in effort. You had your chance.”

Joe didn’t respond, just sat there, feeling more irritated by the second. He told himself he didn’t care.

The restaurant was dimly lit, the soft hum of jazz playing in the background as you swirled the last bit of your wine in the glass. Across from you, Cory was smiling, eyes warm and excited in a way that made you feel a little guilty. He was sweet, thoughtful, and easy to be around. The kind of man that you bring home to your parents and settle down with. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was easy. There was no tension, no unsaid words, no history thick enough to make the world stand completely still for a minute.

You were on your fifth date now, and even though you liked him, you knew deep down you weren’t feeling it the way you were supposed to.

“I, uh—I actually got something for you,” Cory said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Well, it’s more of a surprise, really.”

You set your glass down, watching as he pulled out a sleek envelope and slid it across the table toward you. “Go on, open it.”

You hesitated before peeling it open, your heart practically stopping when you saw what was inside. Two tickets to the game—Bengals vs. Broncos. A must-win. And VIP passes for the postgame meet-and-greet.

You felt like the wind had been knocked out of you.

“I wasn't snooping in your house or anything but I did see a Bengals cup in your cabinet the other day. But you never really said anything about being a fan?” Cory said, clearly proud of himself. “i don't know, I figured you might like it. And hey, you can finally meet some of the players.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. You swallowed down the instinct to refuse, to make up an excuse, to say absolutely the fuck not. But what reason did you have? To Cory, there was nothing complicated about this—just a thoughtful gift for someone he was getting to know.

You forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Wow, Cory. This is...really sweet of you.”

“So, you’ll come?” he asked, his grin widening.

You nodded, the weight of your own decision pressing against your chest. “Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “I’ll go.”

And just like that, you sealed your fate.

Admittedly, it was their best game of the season. A win in OT, a Tee touchdown to keep their playoff hopes alive, and all the players riding on a high of a multiple game win streak. A month ago, you would've been celebrating right along with them. But tonight you really needed to get through this meet and greet without throwing up. And without blowing your cover. If nothing else, this was Cory's opportunity to have a once in a lifetime experience and the last thing you wanted to do is ruin that.

And then you saw him.

And Joe saw you with...him.

He saw how the guy next to you couldn’t wait to shake his hand—Joe thought it was a joke. Thought maybe this was some kind of sick cosmic punishment for all the terrible decisions he’d made in the last few months.

You looked good, unfairly good in your jacket and Bengals beanie, one that Tee had given you and Joe felt his irritation morph into something else entirely.

You weren’t even looking at him.

Cory, meanwhile, was beaming. “Man, it’s so cool to meet you. You played great tonight.”

Joe barely managed a nod, jaw tight.

Cory didn’t seem to notice the tension thickening the air, but you did.

And when your eyes finally met Joe’s, there was something there—something that made his pulse jump—before you quickly looked away.

Yeah. Joe was pissed.

The moment Cory got distracted meeting some of the other players, shaking hands and taking pictures, Joe saw his chance. He stepped toward you, lowering his voice.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You scoffed, folding your arms over your chest. “Attending a football game, in the city I live in. Apparently that's a crime now.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then be more specific," you bite out.

Joe exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. “Him? This?” He gestured vaguely in Cory’s direction. “Really?”

Your expression hardened. “Yes, really. He’s kind, honest, actually says what he feels instead of hiding behind excuses and—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “You know what? No. I don’t owe you an explanation. I don't owe you shit.”

Joe clenched his jaw. “So that’s it? You’re just—what? Moving on like none of it mattered?”

“Oh, now you want to talk about it?” You whisper yell. “You didn't have anything for me when I asked you, remember? All you could do was look at the floor like a freaking idiot. It was crickets and now you have the nerve to ask me what this is? You don’t get to do this, Joe. You don’t get to push me away, call me a mistake, then act like you suddenly care when you see me with someone else.”

He stepped closer, voice low and tense. “You know damn well I care.”

You swallowed, blinking up at him, and for a second—just a second—Joe thought you might let your guard down. That you might admit there was still something there.

But then you shook your head. “If you actually cared, we wouldn’t be having this conversation here. We actually wouldn't be having this conversation at all. I would've been here, with you. Not looking for pieces of you in another guy, a perfectly nice guy who just wanted to meet the freaking Bengals today. So if you don't mind, I'm gonna go meet Tee Higgins and Ja’Marr Chase...for the first time.”

Joe didn’t know what to say to that.

So you left him standing there, walking back toward Cory with a smile, pulling him in for a hug like Joe wasn’t just barely holding himself together.

January

Exactly seven days later, while Cory was over watching the game with you, Joe took a hit and stayed down. This time you were hanging on by a thread, on the inside. On the outside, you shoved some popcorn in your mouth and sipped on ginger ale, hoping the bubbles would bring your heart back to its rightful place instead of where it currently resided...in your stomach. You didn't know if he had a concussion but he definitely looked out of it, missing throws he usually made and the Bengals escaped Pittsburg by the skin of their teeth, securing a two point win on the road, their destiny up to chance. Ja'Marr called you in the locker room after the game to tell you he needed you at the watch party for good luck in praying on the Dolphins and the Broncos downfall. You told him you'd think about it, part of you didn't mind being in the same room as Joe, especially after you caved and watched his postgame press conference to make sure he wasn't lying about being concussed. Maybe the two of you could be cordial with each other and leave the past behind.

You woke up on the couch with NFL Network still on tv. Something about it felt embarrassing, because it felt right. Months ago you were watching an introduction to football PowerPoint and now you'd regularly catch yourself having football withdrawals. Just as you were ready to call it a night, turning off the tv and mentally preparing yourself to head to your room, you heard a knock at the door. Who could possibly be coming over at 2 in the morning?

You stood frozen in the doorway, gripping the edge of the door like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your stomach dropped—hard and fast—like missing a step in the dark. Joe was standing there, still in the clothes you had seen him wearing during in his postgame press conference. His hair was a mess, the shadows under his eyes deeper than usual. He looked exhausted. But that wasn’t what made your breath hitch. It was him. Here. Now. After all this time.

“Joe.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “What are you doing?”

He exhaled heavily, a far away look in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

You crossed your arms, trying to steel yourself, ignoring the way your pulse was racing. “You don’t know? What do you mean you don't know? You just drove around after you landed and magically ended up here?”

“I don't know, I just—I couldn’t go home. Not without seeing you.” He swallowed hard, eyes flickering over your face like he was searching for something, anything that might give him an answer. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but when I got on the plane, all I could think about was you.”

Your heart clenched painfully. Damn him.

“You scared the hell out of me tonight,” you admitted before you could stop yourself. “Watching you go down like that—” You shook your head, gripping the fabric of your hoodie. “I hated it.”

His eyes softened, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you. “I know. Can we just—can I come in?”

You stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in around you.

“Joe.” You sighed, your resolve crumbling at the sight of him standing there like that, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in.

“Please,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just for a minute.”

And against your better judgment, you stepped aside.

Joe ran a hand over his face and took a shaky breath. “I don’t even know what the fuck I was thinking on that play, the pocket collapsed so fast I didn't even have time to throw the ball away. And when I hit the ground, all I could think about was you.” He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Not football, not the game, not the playoffs. You. And how I’d fucked everything up so badly that you wouldn’t even reach out. That I wouldn’t get a chance to apologize.”

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your expression unreadable.

“I’m so, so sorry. I was a coward,” Joe admitted, his voice breaking. “I am a coward. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be in control—of my game, my career, my emotions. It's kind of my thing. And you…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You fuck all of that up for me. The way I feel about you scares the living shit out of me.”

You blinked, stunned into silence.

“I’m not some heartless football robot,” he continued, his voice raw with emotion. “I’m a man who’s been terrified to feel anything real because it means I can’t control it. And when I’m with you, it’s real. It’s been real for months, and you were right. About everything. I was too much of a fucking idiot to admit it.”

Your heart was pounding, your breath shallow. You wanted to believe him—God, you did—but you couldn’t just let him walk back into your life like he hadn’t wrecked you before.

“I need you to give me a chance to fix this,” Joe pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Please.”

You swallowed hard. “Joe…”

“I swear to you,” he interrupted, stepping closer, his hands almost reaching for you before he forced himself to stop. “I promise, I will prove to you that I’m not that coward anymore. Just… just say you’ll let me try.”

You studied him carefully, searching for any sign of doubt, any hesitation. But there was none. Only raw, unfiltered desperation and a kind of vulnerability you had never seen from him before.

Your walls were still up, but something inside you cracked. Just a little.

“You have to earn me this time,” you whispered.

Joe nodded instantly. “I will.”

After a hard conversation with Cory in the morning, you decided to attend the watch party the next day to test the waters. And to see your friends all in one place again. The atmosphere in Joe's house had shifted from tense to comfortable, a soft kind of warmth that had been missing for a while. The room was still, save for the quiet hum of the television, which was showing the Broncos slowly dismantling the Chiefs, much to the frustration of everyone else in the room. Joe had been quiet for the most part, lost in his thoughts, but you could tell he had already come to terms with the inevitable.

You weren’t sure if you should be relieved or sad about the Bengals missing the playoffs, but you did know one thing: it didn’t feel like the end for you and Joe. Not anymore.

The room had cleared out, the others heading to their respective homes after the game, leaving you and Joe alone. The snow outside had started to fall heavier now, creating a peaceful stillness that you couldn’t help but love. Joe seemed to notice the shift in the air as well, his eyes softening as he glanced over at you.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His concern was still there like that first night he found you outside the housewarming party, that need to take care of you even now.

You nodded, even though there was a part of you that was more uncertain than you wanted to admit. “Yeah. Just…just thinking.”

He leaned back against the couch, eyes flicking to the window as the snowflakes danced in the cold air. “You want me to drive you home? It’s getting pretty bad out there. Or, you could stay? Only if you want to."

You hesitated for a second, a small part of you wanting to avoid the drive, to stay with him just a little longer. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—like he was sure this time. Like there was no more running. “I think…I think I want to stay,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze.

Joe didn’t need any more convincing. He pulled you in close to him on the couch, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as he let out a slow sigh. “I’m really gonna miss football," he murmured. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do with you, so I guess I’ve got some time now. I messed up before. I’m not messing this up again.”

You smiled, the weight of the past few weeks lifting off your shoulders just by being close to him. “I can’t wait to put you to work, 6am at the bakery tomorrow morning. And the next few mornings. For a while.” you teased, your voice barely audible.

Joe’s eyes darkened for a moment, a quiet promise in his gaze. He cupped your face gently, leaning in with a tenderness that took you by surprise. When his lips met yours, it was slow, deliberate, as if he was savoring the moment. A kiss full of unspoken apologies, solidifying what was to come, and the quiet declaration that he was willing to do whatever it took to make things right between the two of you. Even if some of that ended up with him getting covered in flour for the foreseeable future.

You didn’t pull away. In fact, you melted into the kiss, your heart swelling in your chest as his hands slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place like you were exactly where you belonged.

He pressed one more slow kiss to your lips before his eyes flicked to yours, searching. “So… does this mean our friendship over?” His voice was low, careful, but there was something else there—hope, maybe.

You didn’t even have to think about it. You let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking your head and running your fingers through his hair. “Absolutely. It’s dead and gone.”

Joe exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head before reaching for you, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Good,” he murmured, tugging you closer. “Because I really didn’t want to be your friend anyway. Got much bigger plans in mind.”

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Currently thinking this will have like 5-7 parts?

The sheets didn't smell like Max anymore. Colette had changed them over a week ago.

She ran her hand over the empty space next to her, the sheets cool to the touch. Empty. Alone. 

Colette wished Max was there. That she could simply turn around and he would be there. But he wasn't. 

Bébé took that moment to kick her bladder and she sighed as she pushed herself to sit up. 

The sun was lower on the sky an she knew that she must have napped at least a few hours. "Bathroom and then we can see what we'll have for dinner," she suggested to the baby.

She got an answering kick in response that made her snort. 

After taking care of her business, she made her way to the kitchen, feeling a rumbling in her stomach.

To her surprise, Colette wasn’t alone in their apartment. "You do know that I am adult, right?" she asked her mother and her oldest brother drily as waddled into the kitchen. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, probably busy with his actual job. "I can be left alone. Chances are I'll just go back to watching reruns of Real Housewives this evening," she said drily.

Neither of them laughed at this. She looked up from opening the fridge to see their...very serious expression. Colette paused, a cold feeling of dread worming its way into her stomach. Something was wrong, she could tell by their expressions. "What?" she asked, closing the refrigerator door.

Was something wrong with Max? With Cha?

She had never outright believed in the whole idea of twin telepathy or anything like that...but Charles and her had this...thing. If something was really wrong with each other...they could feel it.

And she couldn’t feel anything…not like that, not right now.  

"Did...did something happen to Max?" Colette asked shakily, almost afraid of the answer. Her mind instantly went to the worst-case scenario. "Is he...okay?"

Her mother and brother traded a glance, which did nothing to calm her nerves. "Max is fine," her mother promised her. "Why don't you sit down, Choupinette?" This also wasn't calming her.

"Enzo?" Colette asked, her voice shaky.

"Nobody is hurt or dying," Lorenzo promised her quickly. "It's...complicated."

Colette nodded, lowering herself into a seat at the kitchen island. Her heart was still racing, palms a bit sweaty.

"Complicated how?" she asked, her voice a bit hoarse.

"I would like to preface this by saying that Arthur didn't...think this through," Lorenzo said with a grimace.

Colette's eyes widened in disbelief. "Arthur...what did he do?" she asked immediately. 

"He may have posted that post you made on your stories in his," Lorenzo said carefully.

Colette's jaw dropped open in shock. "He...he WHAT?!" she nearly shrieked, hands gripping the edge of the table.

What? How could her brother do this? How could he...

That ill-thought out post she had made...with a Taylor Swift lyric that she had thought was cute...to her less than 200 followers that all knew about her and Max anyway…

What? How could her brother do this? How could he...

Colette's hands were shaking now as she tried to process what her brother had done. "Are you serious?" she finally managed to whisper.

And now it was  out there. For EVERYBODY TO SEE. Everybody. Everybody could see her post about Max. Everybody could see her saying that Max came straight home to her.

They had spent 15 years keeping their relationship a secret. And now...now there they were.

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to calm the panic that was welling up inside of her. "Oh god...oh god," she muttered, her mind racing.

"People are going to see that. Max's fans are going to see that," she whispered, her stomach clenching. "Oh god, they're going to see it and figure things out."

Her mother reached out, placing a calming hand on her arm. "It's okay, Choupinette," she said gently. "It's going to be okay."

Colette shook her head. "No, it's not," she said, her voice shaky. "How could Arthur do this? He knows...he knows that I didn't want anybody to know," she whispered, tears biting in her eyes. She wasn't even sure what to do. She wasn't even sure what to think.

Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, worry, frustration...and anger. So much anger at her brother, for not thinking, for not asking first, for not considering the consequences.

"How could he just... do this?" she said again, her voice cracking.

Lorenzo tried to come closer, but she held up a hand to stop him. She didn't want his touch, not right now. "Arthur should have asked me before doing something like this," she said, her voice shaking. "He knows...he knows that Max and I...we keep our relationship private."

"I...I need some space right now," she choked out, pushing her chair back and standing up. She had to get out of here, get some air.

She left the kitchen, leaving her family behind.

She found herself in the living room, collapsing onto the couch, her hands covering her face as tears streamed down her cheeks.

She couldn't believe what her brother had done. 

And now...now it was out there. Their secret, Max's secret, their life...everything.

She tried to take a deep breath, tried to calm down, but she couldn't. She was angry, hurt, scared…

Their relationship...it had always been a safe space to Colette. 

Somewhere where she could just be herself. With Max, she felt loved and safe and quite frankly, spoiled rotten by his attention. She didn't need to think about what she said, she could just be comfortable. And nobody had an inside look into that relationship that she didn't want to. They had admitted it to people over the years, to friends and colleagues and family members. But to the public they had never been connected beyond Colette being the twin sister of one of Max's biggest rivals. 

She had liked her anonymity. Had liked that nobody paid her a second look on the street. That nobody even thought twice about her.

Her role could just be Charles and Arthur's supportive sister. Nothing more, nothing less. Max knew that she loved him, that she supported him in the privacy of their relationship. It wasn't something she needed anybody else to know.

But now it was out there.

Colette buried her head in her hands, letting out a soft sob. It was out there, and it couldn't be taken back. No amount of damage control, no amount of apology was going to take those words back.

She could already see the headlines in her head: “Max Verstappen’s secret girlfriend”

It was so much worse than she had expected. The idea of being exposed like this...it made her want to crawl under a rock and hide for the rest of her life.

Colette didn't want to deal with the media circus, the gossip, the speculation. She didn't want to deal with any of it.

She didn't want her life to be dissected. She didn't want everything to be picked apart.

But that's what was going to happen. The vultures were going to descend, the media was going to hound her, her inbox would be filled with requests for comment and statements.

She was going to be the topic of everyone's conversation, speculation, and judgment.

She wanted to cry, scream, and throw something simultaneously.

She didn't ask for this, she wasn't built for this.

She wanted her anonymity, her simple life, her relationship to be private. That's all she had ever wanted...was that too much to ask for?

But now it was all in jeopardy, because her brother wasn't able to keep his mouth shut. She knew that he hadn't done it to hurt her...he had just been a idiot without a brain. But that didn't make the situation any easier for her.

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to gather her thoughts.

But now it was gone. The secret was out, and there was no turning back. She was going to be under the microscope, every move she made, every word she spoke, every expression on her face would be analyzed and scrutinized.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Colette leaned back against the couch, feeling the weight of the situation crashing down on her. 

She had always known that Max's life would come with a certain amount of spotlight and media attention, but she had never expected to be dragged into it.

She had always been in the shadows, quietly supporting him from behind the scenes, but now she was being thrust into the bright light of the media spotlight. And she couldn't help but cry her eyes out about it.

She let the tears flow, feeling the sobs rack her body. It was too much, all too much. She was exposed, vulnerable, and raw. And she had no idea how to handle it.

"Choupinette," her mother said softly, sitting down besides her.

Colette barely registered her mother's presence, too consumed by her own despair. But she felt her mother's hand on her shoulder, gentle and comforting.

She buried her face in her mother's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her mother just held her, stroking her hair and whispering soothing words of comfort. "It's going to be okay," she promised. "I promise, it's going to be okay."

"Maybe it won't even be so bad," her mother tried to comfort her. "It will blow over. You do love Max and he loves you."

"It was going to get out sometime," Lorenzo said quietly. "It was question of when not if, Colette. It was a miracle that you were able to keep it quiet for so long."

This only made Colette cry harder.

She hadn't wanted anybody to know. She had wanted privacy. She had wanted…

She had wanted it to just be her and Max, living their life together, without any outside interference.

She knew it was foolish to think that it could last forever, but a small part of her had hoped.

Now it was going to be ruined. And it was all because of her stupid brother and his impulsive behavior.

She didn't want the attention. She didn't want the speculation, the questions, the accusations.

All she wanted was Max.

She wanted him, his warmth, his soft reassurances, his quiet love. She wanted him with her and just to curl up in his arms. Where she could forget everything else and just be.

But she couldn't do that. The truth was out there now, and there was no way to erase it.

She was Max Verstappen’s girlfriend, the public knew, and there was nowhere she could hide from it.

And that thought terrified her more than anything else. She didn't know how to handle the public eye, the media interest, the gossip. It was like a massive wave that was about to crush her, and she had no life raft to hold onto.

She leaned closer into her mother, feeling like a child again. The sobs continued to rack her body, and all she could do was hold onto her mother's comforting embrace.

She didn't know what to do, she didn't know how to handle this.

***

This was the last fucking news Max wanted to hear before qualifying. The absolute last.

He loved the Leclercs. He did. He loved Colette’s family like his own. And he loved her brothers like his own. 

But this was making him absolutely furious with Arthur. 

And he would have liked to destroy his driver’s room in a fit of rage, but he wasn’t going to do that. He was not going to let his emotions get the best of him. 

Not when he understood where Arthur was coming from. Even when he hated the way he had gone about it. 

Max had half a mind to simply throw the towel. To give up. What did it matter anymore? He had won his 4th World Championship title…Red Bull wasn’t in the running for the constructor’s championship anymore…that was between Ferrari and McLaren… so did it matter? 

Wouldn’t he be more useful at Colette’s side? 

But he knew that if he asked her…he knew what her answer would be. 

She wouldn’t stand for it. 

She knew that he wouldn’t forgive himself for this. He wanted to win. It was in his DNA. It wasn’t in him to leave things unfinished. 

She would tell him to do it. To finish that race. And then to come straight home to her. 

But it was hard, especially when he knew that the media was going to be all over this. The vultures were going to be circling, waiting for any slip up, any moment of weakness. 

It wasn't like he cared if his and Colette's relationship became public. He was content with screaming it from every rooftop. He would happily post his beautiful girlfriend on his Instagram daily. He was more than willing to take her to some charity gala and kiss her in the view of every camera that was there...but he knew how important it had always been for Colette.

And now she was exposed, without warning and without even knowing. 

Max wanted to find her brother and wring his neck for this. How could he be so careless, so thoughtless?

He knew how important Colette's privacy was to her, how much she valued it. And now it was gone. Just like that.

Colette wanted to keep a low profile. She was more than happy to be the always supportive sister to her brothers, to cheer them on from the sidelines...and she herself was happy to work in her mother's hair salon, and dabble at playing the piano and violin…and content to simply be.

He had always loved that about her…how happy she could be with the most simple of things. 

Colette didn’t enjoy the spotlight, she preferred the shadows. And now she had been thrown into the whirlwind of media attention.

He knew that she wasn’t going to handle this well. 

And he was seriously considering throwing the towel. 

To say fuck it all and go back to Monaco. 

His father didn’t want to hear a single thing about it.

Jos had never really approved of Max's relationship with Colette. He thought it made him weak, he thought Max needed to focus on racing, not on some girl… but Max had been stubborn.

Colette was everything to him. Colette’s place in his life was not something they were going to argue about it. It was set in stone. 

 And so, through the years his father had realised that Colette was there to stay. 

And he may even had started to respect her place in Max’s life, realised that her presence calmed him and focused him in a way nothing else did…Realised that Colette was good for Max. 

And even for his relationship with his father. 

Nowadays…they got along better than they ever had and quite frankly they had Colette to thank for that. She had softened his father with her calm, gentle and yet incredibly stubborn nature, unwilling to take any of his bullshit and willing to call him out on it, constantly.

Still, Max wanted to get to Colette. He wanted to hold her, to reassure her that everything was going to be okay eventually. He wanted to place a hand on her swollen belly and feel bébé rumble underneath her skin…wanted to see that everything was alright with her and their baby. 

“You have a job to do,” his father said drily. “Colette isn’t alone. She has her family with her.”

Max didn't answer, just clenched his jaw.

He knew his father was right, he had a job to do, a race to focus on. But the thought of leaving Colette to deal with that by herself…it didn't sit well with him.

“She’s pregnant,” he hissed. “You want me to care about a race while my pregnant girlfriend is an ocean away, distraught, because our relationship just became public knowledge?!” Max asked sharply.

His father scowled.

“She has her brothers and her mother with her,” he repeated sternly. “I’m sure they can calm her down and make sure she’s taken care of in your absence. But the team needs you to focus on the race. Besides…It ha​​s been a long time coming…”

He knew he had a job to do. He had a race to focus on, a team that was depending on him to be at the top of his game. It was his job to win, no matter what was going on at home.

“Fine,” he gritted out, turning around to leave the room. “I’ll focus on the damn race.”

He took a deep breath, trying to push all thoughts of Colette out of his mind. He needed to focus. He needed to push aside his emotions and put his game face on.

He was a professional and he had a job to do.

He could deal with driving.  He could deal with managing a respectable 5th place on the grid in Qualifying…he couldn’t deal with the press afterwards.

He was surrounded by reporters, camera flashes and microphones. They were all firing question after question at him, shoving the microphones closer and closer to his face.

"Max, is it true that you and Colette Leclerc are in a relationship?"

Max clenched his jaw, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face. He didn’t want to give them any ammunition, anything they could use to try and dig deeper into his personal life. But he knew he couldn’t ignore the question either.

“I don’t see how my relationship status is relevant to the race,” he snapped back. “I’m here to talk about the race, not my personal life.”

They happily ignored that: “What’s Charles’ reaction to your relationship?”

Max clenched his jaw again, the anger starting to boil over. He hated this, the way they felt like they had the right to just poke and prod at his life like it was some kind of spectacle for them to enjoy.

“I’m not discussing my personal life,” he repeated through gritted teeth. “I’m here to talk about the race.”

But the reporters weren’t interested in the race. They were only interested in the juicy gossip of Max Verstappen dating Colette Leclerc.

More microphones were shoved in his face, more questions were asked, each one more invasive than the last.

“How serious is your relationship with Colette?”

“Are you engaged?”

“What did you think about what she posted on Instagram?“

“I think that Colette’s Instagram account is private for a reason,” he said tightly.

The reporters fell silent for a moment, surprised by the harsh tone. Max knew he was skating on thin ice, but he didn’t care. He was angry, frustrated and upset. He wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner to just brood and worry about Colette in peace.

“I think that George overreacted about something that was posted on a private Instagram profile that has less than 200 followers. ” Max bit out. “There is a difference between posting something for your friends and family to see and complaining about this to the press when George knew it would be put all over the media.”

The reporters were stunned into silence at his outburst.

Max knew he had crossed a line. He knew he shouldn’t be snapping at them like that, but he couldn’t help it. He was so frustrated and upset, and he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He knew he had to reel it in before he said something he would regret even more. “I have already lost all respect for George Russell before, but he has crossed a line when he dragged this into the public sphere,” he said flatly.

The reporters' eyes widened, surprised by the ferocity of his words.

Max knew he was being harsh, but he didn’t care. He was furious, enraged. How dare Russell expose their private life like that? 

Max took another deep breath, trying to calm himself. But it was hard. The anger was like a living thing inside him, seething and burning. He wanted to storm over to the Mercedes garage and punch Russell in the face, to wipe that smirk off his face for good. But he knew he couldn’t. 

So he stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to keep the anger at bay. Trying to ignore the way the reporters were looking at him with greedy, excited eyes.

He knew they wanted him to explode, to lash out. They wanted him to go off the rails and say something even more incriminating. Something they could use to make more headlines. But Max couldn’t give them that. He couldn’t let them get a rise out of him. So he stood there, trying his best to remain calm and collected.

But it was hard. So goddamn hard.

He could feel the tension in his body, feel the anger and frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. He wanted to do something, to take action and make the situation right. But he didn’t know what he could do, how he could make it right.

He didn’t know how he could fix the mess that had been made, how he could turn back time and undo the damage that had been done.

"Do you have any questions about the race tomorrow? Because otherwise I am done," he asked.

The reporters stood there for a moment, frozen in shock. Then, a few of them started to ask questions about the upcoming race, but Max could tell that their hearts weren’t in it. They were too distracted by his outburst, too eager to keep prodding at the sensitive issue of his relationship with Colette.

The reporters looked at each other for a moment, unsure whether to press him further or not. Max could see the wheels turning in their heads, could see them trying to decide whether they would press the issue or let it go.

Eventually, the more sensible reporters began to ask questions about the race, steering the conversation away from the minefield of his personal life.

[corroded-hellfire]

https://www.tumblr.com/corroded-hellfire/743622480481107968/reading-ayw-things-has-me-thinking-about-eddie-and

I loved this request! To add on the baby fever, but this has a little bit of sadness, when baby Eliza looses that newborn baby scrunch, meaning that she's no more a newborn and she's growing. I was loosing it when my cousin did this (we're like 5 years apart)

For those unfamiliar with the newborn scrunch: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTLFYCP6t/

THE NEWBORN SCRUNCH! It is the cutest of cuteness. I can't even imagine how I'm going to feel when I someday have a baby and they stop doing this lol. Probably react like Reader, ngl 😂

Warnings: Mom!Reader, Dad!Eddie, Eddie should get kneed in the balls for suggesting having another baby so soon after Reader giving birth

Words: 1.2k

“Well, good morning my little cutie pie.”

Eliza gazes up at you from her bassinet, her little legs kicking within the confines of her pink teddy bear footie pajamas. 

“Morning, sweet pea.” Eddie comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder as he smiles down at your infant daughter. 

“Ready to get up and start the day?” you ask, fighting back a yawn. Eliza has gotten on a more consistent sleep schedule, but you’re still nowhere close to your preferred eight hours. “Babe, can you grab an outfit for her?”

“Sure thing.” Eddie barely takes two steps towards the door to head across the hall to the nursery before hearing you whimper. He immediately spins back around and takes in the situation with wide eyes. “What? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

You’re still facing the bassinet, Eliza held out in front of you. Eddie can see the baby hanging from your grip, her eyes going over your shoulder to squint at her father.

Slowly, you turn to face him, hugging Eliza to your chest. Eddie sees the tears building up in your eyes and comes to your side.

“Hey, what is it?” he asks.

“S-She…” You sniffle and shake your head, unable to vocalize it. Her soft downy hair tickles your cheek as you cradle her. “She didn’t do the scrunch.”

Your husband’s face pinches up into a confused frown. His eyes slide to the left, then right, trying to figure out what the hell you’re talking about. 

“The…scrunch?” he asks. 

“The scrunch!” you whine. “The newborn scrunch!”

By the petulant tone of your voice, Eddie is pretty sure that you would’ve stomped your foot on the ground like a child if you weren’t holding your baby. The look on his face clearly conveys that he has no idea what you’re talking about because you sigh and continue to explain without any further nudge.

“You know how when you pick her up her little legs pull up towards her chest? Like she’s curling in on herself?”

“Oh,” Eddie says as it dawns on him. “Yeah, yeah, now I know what you mean.”

“She didn’t do it when I picked her up.” The wobble in your voice is clear and noticeable even before Eddie sees your bottom lip trembling. “She’s not my newborn anymore.”

“Of course she is,” Eddie says, placing a hand on the middle of your back and rubbing soothing circles there. “She’s only six weeks old.”

“She's already six weeks old!” you cry, the tears finally falling free past the lash line. 

“Aw, sweetheart.” Eddie chuckles, not unkindly, as he uses his thumb to wipe your tears away. 

“S’not funny,” you mumble, gently resting your head against your daughter’s.

Strong, warm arms wrap around you from the side, and you’re pulled up against a solid frame. A few soft kisses are pressed to the side of your face.

“I’m not laughing at you, baby,” he coos. “I think it’s cute, though.”

“Cute that I’m emotional over our baby growing up?” Your voice is harsher than you intended, but Eddie knows you don’t mean any harm by it. All of your hormones are still out of whack from pregnancy and giving birth. 

The end of her scrunch is just the first sign of her growing up. Suddenly you see her walking, saying her first words, going to her first day of pre-school, learning to ride a bike, having her first relationship, going to prom, graduating high school. The cherry on top is her packing up the car to head to college. More tears sting the back of your eyes at the thought. All of a sudden, her mere six weeks seem like a flash in the pan. 

“I think you’re cute,” Eddie amends. “Eliza’s still our newborn, though. She’s going to get stronger, and her little habits and cues are going to change, but she still needs her Mommy and Daddy for everything. Hell, I don’t think the boys could survive without us, either.”

Logic doesn’t always help even out the emotions, but your husband’s attempt does break through the surface. With a soft sniffle, you nod your head in agreement. Of course, Eliza is still your newborn and completely dependent on you. It doesn’t mean that you won’t have the same emotional upheaval when she can hold her head up on her own for the first time, but it’s comforting right now. 

Eddie has been doing a great job of letting you be a first-time mom and have all the emotions and experiences that go along with it, but sometimes his experience of having had two babies already helps ground you. 

“You’re right.” You exhale a deep breath and nod your head. “But I am still going to miss the scrunch.”

“Guess we’ll just have to have another one then, huh? Since you’re going to miss the scrunch,” your husband teases.

Slowly, you turn your head and give him a playful glare. The doctor just gave you the okay to start having sex again. The thought of pushing another baby out of your poor aching body is enough to threaten Eddie with never having sex again. 

“When you give birth, we can have all the babies you want,” you say.

Eddie laughs and presses a few kisses against your hair.

“Deal. Alright, let me go get her some clothes.” Eddie gives your side a loving squeeze before heading out into the hallway.

“Daddy’s right,” you say to Eliza as you gently rock her. “You’re still my new baby girl. I mean, look at these little fingers!” You offer her one of your index fingers and her fist instinctively curls around it. A smile grows on your face as you lift her small hand to your lips and press quick kisses against her knuckles. 

“Babe?” Eddie says as he grabs onto the bedroom door frame and leans into the room. “Where’s her yellow polka dot onesie? The one with the pink buttons.”

“Hmm?” You look at Eddie over your shoulder before turning to face him properly. “Oh, I packed it away a few days ago. She doesn’t fit into it anymore.”

Eddie frowns as he lets go of the doorframe and takes a few stumbling steps into the room. His messy bedhead sways with the movement.

“What?”

“Yeah, the buttons wouldn’t stretch to snap shut anymore,” you tell him.

A harsh sigh makes you look up at your husband. He crosses his arms over his chest and it’s a frighteningly similar look to when Luke is told he can’t have cookies before dinner. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“That was my favorite outfit of hers,” Eddie huffs.

You try your best to hide a smile, but biting your lip can only do so much. Now you realize what Eddie meant when he called you “cute” moments ago. Your husband’s pouting is currently rivaling Eliza’s adorableness. 

“It’s okay, Eds,” you tell him.

“How many clothes did you pack?” he asks, coming closer to you.

“A bunch of newborn ones that are too small now.”

“Eliza,” Eddie whines. He rests his chin on your shoulder and reaches around you to grab her tiny foot. “Why you getting so big? Stop growing up.”

It’s impossible for you not to chuckle at his words. Oh, how the tables have turned. 

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.5

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluff, i’m really in love with this, if you guys have more ideas for this series tell me :D

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your baby girl stands up for you just like her daddy

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The exhibition was yours, a surprise Rafayel had organized in secret. A sprawling, ocean-themed gallery titled “Muse in Bloom”, filled wall-to-wall with pieces you never even realized he’d finished. Every canvas whispered a different part of your life: the way your silhouette looked in morning sun, the softness of your hands holding sea glass, the quiet glow of your laughter beneath the stars.

Rafayel, dressed in a pale, high-collared shirt that made his eyes seem even stranger than usual, put was leaning lazily against a glass column, sipping something coral-colored, deliberately letting his hair fall in that effortlessly messy way. His expression was unreadable, as always.

But all attention was on the real star of the show: your two-year-old daughter. A tiny thing in a puff-sleeved white dress, her purple curls bouncing as she proudly waddled through the gallery with the pomp of a seasoned hostess. She was practically glued to your side, one chubby hand always gripping the skirt of your dress.

People cooed at her as they passed, the resemblance was uncanny: her mismatched eyes gleamed just like Rafayel’s, but softer and warmer, and when she frowned, it was a perfect miniature of his trademark unimpressed stare.

You’d barely made it to a painting of you resting on a seashell throne when it happened.

A man, an overly talkative critic type with round glasses and a too-loud laugh, walked over, gesturing flamboyantly at the piece.

“Oh, how quaint! He’s really leaned into the whole ‘ocean siren housewife’ thing, hasn’t he? Honestly, the saccharine domesticity is almost a parody—”

He didn’t even get to finish his sentence.

From below, a small voice rang out like a warning shot.

“Don’t say mean things about Mama.”

Your daughter had positioned herself between you and the critic like a tiny guardian lioness. Her arms were crossed, her cheeks puffed up, and her tone was deadly serious in the way only toddlers can manage.

“She’s not a pwetty shellfish,” she declared with a tiny stomp, “She’s Mama Queen. And Papa painted her ‘cause he loves her so much and she’s soooo sparkly.”

A pause. Then she turned to you and added solemnly, “You sparkle way more than mermaids, Mama.”

Gasps of adoration echoed through the gallery.

Rafayel, who had silently approached during the commotion, tilted his head and regarded the man coldly.

“…Normally,” he murmured, setting his drink down, “I’d do the slicing. But seems I’m being upstaged tonight.”

The critic quickly stammered an apology and made a swift exit.

You bent to scoop your daughter up, kissing her flushed cheek as she wrapped her arms around your neck like a protective koala. She sniffed proudly.

Rafayel trailed a finger under your chin and whispered with a wry smile, “She’s already better at public relations than Thomas.” Then, with a more amused tilt, “But I’m going to need you to tell her to stop stealing my lines. That smug little head tilt she did? That’s mine.”

Your daughter, still snuggled in your arms, glanced over at him and stuck her tongue out.

“…Definitely mine,” he added under his breath, glowing with the kind of secret fondness he reserved only for the two of you.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The gala was immaculate, an event hosted in Zayne’s honor for his recent surgical innovations, drawing in elites from all across Linkon City. Chandeliers glowed like constellations overhead, and a full orchestra played softly as servers moved in practiced synchronicity.

You stood beside Zayne, your hand nestled in the crook of his arm, draped in a custom dress he had personally commissioned and altered to your figure. He hadn’t let anyone else near the fittings. His glasses caught the light as he dipped his head to quietly murmur something dry and affectionate in your ear.

But your other arm? Occupied by a much smaller escort.

Your two-year-old daughter stood at your side like an adorably serious bodyguard in her tiny formal dress—a deep green number with a satin bow that matched her hazel eyes perfectly. Her black hair had been combed neatly (by you, Zayne refused to let anyone else touch it) and clipped with a velvet ribbon. She looked exactly like her father, down to the faint frown of concentration on her little face as she clutched a plush toy Zayne had “absolutely not” won at the Claw Machine but secretly had.

The three of you were picture-perfect: intimidatingly elegant and quietly untouchable.

Until someone touched.

A woman, a young socialite known for her family’s hospital donations and worse for her gossip, sauntered up and gave a too-long glance down your dress, then at your wedding ring. Then, very sweetly:

“Oh, this is the famous wife? You’re… certainly prettier than I expected. No offense, I just thought you’d be more… distinguished, for someone married to a man like Dr. Zayne.”

You blinked once, stunned.

Zayne had already turned, fingers twitching at his cufflink, hazel green eyes narrowing behind his glasses in that terrifyingly calm way, but your daughter beat him to it.

She stepped forward like she’d been rehearsing the moment for weeks. Plush toy dropped. Chin raised. And in her softest, deadpan voice:

“Are you always this boring?”

The woman blinked. “I—”

“Because Mama said we don’t talk to boring people. They get wrinkles faster.”

Then, quieter, eerily Zayne-like:

“…And Papa said if someone’s rude to Mama, they don’t get to be in the next gala photo. Or the next gala.”

Zayne, standing at full height behind her, didn’t even try to hide the amusement flickering across his otherwise impassive expression.

The woman flushed a shade too deep to recover from, muttered something about needing air, and all but fled.

You bent down, scooping your daughter into your arms, trying not to laugh into her ribbon.

“You’ve been listening to Papa again, haven’t you?”

She gave you a solemn little nod, pressing her nose to your cheek. “Mama’s too sparkly. I protect.”

Zayne finally stepped close, slipping a hand around your waist as he looked over his daughter with a small, approving nod.

“…Efficient delivery. Cold stare. Minimal emotion. I’m proud.”

Then, softly to you, “You know I would’ve ended her faster, though.”

Your daughter squinted at him. “No. I win.”

He looked at her.

She looked back.

You stood between them, watching your stoic husband and your deadpan toddler have a full silent battle of pride and pettiness.

“…God help me,” you sighed, “I’ve married myself into a generation of assassins in dress shoes.”

Zayne leaned down to kiss your temple with the barest smile, murmuring against your skin, “And yet, you glow like it’s the happiest mistake you’ve ever made.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The annual Deep Space Hunter Association Gala was nothing short of otherworldly. it shimmered with translucent panels, suspended gardens, and starfields projected beneath a glassy floor. You stood at the center of it in a custom gown Xavier had chosen, soft pearl white, almost glowing under the lights, with lilac gems woven into the bodice like scattered constellations. He’d said it reminded him of how you looked when he first saw you in the starlight.

Your two-year-old daughter clung gently to your hand, wearing a tiny layered dress of violet and silver that almost matched your own. Her long, silvery hair had been half-pinned with a moon-shaped clip, and her sleepy blue eyes were locked on you like a little satellite, unmoving, vigilant, and completely unimpressed by the pomp of the gala.

She looked exactly like Xavier. Same expressionless stare. Same otherworldly softness. Same unnerving stillness when she didn’t want to be touched.

And just like her father, she was terrifyingly observant.

You were in the middle of a quiet conversation with an Association chairwoman when a young pilot, fresh from some flashy mission, swaggered over with a glass of bluefire in one hand and way too much ego in his voice.

“So you’re the famous wife,” he said, eyeing you with a grin that had no place at a gala this elegant. “No offense, but I thought Xavier’s girl would look a little more… well, dangerous.”

Xavier, standing behind you, blinked once. That slow, unreadable blink that always came right before he uncoiled.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Because your daughter, who had been holding your skirt with one chubby hand, walked forward slowly. Silently. Her tiny soft-heeled boots made no sound. She stared up at the man with her blank blue eyes and expressionless face.

Then, in the calmest, quietest voice imaginable:

“…My Papa sleeps with his eyes open.”

The man blinked. “What?”

She tilted her head.

“He doesn’t talk first.”

The man laughed nervously. “Uh—okay?”

She stepped closer, tugged on his uniform coat with the tiniest fingers, and said with chilling softness:

“If you’re mean to Mama again, I’m gonna tell him to wake up.”

Pause.

“…Then you go where the bad stars go.”

Dead. Silence.

Xavier, entirely unbothered, knelt beside her. “That’s not true,” he said softly, resting a gloved hand on her head. “You don’t have to tell me to wake up.”

Then, still with that deadpan expression:

“I was already listening.”

The pilot quietly excused himself.

You knelt to kiss your daughter’s forehead, heart full. “Where did you learn to say that, sweet pea?”

She pointed vaguely at Xavier. “He say it to scary man last week when he touched Mama’s dress.”

You looked at Xavier.

He blinked once. “Technically true.”

She nodded, satisfied, and then promptly asked for a nap snack.

Later that night, you’d find her fast asleep in your lap on the skystation balcony, curled up in a throw blanket as Xavier sat beside you with his head against your shoulder, one eye lazily open, fingers curled protectively around both of yours.

“…You made a terrifying little moonbeam,” you whispered with a grin.

He murmured, “She’s just like you.”

You blinked. “How?”

“I loved you first. She just loves you faster.”

𝙎𝙮��𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The ballroom was dripping in blood-red roses and gold light, your daughter’s second birthday, and somehow, Sylus had turned it into an elite spectacle that looked more like a coronation than a kid’s party. Crimson banners detailed with crow motifs framed every arch. Live string musicians played a refined arrangement of a lullaby she liked. The cake was a sculpted castle surrounded by edible glass ravens.

It was supposed to be her party.

But everyone in the room knew this wasn’t just a celebration.

It was a statement.

Sylus had invited only the most powerful, wealthy, and influential people, politicians, weapon developers, media barons, and you. You, the centerpiece. You, his beloved wife and queen, dressed in a cascading black-and-crimson gown he commissioned weeks in advance. You were glowing. Loved. Untouchable.

And beside you, your two-year-old daughter sat in her high-backed velvet throne, legs swinging lightly, curls pinned back with the tiniest red brooch to match yours. She looked like Sylus had split in half and handed you the softer one.

…If by “softer,” you meant deadlier at knee height.

Because just as you were thanking a weapons diplomat for the gift he brought your daughter, some absurdly expensive robotic pony, he turned to you and, in a too-casual tone, said:

“You look lovely tonight, though I must say… motherhood’s softened you. I imagine you’re far less fiery than when Sylus first—”

He didn’t get to finish.

There was a sudden thud.

Your daughter had launched herself off her throne.

And now she stood at his feet, glaring up with the most chillingly Sylus expression possible on a toddler. Red eyes narrowed. Tiny fists balled.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t need backup.

She just hissed:

“Don’t say ugly things about my mama.”

The man blinked, laughing awkwardly. “Oh—I didn’t mean it like—”

“You did.”

She pointed her tiny finger up at him like a dagger. “You’re not on the list anymore.”

Pause.

“…What list?” he asked, visibly sweating.

She tilted her head, voice eerily soft:

“The safe one.”

Behind you, you felt Sylus lean against the balcony doorframe, watching the scene unfold with immense amusement. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even looked up from the little raven-shaped wine glass in his hand.

“Darling,” he drawled, “you’re losing your touch.”

You turned and raised a brow. “She beat you to it.”

Sylus sipped lazily. “I didn’t want to ruin her party by making someone disappear. But she—”

He gave his daughter a look of genuine pride.

“She just revoked diplomatic immunity like a proper little empress.”

Your daughter returned to you, lifting her arms expectantly. You picked her up, and she buried her face in your shoulder.

“…I don’t like people who say mean things to you,” she mumbled.

You kissed her cheek. “You’re just like your Papa.”

From behind, Sylus chuckled darkly.

“No, no,” he murmured, stepping in to wrap his arm around you both. “She’s much worse. You trained her to love… I’ll train her to conquer.”

You: “She’s two.”

Sylus, smug: “Exactly. Peak learning age.”

Your daughter, now calm in your arms, tilted her head toward the man who’d insulted you and said flatly:

“You can leave now.”

And he did.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven Fleet Hall gleamed under rows of white lights, cold, clinical, and full of rank. It was a formal gathering: a high-level Fleet recognition ceremony. Uniforms stiff with medals. High-ranking officers and their spouses standing around crystal platters. A raised platform lined with flags of the outer countries. You stood beside Caleb near the front, his gloved hand resting lightly on the small of your back, always possessive, even when subtle.

You wore a flowing purple gown, picked by him, of course, that matched the accents on his ceremonial uniform. The room watched the two of you like you were on display: Colonel Caleb, Skyhaven’s strategic prodigy, and his soft, stunning wife.

At your feet, your two-year-old daughter clung to your leg, wearing a miniature version of your dress, tulle, silk, and a tiny military brooch clipped to the front like a toy badge. Her hair was a perfect dark brown halo and her eyes, Caleb’s piercing violet, scanned the crowd with a toddler’s serious judgment.

She was glued to your side. That had always been the rule.

But then it happened.

One of the wives of a Fleet officer leaned over toward another cluster of guests with a little too much wine in her system and just enough arrogance. She let her eyes wander to you.

“I mean… she’s beautiful, sure,” the woman said in a voice that carried. “But it’s obvious she married up. Colonel Caleb’s status is what makes her shine.”

It was a whisper meant to wound.

You flinched slightly, not at the comment, but at the feeling that immediately radiated from beside you.

Your daughter had heard it.

And she was already moving.

Before Caleb could turn, before the temperature could even drop into his usual cold-blooded “Colonel” tone, your toddler marched across the polished floor. No hesitation. No fear.

She stopped directly in front of the woman and crossed her arms.

“You’re mean,” she said, clear and high-pitched but fierce. “And dumb.”

The entire room paused.

“My mama’s pretty ALL the time,” she went on, cheeks puffed out in indignation. “Papa says so. Every morning. And every night. Even when she’s sleeping.”

The woman blinked, startled. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did,” she snapped, tone sharp enough to cut glass. She raised one tiny finger. “You talk like that again, and I’ll push you off the sky island.”

Gasps. Silence. A clatter of someone’s fork hitting the floor.

You were about to move, about to scoop her up and calm things down, but Caleb got there first.

He stepped beside his daughter and looked down at the woman, expression unreadable. No smile. No warmth.

Just a dangerous glint in those violet eyes.

“…I’d listen to her,” he said coolly, gloved hand resting lightly on his daughter’s head. “She may not have my rank yet… but she’s definitely got my judgment.”

The woman went white.

You caught your daughter’s hand and gently pulled her back to you. She turned into your skirt like nothing had happened, resting her face against your thigh again with a happy little hum.

Caleb leaned into you, voice low near your ear.

“She’s fast,” he murmured. “I was just about to use my Gravity Evol.”

You gave him a look. “She beat you to it.”

A small smirk played at his lips. “That’s our girl.”

And from her position wrapped around your leg, your daughter mumbled:

“Next time I’ll push harder.”

[uchinagai]

Echoes of Us - winter

𝜗𝜚 idol!Winter x producer!reader

𝜗𝜚 synopsis : Winter just wanted a peaceful global solo debut with the help of another company, 88rising, but of course, the universe had to nerf her with worse luck, or not…

𝜗𝜚 contains : idol! winter, producer ex !reader, fem!reader, wlw, mentions of a messy break-up, kind of angsty but gets better!! um yeah idk what else to say

𝜗𝜚 w/k : 1.5k+

𝜗𝜚 a/n : English is not my first OR second language so please, ignore anything incorrect. js a random idea I wanted to write about nothing too big >.<

The conference room felt suffocating despite its size. She tapped her pen against the table—a small, futile attempt to keep calm as the 88rising team finalized her debut plans.

How long has she been wishing on this? God knows. One might say she has wanted to be solo since her debut. So having her artist name—Winter—without Aespa attached to it made her feel funny and giggly inside.

Well not for long, because not only was the producer she was assigned to unknown and hid their artist name, not even taking credit sometimes, but they were late too.

Very late.

The conference was about to end when the staff, who was sent in instead of the producer attending, got a message and looked down at the phone letting out probably the biggest sigh of relief.

“She’s gonna be in here 5 minutes, can we manage to stretch it?”

She?

Winter's manager looked down at the clock and nodded.

“We have a full day today, Minjeong has no schedules,”

It was obvious, that the person they sent in to replace her, was clueless about most of the things. She couldn’t answer anything related to the producer's working ethic and how long it would take her to finish up the project.

It was when Winter glanced towards the door when it opened, revealing a beautiful figure of a woman, in her 20s entering the room causing Winter the forget how to breathe.

Not only was the woman beautiful but also… familiar, way too familiar to her liking.

As she sat down next to her replacement, also across from Winter, the girl almost felt nauseous.

The familiar scent hitting her nose brought back many memories, such as holding and kissing a person with this scent.

As the person across her settled down on the chair, taking off the cap, Minjeong heard a small *click* in her head, putting everything together.

She wasn’t just gonna work with anybody, she was gonna work with y/n l/n.

The ex.

Well, how did this all begin??

Let’s divide winter's 4 years of training into three parts.

Two years of being friends with y/n

Almost dating y/n for two years

y/n l/n vanishing from her life without a word.

y/n managed to erase herself from Minjeongs life like she never existed, if the rest of the Aespa didn’t know y/n personally they would think Minjeong was crazy and making up lies about her imaginary girlfriend that made her life worth it all.

It’s been 4 years now, and has the younger one moved on? She thought she did before seeing the girl appear right in front of her like they spoke just yesterday, all chill and relaxed. 

Did she plan this all out? Just reappearing into her life as her producer four years later after being ghosted?

Blonde felt sick to her stomach, everything was coming back to her and all she could do was stare at the girl in front of her, frozen.

As the staff finally managed to give y/n all the information she missed, she looked across her table, seeing the stunned girl in front of her.

“Minjeong?”

The same sweetness filled with worry rang Winter back to reality as she shook her head a little, maybe she was imagining it all, but no. The girl in front of her stayed at the same spot, looking at her with worry.

As much as she was happy seeing her, she felt just as sick and disgusted.

“I-i can’t–” is all she could mutter out before storming out of that room where barely any natural light setting in.

Older watched her storm off as she sighed and excused herself calmly getting up from the chair.

Y/n knew the SM building well enough to know where the shorter girl would run off, so calmly, she approached the bathrooms on the 4th floor, which in winter's words were the cleanest ones.

Knock once. Twice. No response.

The door was unlocked so y/n let herself into a sight of winter leaning onto the sink, water on. Face visibly wet which meant she splashed herself with it.

“No hello?”

“Don’t bullshit me y/n”

“Woah sorry me, trying to lighten the mood up”

“Lighten the mood? You’re four years late for that.”

“Still sassy as ever, hm?”

“What do you want? Did you take onto this job on purpose to make it a living hell y/n?”

“I took on a job offer from SM ent. For Winter of Aespa because I missed Minjeong.”

She shorter one bit on her lower lip, suppressing a smile, why was she folding so easily to someone that ghosted her for four years? She didn’t know. 

Winter removed her hands from the sink and approached the taller one, keeping a distance.

“Missed Minjeong so bad that you couldn’t think of a reply to her countless messages for four fucking years, l/n?”

“Guess you can say that,” Producer shrugged leaning against the door frame with a smirk as the idol scoffed at her audacity.

“Don’t bullshit me”

“Fine, then let’s say your company knew our little relationship, didn’t want me to debut with you guys and I didn’t wanna debut either so we came to a mutual agreement.”

Winter couldn’t believe her ears. She knew y/n like the back of her hand and she could always tell if she was lying by the way she avoided eye contact, or how she fidgeted with her hair or body part, but this time it was none.

“So that’s it then? I was just a ‘mutual agreement’ for you?”

y/n reached out her hand, trying to run her hand through blonde hair, like she would when Winter needed comfort after a long day of training. But she was four years late to comfort her, four years late to tell her ‘you can do this’, so of course, the idol refused and slapped her hand away.

“Hey now,”

“No, y/n. You can’t just show up in my life that I worked so hard to build and keep it after you just..-” she was tearing up, the lump in her throat was holding her back. y/n always knew how to crumble the walls she built. Like when y/n just effortlessly got a confession out of her and started dating just like that. Her wall was long crumbled when she breathed her scent after four years.

“I get it Minjeong, I do, why do you think I kept my name hidden all this time? Because I wanted to be ‘mysterious’? Bullshit. It was the only way SM would take me, not knowing me. The 88rising team has been going feral, trying to secretly set up a collab with you for me.-”

All Minjeong could do was watch the way y/n moved her lips up to her eyes, searching for a small bit of lie for her to point out and call her a liar but she couldn’t, older was sincere, which broke her even more.

“--I’m sorry for leaving you in this cruel industry, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you when you needed me the most!”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Wha-”

And she felt the familiar cherry-flavored lips mixed with salty tears land on hers, shutting her instantly.

Winter’s lips moved against hers with an urgency that wasn’t just longing—it was pain, anger, and frustration all tangled together. It didn’t feel like out of love to y/n, but it didn’t matter her Minjeong was kissing her.

But as much as she wanted to melt into the kiss, into her, Y/n pulled back gently, resting her forehead against Winter’s. Her breath came out shaky as she whispered, “Jeongie…”

The younger girl opened her eyes, her gaze locking with Y/n’s. They were glassy and red, but there was still fire in them. “Don’t. Don’t say my name like that. Like you still care.”

Older wrapped her arm around her, resting her head now onto her shoulder, snuggling to her like a leach as younger didn’t pull her away, and going as far as wrapping her arms around her neck securing her.

“You know I do, Jeongie… I always cared,” she mumbled against the singer's neck.

“You wouldn’t leave me like that if you did, y/n…”

“Jeongie, you had your dreams and I was gonna hold you back, you know it. I was gonna hold back the star that shines on the stage today and I didn’t want that,”

Winter couldn’t think of anything. She was too drunk to hold her close, so she closed her eyes. So they stayed like this for a while, enjoying each other's embrace after four years of longing.

“You missed me, hm?”

“Missing you doesn’t mean I forgive you, y/n l/n,” Said the shorter one and pulled away from her, while keeping her hands on her shoulders.

“Tomorrow, don’t forget, we still have music to make,”

She said with a giggle and just ran out of the bathroom, causing y/n to laugh at her childish behavior.

“Jeongie!!” the producer chased after her as their running and laughter filled the SM ent building hallways, just like the old days.

Maybe there was still hope…

[thistlecatfics]

Talking about Incest in Public

(both the painful traumatic kind and the hot fictional kind)

As it turns out, lots of the people who read and write taboo fiction have survived some deeply fucked up shit. After talking about incest with other survivors on the Moon, Sun & Stars discord and answering questions, I decided to share more about my experiences and the things that helped me survive and the things that helped me heal, because there are a lot of us, and a lot of us feel very alone, and maybe there are other people who aren’t incest survivors but who might want to know more to better support the survivors in their life.  

–

Incest is not just a sexual act between two family members -- it's a larger system of absence of boundaries within a family, and it's almost always part of multiple incestuous dynamics, even if only one might be the obvious or explicit dynamic. 

If you’re an incest survivor, you’re almost certainly not the only one in your family. 

-

“The true characteristics and dimensions of incestuous abuse have been masked by the taboo and silence that have surrounded its occurrence. Recent research demonstrates that incest occurs regularly in our society, perpetrated by individuals who, for the most part, would otherwise be regarded as fairly normal. The taboo on incestuous relations is a deterrent to some would-be perpetrators but not to others. The taboo contradicts the reality of incest prevalence, a fact which led Armstrong (1978) to comment that th taboo has been on the open discussion of incest and not on its perpetration.”

-Christine Courtois, “Healing the Incest Wound: Adult Survivors in Therapy” 

–

To use my family as an example - 

My (similarly aged) brother did sexual things to me as a kid, and I had a range of reactions to it including pleasure and enjoyment. And confusion. And fear. I do not think he is bad or even what he did was bad. I think we were both two kids who existed in a family with incestuous dynamics, and we were both shaped by those dynamics and trying our best to survive. 

From a young age, I existed as a physical comfort object to my mom (when she was sad she'd get into my bed to hold me until she felt better while I dissociated), and I took on the idea that my role in the family was for my body to be used to make other people feel good. The sexual behavior by my brother felt like an extension of how my mom held me. 

My mother was the victim of incest from her uncle, and her parents sided with her uncle over her when she spoke out about it (even after he was facing legal consequences for his behavior with kids outside of the family) (even after he fled the country). She didn't know how to emotionally regulate herself, and I don't think she had (or has) the capacity to understand a child's need for physical autonomy and boundaries because her own were never respected. 

There were other incestuous behaviors and dynamics within my family which I'm continuously discovering and unpacking. I think my mom’s uncle abused my grandmother too but I’ll never know for sure. It’s deeply uncomfortable to look back on a happy family story or a childhood nickname and see something sinister underneath and wonder if you’re being paranoid or if it’s actually that bad.  

–

Things that have helped: 

Long term relational therapy (5+ years). EMDR. Adopting a cat. Adopting more cats. Antidepressants. Reading about incest (realistic, terrifying, academic). Reading about incest (fictional, hot, amateur). Being a competitive athlete. Getting a graduate degree. Going on long walks late at night. Telling my family I had Covid so I could skip a family vacation. 

These books specifically: Healing the Incest Wound by Christine Courtois, The Myth of Normal, Dissociation Made Simple, Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents, The Narcissistic Family Unit, Clementine Morrigan’s writing x1000. 

The protector parts: Eating disorder. Self harm. Drinking. Perfectionism. Depression. Suicidal ideation. I’m grateful to these imperfect protectors I’ve leaned on over the years. 

Things that have not helped: 

You will be shocked to hear that people on the internet yelling about how people who find fictional incest hot are disgusting and bad and dangerous did NOT in fact help me unlearn the belief that experiencing incest made me disgusting and bad and dangerous. Luckily, I’m built of spite. But it certainly did not help. 

(If I think about my vulnerable pre-teen/teen self reading those things, I become deeply angry. How dare you hurt her in the name of protection.)

- I don’t cater to all these vipers Dressed in empath’s clothing God save the most judgmental creeps Who say they want what’s best for me Sanctimoniously performing soliloquies I’ll never see

-Taylor Swift, But Daddy I Love Him

-

After I discovered fanfiction in middle school, and then after I realized that there was a world beyond OFC/Draco Malfoy fic, I read a lot of Blackcest. I devoured any I could find, hopping through rec lists on LiveJournal. 

Reading Blackcest fics, first Bellatrix/Sirius then Sirius/Regulus mostly, allowed me to see my experiences reflected. Those fics gave me a way to contextualize my family and my role in it. I hate the expectation that kids who experience bad things should go to a safe trusted adult rather than find art that romanticizes their experience. The whole point is that there isn’t a safe trusted adult. The whole point is that I needed the art. I got to hold the romanticized narrative until I got far enough away that I could put it away in a box until I had enough therapy that I could safely open the box and build a new, more honest story. 

Obviously plenty of people love incest smut and fic and art. It’s taboo! It’s angsty! It’s a classic! Probably most of those people don’t have direct personal experience with incest in their families. I’m glad they read and write fics too. 

But for me – have you ever experienced something you believe so strongly you will never be able to say aloud? That any time you see your secret referenced it’s in shock and disgust and revulsion? You can pretend – you’re very good at pretending – but you know it’s real, and you know it’s your secret you’ll hold onto for the rest of your life while the world reminds you how disgusting you are? 

Then you find that people are writing about what you experienced in a thousand variations that all contain some nugget of your truth.

I cannot express in words how important it was that I found those stories at that time. 

I never commented on a single fic. I never made a single account on any of the sites I read fanfiction on. I clicked the “yes I’m 18” box without hesitation every time. I wish I could go back in time and have my adult self articulate the enormity of my gratitude for each and every author who helped save me whose work exists on sites I can only revisit with the Wayback Machine. 

I understand why people might feel horrified at the idea of a 11-12 year old reading smutty incest Harry Potter fanfic. People aren’t wrong for feeling that way. 

That said, I truly don’t care what people who aren’t incest survivors think.

I’m so proud of that child for finding a way to survive. She might have hated herself, might have fantasized about death, but she survived and kept the truth of her experience wrapped up in a fictional world where it could be safe to explore and kept it there until years and years of therapy made it possible to engage with it in reality. 

- I’m a real tough kid I can handle my shit They said, babe, you got to fake it till you make it And I did

-Taylor Swift, I Can Do It With a Broken Heart -

No one is writing about incest the way Clementine Morrigan is right now. I’m so grateful for her. I’m not sure this little tumblr post would exist without her essay series. 

"Incest functions as a spell of unreality. A structure of nothingness. A completely normal and unremarkable family life in which something unnameable is ominously and terrifyingly wrong. You know in the summer when you can see the heat making the air go squiggly? Imagine those squiggles as an indication that in the seeming nothingness, there is something there. Incest is like that. Subtle, pervasive, unthinkable, unnameable. But present, felt.

As a teenager I came up with this metaphor: Imagine you are in a house full of bugs. There are bugs crawling all over all the walls and all the furniture and in your food and even on the fork you are lifting to your mouth. And you feel disgusted, you feel like something is really wrong. But your whole family is acting completely normal, laughing and eating and talking as bugs crawl over their faces and into their mouths. When you tell them you think there are bugs in your food your family says it’s just pepper and not to worry about it.

There is no way to talk about incest without feeling that you are lying. This is because incest lives in the realm of unreality and everything in the realm of unreality cannot be thought or said or named. When you speak of things that happen in the realm of unreality it will always feel like a lie and be treated like a lie. You are breaking the fundamental rule. You are not allowed to talk about what goes on in the realm of unreality because it isn’t real."

Read more and pay for her writing if you can on her substack.

-

Without a doubt, the not-explicitly-sexual incest from my mom fucked me up more than the explicitly sexual incest from my brother, but I only feel confident claiming the incest survivor label because sexual stuff was done to me by a family member, and I still feel like I’m lying sometimes because it wasn't bad enough to count. 

I’m a literal mental health clinician who can map out various incestuous dynamics within my family and who has clear memories of a family member doing sexual stuff to my child body, and I still feel like I’m lying. 

I believe you if you feel like a liar because I bet you do. I believe you if the incest never included anything directly physical. I believe you if you enjoyed it. I believe you if you don’t remember but feel like it’s true. 

I love us. 

If we’re monsters, I love our courageous monstrosity.

If we’re liars, I love the way we make up stories to survive when reality is impossible. 

If we’re an uncomfortable truth, good. 

-

It still impacts me. I’m not over it. 

It’s very difficult for me to imagine love that does not include violation. To be loved and to be allowed to maintain a self. 

But I’m open to learning otherwise, and that openness is new. 

-

I was so, so good at living in unreality. I could make myself perfect, such a flawless object until I couldn’t think of anything except killing myself, but even then I still maintained the image of perfection my family expected. 

It’s cool I never actually killed myself. 

I find it hard to be around my family now. There are advantages of living in unreality. I drink a lot more when I’m around my family than I ever did before, but I don’t think about killing myself nearly as much. Reality is worth it. Being able to exist as a person is worth it. 

- I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

-Sylvia Plath

- I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. (I insist.)

It didn’t kill me then. It’s not going to kill me now. (I remind myself.) 

My life is worth living, and there are fights worth fighting, and it is undeniably true the world is full of horror, but it is good to write and create and be alive, and it is good to try. I’m a little afraid to post this, but the fear and shame isn’t mine to hold, and I never should have been the one holding it. 

Consider this a thank you note sent out to the universe in the hopes the sentiment echoes towards those authors who saved me then and to all the writers who are saving people now. Your art matters. No matter how weird or niche or dismissed or hated it is. It matters. 

Thank you.

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

Another Merlin au prompt! This time featuring Morgana, because I haven't been giving her enough love recently!

EDIT: You can find part two of this au here!

In a season 4 au, the Cailleach never tells Morgana that Emrys is her destiny and her doom. Instead, she merely tells Morgana that Emrys is her destiny. So, instead of fearing Emrys, Morgana believes that Emrys is the key to achieving her destiny and conquering Camelot. Thus, she starts her hunt to try and find an ally in Emrys.

Through the Druids and the Catha, Morgana learns that Emrys is the Old Religion's god of magic and is destined to come to the mortal plane in the form of a human to bring magic back to the land after a great tragedy. Morgana hadn't heard of Emrys before since Morgause (in her hubris) did not focus on educating Morgana in the gods and goddesses that they were supposed to worship, instead focusing on teaching her powerful, dark magic and battle strategies against their enemies.

So, Morgana spends most of seasons 4 trying to find Emrys and ally herself to him. Morgana eventually learns from a druid that defected to her cause that Emrys has already taken his human form and lives in Camelot, working in secret to bring about magic's return to the land. Morgana was shocked by this, since it was possible that Emrys had been in Camelot even before she knew of her magic, but also pleased, as having Emrys already established inside Camelot would make a takeover much easier!

Morgana, from there, starts attributing her every victory and defeat to Emrys in some way. She succeeds in killing Uther through the enchanted necklace? Emrys must have been in on her plans and delivered the final blow while Arthur trusted him to try to heal his father! Her plan to drive Arthur and Gwen apart through shade Lancelot succeeds? Because Emrys ensured that no one suspected the shade before he did his job, of course! Her magic fails during her takeover of Camelot? Emrys must be angry with her for trying to conquer Camelot without him! She makes it out of Camelot alive even without her magic? Praise Emrys!

Morgana's beliefs are further solidified when Aithusa heals her. She asks Aithusa who she is, how is there another dragon? Aithusa is too young to speak, but she instead shares images and ideas with Morgana. In Aithusa's memories, Morgana couldn't quite see the face of the dragonlord who hatched Aithusa, but she knew how that magical power felt! It must have been Emrys, as the druids also told her that he was the last dragonlord! He must have sent this young dragon, his own kin, to heal Morgana and keep her safe before their destinies came to fruition!

When they're captured by Sarrum, Aithusa called out for her dragonlord, and after a couple hours in that damned well, a golden light filled the entire space, and their magic-binding chains were removed, allowing them to climb out of the pit and escape. There was no doubt in Morgana's mind that Emrys was the one who saved him, but to her disappointment, he was not there when they escaped.

(Merlin, back in Camelot, performed a ritual to send his magic to aid Aithusa, wherever she was. He could sense her cries and her fear, but he couldn't pin down her location, so this was his only way of sending help.)

By season 5, Morgana's patience was growing thin. She knew that Emrys probably had some grand, years-long plan for how they were going to conquer Camelot and let magic reign, but she wanted the throne that was rightfully hers! But to do that, she needed Emrys. So, she sought out the Diamiar to ask how she could find Emrys. Unfortunately, she never found the Diamiar and was forced to retreat.

Fast forward to Kara being captured and Mordred begging for her life and getting locked up with her. In this au, Merlin helps break Mordred and Kara out of the dungeon and helps them leave Camelot safely, leading to Mordred not growing bitter against Merlin, but still holding animosity towards Arthur for not being merciful towards Kara.

Kara takes advantage of Mordred's newfound anger towards Arthur and convinces him to join Morgana's forces. Morgana welcomes Mordred with open arms, but he's hesitant to tell her Emrys's true identity after Merlin saved him and Kara. However, after Morgana tells him that the only way that they can defeat Arthur is with Emrys fighting alongside them, Mordred reluctantly tells Morgana Emrys's true name: Merlin.

Morgana is absolutely shook by this news. How could her ultimate ally, the key to her victory, be one of her worst enemies?! He was Arthur's most loyal lacky! He saved Arthur's life repeatedly, keeping her from the throne! He had poisoned her!

Morgana was in absolute denial over this news, until she started thinking over it. When she had first told Merlin about her magic, he had tried to help her and led her to the druids. Yes, he had poisoned her, but that was the last push she needed to join Morgause. Perhaps that was his plan from the beginning? To ensure that she joined her sister and fulfilled her destiny in becoming a high priestess?

And his position as Arthur's closest confidant and servant gave him the anonymity to not be noticed by the nobility and the perfect place to manipulate Arthur, weakening him and his kingdom from within! Emrys truly was a mastermind with a plan to take down Camelot! And to think, she had fallen for his disguise as a cowardly servant as well! He was effortlessly playing all of Camelot for fools!

And oh, Morgana could see his vision! Emrys- Merlin- would crush Arthur's heart, his very soul, by revealing his power and his glorious destiny of returning magic to the land. All Merlin would have to do was pull the rug out from underneath Arthur, and Arthur would be so heartbroken and weakened by the betrayal that Camelot would be ripe for the taking!

Perhaps Merlin would revel in Arthur's humiliation? Wrap obedience spells around the king's mind and make Arthur his servant? What glorious justice that would be!

The most powerful sorcerer in history, magic incarnate, living in Camelot and having the absolute trust of the king! Everything was poised so perfectly! Morgana had to give Emrys credit for this, he had set everything up, from Morgana's rise to her true power to surrounding Arthur with commoner knights who owed more to Merlin than they did to the king, so that Arthur's end and magic's rise was inevitable. She did wish he would have told her about his plans sooner though. They could have been working together all this time!

Still, this meant that all of the pieces for magic's takeover of Camelot were in place! All she had to do was reach out to Emrys and let him know that she was ready, and they could conquer Camelot!

Mordred tries to warn her that Merlin is trying to fulfill the prophecy is a different, more peaceful way than what she has in mind, but Morgana brushes that aside. Emrys was her destiny, the key to her success!

However, after luring Merlin into the crystal cave and finally offering an alliance with him so they could take over Camelot, Morgana was shocked to be vehemently rejected by Merlin, with Merlin telling her that there was no way that he would ever betray Arthur, Emrys or not.

Morgana was not really expecting that and was forced to revise her plans. She needed Merlin to be on her side if she was going to have any chance at taking the throne from her undeserving brother, but Merlin, despite all of his power and destiny, was reluctant to join her and take his rightful place of power.

It was rather confusing for Morgana. Why would Emrys truly want Arthur on the throne? Was Arthur already his thrall, and he didn't want to lose his puppet king? No, if Emrys had Arthur under his power, magic would already be returned to the land.

Perhaps it was some sort of odd affection that Merlin had towards Arthur? That must be it! Merlin had been forced to tolerate Arthur for so long that some sort of forced feelings of connection towards Arthur had wormed their way into Emrys's heart!

So, Morgana goes on a campaign to win Merlin's loyalty over to her by 1) trying to undermine Arthur's rule and make his look like a fool and 2) make herself look like the better option. She has dozens of spies in Camelot and has sorcerers who can scry for her, so she knows when Arthur treats Merlin like a fool and dismisses his thoughts like an arrogant prat, and she chooses those days to send Merlin gifts, like spell books filled with useful curses, enchanted jewelry to make him more powerful, and the severed head of an assassin who managed to land a cut on Merlin while he was trying to kill Arthur (on Morgana's orders, but that's just semantics).

Morgana also sees how Merlin's living situation with Gaius isn't great, so she sends him things like new luxurious clothes and rich foods, which are things that she supposes that he'll have to get used to after he takes his rightful place as the conqueror of Camelot.

Merlin, however, remains suspicious of these gifts and knows that Morgana is trying to tempt him to her side, so he ignores them for the most part. Eventually, Arthur finds out about Morgana trying to bribe his manservant with extravagant gifts and loses his mind over it. He knows that Merlin would never betray Camelot to the likes of Morgana, but the fact that Morgana has set her sights on Merlin puts him very ill at ease.

And this, of course, devolves into a tense game of tug-of-war between the Pendragon siblings. Both of them are tripping over themselves trying to prove themselves to be more deserving of Merlin's loyalty, while Merlin just wants to go back to sleep.

Let me know if you'd like to see a continuation of this prompt! I think that seeing a high-stakes sibling rivalry between Arthur and Morgana over Merlin would be pretty funny!

EDIT: You can find part two of this au here!

Also, please let me know if there are any other Merlin characters you'd like me to feature! I'm working on some Gwen-focused and Lancelot-focused prompts, but let me know if there are any others you'd like to see!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my rambling! :D

[crushpunky]

a cameron family vacation: a night in

masterlist | kook!reader masterlist

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

The trek back from the coffee shop was uneventful; Sarah and John B disappearing to do god knows what and y/n and Rafe to go on a sort of impromptu sightseeing tour which ultimately resulted in ditching her flimsy sandals a mile from the hotel and Rafe giving her a piggyback ride the last quarter mile. By the time they finally made it back, the sun was already beginning to dip below the treetops, bathing the city in a golden hue.

“Thank you, thank you!” Y/n sang as Rafe finally let her back down to her feet in the hotel room. Rafe straightened out with an exaggerated groan, clawing at his back in faux distress. Y/n hit him playfully before darting into the living room, tossing herself down on the couch with a groan. Rafe followed behind her, sitting down on the couch.

“Finally you guys are back!” Wheezie said from the chair opposite the couch. Y/n turned over at her voice, stretching her legs across Rafe’s lap as she looked at the youngest Cameron. She was still wearing her pajamas, her phone ditched as she also joined y/n on the couch.

“What did you do today?” Y/n asked, propping herself up, her legs still draped over Rafe’s lap, his fingers tracing slowly along the skin of her ankle.

“Nothing! Dad and Rose ditched me to go to some wine tasting class.” Wheezie groaned, sinking further into the couch. Y/n frowned, soothing a hand along Wheezie’s arm. Y/n always saw Wheezie as a little sister, absolutely loathing the way Ward and Rose treated the youngest Cameron.

“That was pretty shitty of them, Wheeze.” Rafe scoffed. Y/n whipped around to him, her expression stern at his language. Despite Wheezie being a teenager and most definitely hearing worse on a daily basis, she still saw her as the little sister she met so many years ago.

“Well… how about we go down to the market down the street and grab some stuff for dinner? We can cook a nice dinner just for the three of us, how’s that sound?” Y/n suggested, Wheezie nodding enthusiastically at the idea. Being the type of rich the Camerons were, it wasn’t too often they had a meal that wasn’t cooked by a private chef with the finest of ingredients. With a grin, y/n pushed her legs off Rafe's lap and grabbed her purse off the kitchen island. Wheezie got up quickly, taking a step to follow y/n before Rafe grabbed her arm with a groan.

“Help me up.” Rafe complained, as Wheezie rolled her eyes. She tugged at his arm, the boy not moving an inch, a shit eating grin on his face.

“You’re too big, old man.” Wheezie groaned, trying to pull Rafe up again. This time he got to his feet, stumbling dramatically into Wheezie who elbowed him in the ribs. Y/n giggled at the siblings.

“Ok, Wheeze, what’re you thinking?” Y/n asked as Wheezie slid her shoes on. Rafe followed, sliding on his sandals from before.

“I don’t know… what’s easy to make?” Wheezie shrugged.

“Spaghetti?” Y/n asked, quirking her brow.

“Sounds good.” Wheezie grinned, and the three of them made their way down to the market to gather their ingredients.

“Shit!” Rafe swore as he took the garlic bread out of the oven. The one item the responsibility of Rafe charred black, a few of them even smoking as he dropped them on the stovetop. Y/n fanned the bread with a kitchen towel, the two of them coughing at the smoke. The garlic bread was the last part of the meal, the spaghetti and salad already out and Wheezie putting the final touches on the table setting.

“Fuck.” Rafe ran a hand through his hair before resting his hands on his hips. Y/n found herself laughing at Rafe’s complete lack of cooking ability… even when it came to frozen garlic bread.

“Leave me alone.” Rafe grabbing at y/n’s sides. She tried to evade his grasp, squealing with laughter as he caught her and lifted her off the ground. She swatted at his arms, which only caused him to hold onto her tighter.

“The salad is— shit.” Wheezie said as she came into the kitchen, noticing the burnt bread and y/n and Rafe giggling.

“Hey! Language!” The door to the hotel room swung open to reveal Ward. Rafe promptly sat y/n back down on the ground, the smiles on both of their faces evaporating as Ward entered into the hotel followed closely by a very drunk Rose.

“What’s going on?” Ward asked, his eyes glancing over the elegant table setting and dirty kitchen before landing on Rafe.

“We made dinner.” Rafe said simply, y/n trying her best to avoid Ward’s stern gaze.

“We’re in Italy and you made fucking dinner?” Ward scoffed. Y/n’s eyes flicked over to Rafe, who clenched his jaw as he took a deep inhale.

“It was my idea, Mr Cameron. I thought it would be fun.” Y/n said quickly, her eyes finally meeting Ward’s. With a sigh, Ward ran a hand over his face.

“Ok, ok. Just clean it up when you’re done.” Ward muttered before guiding a stumbling Rose through the living room to their bedroom. Wheezie, Rafe, and y/n let out a unified sigh of relief before returning to the task at hand.

“Let’s eat. I’m fuckin starving.” Rafe said before making his way over to the kitchen table. Wheezie had done an exceptional job: the flowers Rafe had gotten y/n arranged in a vase, tapered candles lit, and silverware shining alongside bone colored plates. Rafe pulled a seat out, allowing y/n to sit in front of one of the arrangements before he himself took the seat next to her. Wheezie sat opposite them, grabbing them salad and starting the meal. The conversation was limited as each of them filled up their plates, their hunger more on their minds than social than any particular social etiquette.

“So what are you guys doing for the rest of the week?” Wheezie said, her mouth full of spaghetti. Y/n glanced over at Rafe, who was looking back at her mid bite.

“Well we’re planning on going to the beach on Friday with Sarah and John B but other than that we don’t really have anything planned—” y/n said.

“Actually we do have something planned the last night. Y/n and I.” Rafe said, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding y/n’s quirked brow.

“What?” Y/n whispered, trying to gauge Rafe’s reaction as he continued to focus on his dinner as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Told you this vacation was gonna be full of surprises.” Rafe shrugged, a small smirk as he took another bite of spaghetti.

“Um… ok…” Wheezie’s eyes darted between the two of them, spinning her spaghetti fork absentmindedly.

“So… what do you want to do after dinner?” Y/n cleared her throat.

“Movie?” Wheezie asked.

“Musical?” Y/n added, her lips turning into a smile, Wheezie quickly repeating.

“No–” Rafe started with a groan.

“This is Wheezie’s night, boy. Let her pick.” Y/n shook Rafe’s shoulder playfully, to which he rolled his eyes.

Once the dishes were finally done, which took about twice as long as necessary due to Rafe’s inability to not play in the soapy water, the three of them changed into pajamas and crammed into the living room. The beautiful blue island and sounds of ABBA filled the room, Wheezie and y/n singing along as Mamma Mia played on the TV. Rafe watched the two of them, his heart fluttering at the way y/n’s face glowed in the soft illumination of the TV.

“You’re dancing for this one.” Y/n smiled as “Lay All Your Love on Me” played through the speakers. Rafe cringed as y/n grabbed his hand, pulling him to his feet. She grabbed his other hand, swinging their hands together as she bounced along playfully. Despite his usual distaste of musicals or dancing, he couldn’t help but smile at y/n’s presence. Getting more into the music, Rafe spun y/n around with a chuckle before pulling her flush against his chest before dipping her dramatically. Y/n squealed before he straightened her back out, her giggles filling the air.

“Wait, wait, let me get my camera!” Wheezie said, scrambling over to the side table and grabbing her little polaroid camera. Rafe wrapped his arms around y/n’s waist as Wheezie held the camera up to her eyes. Rafe lowered his face down, his cheek pressed against y/n’s as the both of them smiled widely. With a flash, Wheezie took a picture, capturing the moment as Rafe’s eyes flicked over to y/n’s face. Wheezie put the camera down, grabbing the polaroid and shaking it out. Rafe and y/n peered over her shoulder, Rafe still holding firmly onto her waist as their faces slowly started to develop.

“Oh wow, Wheeze, this is such a good—” Y/n gasped, taking the picture from Wheezie with a wide smile.

“I’ll be keeping that.” Rafe said, taking the picture from y/n and pulling out his wallet. He flipped the wallet open, quickly tucking the picture alongside the growing collection of polaroids, photobooth strips, movie tickets, and whatever trinket he kept that reminded him of y/n.

“Only letting that go because of whatever surprise you have in store, boy. Better be good.” Y/n said, hitting her hip against Rafe lightly as she quirked her brow.

“I promise you’ll love it.” Rafe said, pressing a quick kiss to the side of y/n’s head before flopping back onto the couch. Y/n shook her head, grinning quickly, before turning back to Wheezie. The two of them continued their singing and dancing late into the night, but Rafe didn’t mind. He could probably watch y/n act like this, practically glowing with joy, for the rest of his life and die a happy man.

[motheroffeline]

Can you do a aaron/yn smut where yn is starting to get jealous of aaron and teyana taylors lil "relationship"🤭

Akira (reader) x Aaron Pierre, oral (f receiving) Disclaimer: I haven't written in a while so it might be a rough read butttt give it a chance anyways.

18+ Minors DNI

It was another day of rehearsal and Akira was dressed down to the nines. A medium length dress from Louis Vuitton from the spring/summer collection hugged her voluptuous frame in all of its glory as she stepped out of her car paired with black Louis Vuitton patent leather pumps. But, even with this confidence, Akira felt that Teyanna would one up her again when it came to fashion and also the fact that her sex appeal was through the roof alluring not just men, but women as well and also happened to catch the idea of a man Akira was hoping it would not: Aaron Pierre.

At first, it seemed like a publicity stunt but as time went on Aaron started to call Teyanna over when it was only supposed to be Akira and himself present. She had been his best friend for over 5 years knowing exactly what type of women he liked and what type he did not and yet Akira did not expect Teyanna to pop up and ruin everything. To be completely truthful, Akira hoped that as time went on Aaron would confess his feelings but no... it could not happen, not yet at least because he had a woman in his life now.

As Akira walked into the Saenger theater, her breathing slowed as she noticed Teyanna's rather expensive car parked so neatly next to Aaron's. It was like she was being taunted into pointing out the obvious with Aaron but the fact that he was her friend stopped her because it meant that she would have to confess how she felt and that Akira was not ready for but only time could tell.

The heavy doors creaked open to reveal only Aaron and Teyanna present which was quite strange to say the least. But Akira walked into the acoustic building, heels clacking against the marble floor resembling the sound of cracking glass.

"Ayee good to see you Akira!" Teyanna yelled from the stage waving at Akira and she hesitantly waved at her. Akira had no personal beef with Teyanna but the fact that she even entertained a relationship with Aaron was enough for Akira to want to not talk to her at all.

"I have no idea where everyone else is. Nathan said he was coming about an hour ago and didn't send anything back so..." Aaron spoke voice bouncing off of the walls.

Akira walked up on the stage admiring the red seats of the expansive building which could hold thousands of people. Another reason why Akira despised Teyana was because they were both considered for "Vixen" but it was obviously Teyana who matched the look of the character the best and it made Akira jealous. Not only would she lose a movie role but also the chance of being with Aaron herself. Yes, she had to admit that it was selfish but who wouldn't be when it came to him?

"So, um, who thought it'd be a good idea to practice here?" Said Akira with an unsteady voice trying not to be a third wheel.

"Nathan had the script printed out on his computer from the script writer but he isn't even here. Guess we chilling until his late ass shows up." Teyana giggles to herself and for some reason it agitated Akira because of how melodic her laugh sounded. She always could sing but Akira could not; she had abs without trying while Akira had to stay damn near 4 hours in the gym daily; Teyana could command a room while Akira had to instruct it, and Teyana got closer to Aaron than Akira had in 5 years.

It was pathetic but Akira had to come up with a lie to get Aaron alone with her it was the only way she would be able to tell him what was on her mind. And for him to not be distracted by Teyanna who was in a Tsnbre two piece knit set showcasing her hard abs. His multicolored eyes lingered on Teyana's body a moment too long and Akira cleared her throat.

"I'm so crazy y'all! Nathan sent me a copy of it last night but I forgot to bring it with me. He sent it on a word doc, and I went to slip before I had a chance to print it. Aaron, can you go with me?" Akira said with hope in her voice while Teyana stared at her with pointed eyes that relaxed as Aaron spoke up.

"Teyana you can go with us if you w-"

"That's fine I was just leaving anyways. I don't think anyone else is showing up since there's supposed to be a bad storm coming in to night." With that, Teyana walked out of the heavy doors not taking a second glance at Aaron or Akira.

Aaron sighed as he frustratingly rubbed both his large hands up and down the expanse of his face. "I know what this is and I'm sorry if you think you know what's going on between me and Teyana. Akira I can tell when you're envious and right now it's written all over you."

Akira gulped not wanting to look up at Aaron. She had no idea that her want had been so nauseously obvious.

"Like I told you before it's all for the movie we're building chemistry so we don't look like two left shoes when the movie comes out. And you know this Akira! You've done about two movies yourself where you had to get into a role but you're coming after me. I need you to tell me what's going on in there, in that mind of yours." Aaron's voice wavered as each word came out.

"Okay, I get it I'm a jealous bitch and I love you so much that I can't bear you with another woman. I think it was that three-year mark. I fell so hard I couldn't even pick myself up after realizing how amazingly we synced on an emotional level and I wanted to take it to the next step. But I don't act as quick as I think and everything good to me passes me by. I fucking love you is what I'm saying, Aaron, okay?"

Aaron walked up to Akira with a lopsided smile on his face and kneeled down to face her 5'4" self eye to eye. And the sweetest, most unexpected thing happened: he kissed her like he was making love to her mouth. His tongue darted in savoring her as the plushness of his lips pressed against hers causing Akira's arms wrap around his broad shoulders to steady herself. He smelt like Forever by Azzaro with notes of cedar, oud, and palo santos.

When his lips finally popped off of hers, they just stared at each other with rapidly beating hearts waiting for the other to make the next move.

"Jealous? Yeah. Bitch? Nah, never been that in all of the years I've ever known you, you've always been so elegant and mature that it seemed like you were leagues above me. I used to be pretty frugal until I started being with you more and you gave me that boost to me the man I currently am, and I just haven't given you the props you need. I want to make up with you on the floor, on the stage, in all of these thousands of chairs: everywhere."

Akira initiated the kiss this time pulling him into her body that was shivering with need. Lips smacking against each other as she led him over to the stage hoping that he would live up to his promise.

"You think I didn't see you when you walked in here? That dress is fitting that ass just right it took everything in me not to rip everything you had off, so I just played it cool. Whole time you knew what you was doing. Say something to me beautiful." Aaron whispered in a gravelly voice as he kneaded Akira's D cup breasts through her dress as she whimpered grinding her ass against his hardened dick.

"I really can't even find the words to say something to you Aaron." Akira gasped as Aaron carefully pulled her dress above her head causing her nipples to turn into stiff peaks.

"Mmmm you don't have to say nothing right now not while we doing this. After I get done with you let me know what's been going on but right now, I just want to hear your body talking to me telling me what she need." Aaron unlatched Akira's bra and took her dark ebony nipple into his mouth twirling his thick tongue around it so roughly that Akira shouted wanted to push back his head from the intense feeling.

"Go sit down in one of those chairs over there so I can kiss it properly baby."

Akira's breath hitched in her throat as she sat down on the red chair, her underwear showing a visible wet spot as she spread her legs wide. Aaron crawled over on all fours looking at Akira with sinful glinting eyes.

"You're so ready for me it's unbelievable. Never thought this would be happening today, did you? Your pussy smells so good I'm going to lap it up. That okay? When I start tasting this pussy you better not push my head away."

Akira could only nod as her arousal caused her brain to fog from how intense it was. His tongue darted out to lick her wet clit through the silk fabric of her underwear causing her to rise up out of the seat halfway before dropping back down. He chuckled before sliding her underwear off down her leg before depositing them into his pocket.

He gently kissed her naked clit and Akira whimpered at the feeling which only added fuel to the fire for Aaron. His tongue licked a flat stripe from hole to clit causing Akira to cry out as he started sucking on her clit, his stubble brushing against the underside of it. Eyes rolling to the back of her skull, Akira moaned as she humped his face.

"Ohhh shittttt right thereee. I'm cum all over your face! This what you want? Ima give it you oh mmmmmm unh unhhhhhh." Tears run down Akira's face as Aaron's throat gulped up all of her squirting release.

Mascara running down her face, Akira's legs shook feeling like jelly as Aaron licked the remainder off her wetness off of his lips.

"I love you too, Akira and don't ever think for a second I'll forget about you. Teyana is for the movie, but I've known you so long I know what you makes you tick and now I know how to make you fall apart. I really would love to keep going but in the comfort of a bed perhaps?" Aaron smirked as he took in Akira's exhausted face.

"How am I gonna please you?" Akira said sleepily as Aaron looked at her.

"You can learn about my body some other time baby. Today was all about you and making you feel validated in your love for me. Seeing you cum was so gorgeous I'll replay it in my head for the rest of my life."

He leaned down to pick up Akira's body bridal style preparing to carry her out to her car when he saw Nathan standing in the middle of the floor with papers scattered everywhere with a beyond shocked look on his face.

"Um how long were you standing there?"

"Ummmmmmmm..." Nathan said with a red face looking away from Akira's naked body.

[yamumsyadadd]

the forgotten girl (12)

originally posted on my old account, re uploading twice weekly :) I accidentally just deleted this, so here’s a re post. The next chapter will be tomorrow!

The days resumed as normal. Leah stayed for a few days, making sure I was okay. Keira was there everyday, Claudia and Patri would come for a few hours too, but the one person that I wanted to have there, stopped talking to me. After a week, I was fed up.

It was on a Tuesday, after coffee with Alba, that I truly lost it. Almost 10 days had passed and no matter how many times I rang or texted, Alexia wouldn’t answer. 

“Why is your sister such a pain in my ass?” I huffed as I sat down. 

“Well good morning to you gorgeous. Here’s your coffee.” She slid over a steaming cup, “what did she do this time?” 

“More like what she didn’t do.” 

“Okay I’ll bite. Continue.” 

“I told her I loved her too, she stayed the night and then we had a moment at the beach. I thought something was going to happen, and now she won’t even talk to me. At training, in the locker room, hell even at the game she barely spoke to me or came near me. I just don’t know what to do anymore.” 

“Hold on! You love her?” Alba was shocked. 

“Yes Alba. Catch up please.” 

“Jesus Christ. Okay, I’m supposed to go over for dinner tonight. You will go instead.”

“That’s a horrible plan.” 

“What’s the worse she’s going to do? Close the door in your face? She’s not that rude.” 

Begrudgingly I agreed. The only other plan I had was to corner her in the locker room, or hide in her car. Both seemed a little excessive. All I had to do is get through the next 5 hours of training with her. 

It was painful and seemed to drag on and on. My usual options for partners already partnered up with someone else. Claudia with Patri, Keira with Aitana, Lucy with Ona. I even asked the young girls who all gave me sympathetic smiles. There was one person left, the one person who has been working hard to ignore me. 

Alexia and I didn’t talk. Just did the drills as told. The tension was palpable, I just wanted to scream at her, to make her talk to me. Is this how she has felt for all those years? 

“What’s up with you and capi?” Claudia pulled me aside right as training finished. 

“Nothing Clau.” She gave me a look to say ‘I know you’re lying’, “okay I don’t know? I told her I loved her back and things have been weird since.” 

“You should talk to her.” 

“Wow thanks Claudia! I never thought of that.” It came out a lot harsher than I anticipated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch.” 

“It’s fine. Whatever you need, I got your back. Always.” With a quick hug she was gone. 

By the time I was home, showered and quickly tidied up it was time to go. I had a stop to make before going to Alexias, as I hated turning up empty handed. Alba was waiting outside when I arrived. 

“Stand over there so she can’t see you on the intercom. Once she buzzes in, go into the elevator, to the 16th floor. It’s apartment 1604, just knock on the door and force your way in.”

“Sounds like a horrible idea. Why did I agree to this.” 

“Just do what I said and it’ll all work out.” Alba sighed. Her plan worked. Alexia buzzed her up straight away. 

Alba left, leaving me to do this alone. The elevator seemed to take forever, trying to remember Albas directions but also trying not to freak out and be angry at Alexia. The elevator stopping at the 16th floor ripped me out of my thoughts. 

1604.

All I had to do was knock. Not that hard. First I needed to calm myself down, slowly walking up and down the hallway taking deep breathes. Before i realised what I was doing, I had knocked. 

“Amelia? What are you doing here?” 

“We need to talk.” I pushed my way in. “Here I got you this.”

“You got me a bottle of water?” She was confused

“Yes. I couldn’t come here empty handed and you don’t drink during the season, and you don’t drink soft drink or juice or anything so water was the best option.” 

She made herself comfortable on her couch, looking up at me expectantly. I was Pacing around her living room, lost in my own head. 

“You’re going to put a hole in my floor Amelia.”

“Why have you been ignoring me?” 

“I haven’t. I’ve been giving you the space you need.” 

“No Alexia! You told me to stop running from you, you begged me to stop and I did. Is this you paying me back for running from you? For breaking your heart? Is that what this is?” 

“What? No!” 

“Then what! Because I told you I loved you for fuck sake. I want to try even though I don’t know how! So tell me Alexia!” Angry tears fell from my eyes, hastily wiping them away. 

“Keira and Leah said I need to give you time and space. To wait for you to come to me. I was just trying to help.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything to me? I thought that day on the beach meant something? I tried to come to you but you wouldn’t let me! For fuck sake.” I turned away from her, deciding it was time to leave but before I could get grabbed my arm, pulling me into her. 

“It did mean something - it does mean something. You’re not leaving. I made dinner for me and Alba but you’re going to sit, we are going to eat, talk, whatever. Then I will drive you home but you’re not leaving Amelia. I will not let you leave.” 

Our bodies were so close, I could feel her heart beat, the warm of her skin, I could see every little freckle on her face, every single thing she would say was imperfect. Her tongue poked out of her mouth, slightly wetting her lips. Her very perfect, kissable lips. 

Without overthinking it, I moved forward, my hands cupping her face, her hands holding my waist. We both leaned in it at the same time. Our lips meeting and fitting like a puzzle piece. It was messy, hot and desperate. She pulled me in closer, trying to get more. We both pulled away from a lack of oxygen. 

“Not the talk I had in mind.” Her forehead resting on mine, a light chuckle came out of my lips. We stayed like that for a moment, afraid of what would happen when we pulled away. It was disrupted by the sound of my stomach. 

“Come. Sit. I made paella.” Alexia ushered me to the dining table. The paella was good, not as good as Eli’s but still good. One of Alexias secret talents was that she could cook, and she’s was good at it. Not many people got to see that side of her, or really any side of her. After we had finished, I took the plates and started to clean, it was the least I could do. 

“Mil, stop. Please. I can deal with them later.”

“It’s fine ale. Just let me do this for you, please.” She didn’t argue after that, just grabbed a tea towel and started drying then packing away the clean dishes. It only took 10 minutes with the both us of until the kitchen was spotless, which would easy some of Alexia’s stress. 

She led me to the lounge room, making me sit on the couch, while she sat on the coffee table, her large hands wrapped around mine. 

“Let’s talk, yes?” She was anxious, but firm. Wanting to get this over and done with. 

“I love you. Really really love you Ale. And I have for as long as I have known you, but it never worked out. When-when I met Emily, she was different to you. She didn’t care what people thought about her, she was free. It felt like a breath of fresh air, and I’m not saying that you need to change or anything because I don’t want that. I just want you to understand.”

“Sí, continúa.” I could practically hear her brain working in over drive. 

“When you and Jenni broke up, Jenni texted me. Telling me that she should’ve ended things with you a long time ago because it was clear you were in love with me and not her. Then you told me you loved me in a romantic way. I freaked out. I drove to fucking Manchester, I basically broke into Keira and Lucy’s house, walking in on them having sex. That was horrific.” I took a deep breath. 

“I thought that I could love Emily as much as I loved you, I had already started falling in love with her, and I knew she loved me. When she proposed I said yes. I wish I didn’t but I did. Then we got married and I didn’t want to invite you. Had you told me not to marry her, I wouldn’t have. I would’ve left with you. Emily realised this. She wrote a letter, the day before she died. She was leaving me because I love you. I had been feeling so shitty about marrying her, making her love me with her whole heart when I couldn’t love her with my whole heart.” Tears started rolling down my face, Ale giving my hand a squeeze. 

“It’s okay. Take your time.” 

“When I got home, she was already hurt. Tied to the chair in front of the TV. I remember the feeling of them grabbing me, the blood running down my face. I remember the screams she let out when they cut my clothes off me or when they, they entered me. She wouldn’t stop screaming and trying to get someone to help so they killed her. But someone heard because I remember hearing sirens after they sliced my back. Then they were gone and she was just sitting there, blood all over her and I couldn’t move. I remember everything, everything that was said at the house, the way some of the police officers vomited outside, the way the ambulance smelt and how fast it went. I remember Keira and Leah screaming outside the hospital room, or Jill holding my hand and talking to me. 

I thought that I would be okay. I was focused on my rehab, the thought of returning to the pitch, to be better, play better for her. Then the funeral happened and the trial. Your mums softness is what broke me. The way she would constantly call me every morning when she was having her coffee, knowing I’d just woken up and was getting ready to go to rehab, or the way she’d find a way to send me paella every Sunday. I don’t know if she told you but I visited her a lot. She made me feel like I was getting better, that things would get better. Then when I saw you at the champions league game, I remembered how much I loved you. How soft but tough your hands were, how fiercely protective you were, everything. And I thought I could try with you.” 

I needed to stop. To compose myself and let it sink in. I could tell Alexia needed a moment too. Her thumb never stopped rubbing over the back of my hand, it was comforting, she was comforting. 

“When we had sex, I wanted to be in control of it and you let me. I didn’t know it would cause me to break but it did. I wasn’t ready for it. Watching you lay there, asleep, cuddled up into me broke my heart because I realised I couldn’t give you more. You deserved more. So I left. The plan was to just go for a few weeks and then come back and talk to you. But those few weeks turned into months, then into years. I would search you on instagram and it seemed like you were doing great without me, so I didn’t come back. I watched your games. All of them. I watched you lose the champions league, watched you win it, watched Spain lose the euros, then win the World Cup. I wanted to reach out when you did your ACL but I couldn’t. You deserved peace during that time. Then I saw you and the girls, and you were dating Olga, who is lovely by the way. She was very sweet. I wasn’t planning on coming back. I was content with the way I was living. Then I saw the open training and decided to come for a bit, not really sure why, but I did. After that I craved to be back on the pitch. To play. Not necessarily for Barcelona or Chelsea. I would’ve been happy to play in a friendly league honestly, but Eloise rang me and told me Jona wanted me to come, even just to train so I did. Everything was suddenly feeling better, but I wanted more. I wanted you. I couldn’t have you though so I was going to settle to just be an outsider, atleast then I could see you, and see what was happening in your life without invading it. But then-“

“Olga and I broke up and I told you I loved you?” She was staring straight at me. Pure admiration all over her face, no pity or anger, just love. 

“Yeah. And here we are. I, uh, I haven’t told anyone all that. The finer details. It would’ve destroyed Keira and Leah. Lucy would’ve lost her shit.” 

“Thank you for telling me Mil.” She stood up, pulling me into a hug. The tightest hug she could, as if she was trying to put all the pieces back together. 

“If you want to try this, us, we can. We will go as slow as you want, there is no pressure. It’ll be on your timeline, and I will understand if you need to stop but you need to tell me okay.” 

She cupped my face with her hands, “no more running away from me. Or anyone.” 

“I promise Ale.” I smiled at her, she was willing to take her time, she was in it for the long haul. 

“Let me take you home?” 

“No it’s okay, I drove here. I’ll see you at training?” 

“Wait! Do you want to get coffee before? No pressure?” The shy Alexia was coming out, not wanting to push her luck. 

“Alexia Putellas, are you asking me on a date?” 

“No? Yes? Whatever you want it to be.” 

“If it’s a date, then yes. I would love to get coffee with you tomorrow.” 

She released a breath, “it’s a date then.” 

After a final hug goodbye, a promise to text her when I got home, I was out the door. A weird feeling settled inside of me. Grateful to be able to share what I did, but also anxious. Anxious about starting this with her, about her knowing what happened, even if it’s not in the greatest detail. The next step was to tell Leah, then keira. Keira had to be last because it would break her, maybe Lucy could be there too. 

[pazziiiiiiii]

Hey guys, I tried to encorporate the stuff you guys recommended, so thank you. I hope this makes sense because I was really tired so barely edited. But yeah please give me some IDEAS and FEEDBACK it really helped me. ILY!

Word count - Like 2.2k

Part 5

Another week passed and little had changed. Paige and Azzi were still close, laughing together and staying up late, and Paige was trying to close the distance she had built with her best friend over the few weeks.

But she still wasn’t herself. Disappearing in the middle of the day to go to the gym for hours, attempting to clear her head, only to return to Azzi on FaceTime with her new boyfriend Devon. And she went back to being cold.

Everyone could see through her. And Katie had had enough of it. Enough of seeing Paige being like this and her friendship with Azzi changing for the worse.

Paige was outside playing ball. Even though she had just spent the whole day at the gym, when she walked into the house and heard Azzi laughing on the phone, she had to clear her head, again.

Katie had watched the whole thing go down. She knew why she was out there, she wasn’t silly. She had known Paige for years and knew how she felt about Azzi, even if Azzi herself didn’t see it.

So she went outside and stood there for a long moment, just watching Paige. The young girl didn’t stop, even when Katie walked over to the hoop to collect her rebounds. They did this for a while, until the older woman spoke up first.

“You don’t have to be like this here,” she began. Taking in the confusion on Paige’s face, she continued, “you don’t have to keep in what you are feeling in my house like you do at home.”

“I know,” the younger girl replied, continuing to shoot.

Katie held the ball, not passing it back, “Then please Paige, stop keeping it inside of you,” she began, moving towards the girl infront of her. “It’s not good for you. I know how you feel about Azzi, so if it’s about that you need to tell someone. I can’t tell you what she feels, you need to speak to her yourself. We can all tell something is wrong, so it’s better for you to just tell someone, anyone.”

Katie was now right infront of Paige, close enough to reach out and touch her. Paige’s eyes were glossy as she blinked to hold back her emotions.

“I don’t know what to do Katie.” She said softly.

The older lady didn’t reply straight away, she just reached out and pulled her into a tight embrace. Paige did the same, burying her face into the crook of her neck.

“I can’t tell you what to do, but I know that Azzi is worried about you. But she doesn’t know how to get through to you.”

Paige didn’t reply, but they both stood like that for a while. The only sound filling the space being the sniffles coming from the younger girl.

AZZI POV

Azzi didn’t know why she said yes to Devon. It wasn’t like she didn’t like him, she really did he was a great guy. He made her smile and feel good about herself, he did a lot for her.

But he didn’t make her laugh until her stomach hurt. He didn’t make her feel like the only person in the world. He didn’t look her with beautiful blue eyes that she could look at for hours. And he didn’t make her heart flutter just from a simple brush of legs under a table.

Because only one person could do that. And it was her best friend. Someone she knew she could never have.

She had felt this way about Paige ever since she met her. But she knew the other girl would never like her that way.

Paige was known to be a girl magnet. Everyone looked at her like she was the hottest girl on the planet, and she knew it. She knew that she could attract anyone just by looking at them. So she was also known to mess around with a lot of girls. Sleep with them or make out with them, and then leave. She never committed to anyone.

And Azzi knew this. So she never acted in her feelings. Even when Paige told her about what her dad said, she knew the other girl would never truly look at her and want to be anything more then best friends, because she doesn’t commit to anything like that.

That’s why she had tried to push down her feelings by going out with Devon. Paige was pulling away, and it was all Azzi’s fault. She had gotten too close, let her feelings slip through the cracks where Paige could see them. Now Paige was uncomfortable, and Azzi had no one to blame but herself. She had tried to help Paige or fix what she did, but she would never open up, there was nothing Azzi could do.

So when Azzi sat by her window on FaceTime with Devon, staring out at her best friend pounding the ball into the driveway for hours, all she could do was watch. Every hard dribble, every shot thrown up without much care — it all felt like a language she didn’t know how to translate anymore. When her mom finally went outside to talk to Paige, Azzi pressed her forehead against the glass, straining to catch even a hint of what they were saying. She couldn’t hear them, but she didn’t need to. Katie was trying — trying to break through whatever wall Paige had built up, trying to help the way Azzi couldn’t.

And deep down, Azzi knew why. Paige didn’t want her. Not like that. She didn’t want Azzi getting too close, didn’t want Azzi’s feelings bleeding into something bigger or heavier than friendship. That wasn’t what Paige needed. Azzi knew it. She wasn’t stupid. All she could do was sit there, helpless, praying that somehow, Paige would still let her in — not because she wanted anything more, but because she couldn’t stand watching her best friend drown herself in silence.

Paige POV

Paige knew Katie was right. She couldn't stay like this forever, trapped in her own thoughts about what to do and what not to do. It wasn't healthy for her. She knew she had to talk to Azzi. She wasn't going to admit anything, but she was going to change.

She couldn't have people worrying about her, they didn't need to. So Paige was going to stop having feelings for Azzi. She was going to push them down, even if it meant it ruined her, she had to do it. For her best friend. They were going to go back how they always were, before Paige started getting into her head about what her dad said.

So Paige did exactly that. She went back inside after finishing basketball, and put a big smile on her face. She didn't hear Azzi on the phone anymore, but she still stayed downstairs and talked to the Fudd's.

Tim and Katie were a little surprised about the change of mood for a moment, but then they eased into it. They flowed conversation well, Paige laughed and talked the most she had since she arrived in Virginia.

After a while being downstairs, she decided to go to bed, knowing Azzi would be in there and they could talk.

She didn't knock like she had been for the last couple weeks, she just opened the door and walked in. Azzi was sitting on her bed on her phone, when she glanced up, confused of the sudden entry of Paige.

"Hey, you good?" Azzi said as Paige came and sat next to her.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be? I'm just coming into my room." Paige replied, lying straight through her teeth, but keeping the smile on her face.

Azzi tried to cover her confusion, but it was clear in her face that she noticed the switch between what Paige had been acting like and what she was now.

"No reason, wanna watch a movie?" Azzi said, ignoring how Paige was finally not sitting as far away as she could from her, now lying at an appropriate distance where they were only touching slightly.

"Yeah sure, you choose."

"Ok. Love and Basketball?" Azzi answered, knowing it is one of their favorite movies.

"Sounds great."

Once the movie was on Paige didn't lye like she had been, uncomfortable and distant from Azzi. Instead, she sat close, not too close where she would get distracted but close enough that the other girl would think that everything was becoming back to normal between the two of them.

Midway through the movie, Azzi couldn't stop thinking about the change in actions from Paige. It wasn't like she didn't think it was good, of course not, she was happy her best friend was looking normal again. But she was still confused on what caused her to change so drastically.

"Paige?" Azzi started, grabbing the attention of the girl next to her, who was now looking straight into her eyes, something she had rarely done throughout staying with her.

"What did my mum say to you out there." She asked, keeping the question simple.

Paige thought for a minute, contemplating whether she should finally be honest with the girl sitting next to her. Before finally answering.

"She told me I don't have to hide everything here unlike home. That it's ok if I'm not ok." She paused for a moment, thinking about what to say next, and knowing she was going to lie.

"It's just really hard sometimes. Because Bob says things that hurt a lot of the time, and he means them. So what he said before I left messed with me. A lot. But I know what he is saying is wrong. Because we are best friends, I don't know why he thought that. You have a boyfriend for fucks sake!"

She was lying straight to her best friends face. Every word was a lie. It isn't wrong at all. She is in love with Azzi.

But she couldn't admit it. Not now, not ever. Because Azzi was straight. She had Devon.

"That's just crazy isn't it!" Paige said, looking at Azzi again.

Paige saw something flash through Azzi's eyes. She couldn’t place it. For the first time in a long time, Paige couldn’t understand how her best friend was feeling. But that look in Azzi’s eyes was gone, just as quick as it came.

Azzi was terrified. That’s the feeling Paige couldn’t understand. The sadness that Azzi felt as soon as Paige said those words. But she couldn’t let anything be seen by Paige. Because she was right. She had a boyfriend, who really liked her. And Paige didn’t like her like that. She had just made it very clear.

“Yeah, that’s so weird. Why would he think that?”

"I know right. Your literally straight! I mean I know I'm not, basically everyone does cause of all the parties. But like you are how does he not know that!" Paige was rambling now, every word coming out faster then the one before.

Azzi just nodded along, trying to look as if she was agreeing and her mind wasn't racing with the memories of all of the parties they had gone together to last year in the summer.

Flashback

Paige would be looking at her all night, she could feel her gaze on her whenever they were not standing next to each other. But then when the night went on Paige would get drunk, she would see Azzi with a guy and take shot after shot. She talked to girls and did stuff with them, all just to try and get her best friend out of her head.

But Azzi didn't know that. She only saw what happened and not why Paige was doing it all.

End Flashback

"Yeah. I'm straight," Azzi said softly, trying to be convincing although her voice cracked on the last words.

But Paige mustn't have noticed. Or if she did she decided to not point it out.

"Just ignore him though, he's not right P." Azzi added, her voice stronger this time.

"Yeah I know. Sorry I have been off lately," Paige said.

"That's ok, just talk to me ok?"

Paige only nodded turning her attention back to the screen, pretending as if she was completely convinced on what she had just said.

When she wasn't. Not at all. But she had lied, she had to. She wouldn't let her silly feelings for Azzi destroy her friendship. So lying was the only way to fix it.

And Azzi did too. Because Paige had just told her that having feelings for each other was stupid. Because it was. They were best friends, and Azzi was straight.

So they both pretended. They both eventually moved closer to each other so Azzi was leaning into Paige. Both hiding their faces so the other girl wouldn't see the tears threatening to spill from each of their eyes.

It was the closest they had been in weeks. But the farthest away from their true feelings they had ever been.

[corseque]

I just had the most lightning-strike-my-brain realization

(extreme SPOILERS for the entirety of Clair Obscur, do not click on this post)

Think about it, oh my god....

To put it into words rather than a couple images - this game tried and succeeded to include and then deeply humanize every type of antagonist it could. Each member of the Dessendre family is a different type of Sympathetic Villain, to the point of them becoming Sympathetic Antagonists. Because they are ALL antagonists in some way, and they are all humanized, the player of the game's mind whirls and sorts them all in the "character" category instead of the "villain" or "antagonist" category.

What was brilliant while playing was that whenever you thought you had come across a character who was purely a villain - surely Renoir, who kills Gustave right in front of you, surely he's just a villain? You were wrong. And there were like 5 different types of these characters. Renoir - the archetype of shitty wizard villain who is Killing Everyone for Love, and Killing Everyone Also For Very Good Reasons Beyond Love, who would suffer and wait and plot and kill for thousands of years if it meant his family would be safe and whole again, who must Kill His Love To Get His Love Back, who is an extremely reasonable man but is in an extremely hard position where his back is to the wall and he must make sacrifices of others. The Emet-Selch type

Verso - the archetype of shitty wizard villain who is a tortured good man who must join a party of heroes and then lie to them about his purpose and his past and his true identity, even falling in love with those he is lying to, in order to Kill Everyone and Destroy the World to protect a true world and its true inhabitants. He also wants an end to his personal suffering, but doesn't see a way. The Solas type

Maelle/Alicia - the archetype of shitty wizard villain who is very understandably trying to escape from the real world and her real self and her real problems, even if she must hurt others, or torture and puppeteer the dead to do it, refusing to part with them. This is the type of villain that Batman holds hands with and comforts.

Aline - the archetype of shitty wizard villain who is so caught up in the throes of grief that she does not realize who she is hurting or the devastation she is causing in her grief (This is the type of enemy like when you fight a crazed wounded dragon as an antagonist or something, a pitiable enemy.)

Clea - the archetype of shitty wizard villain who is impatient and uncompromising, and willing to do whatever she needs to keep herself and her family alive, even if it means creating a horde of monsters and dismissively letting them roam with no oversight and kill people just to get a little bit of an edge, or a sliver of time advantage. The unconcerned antagonist in her secret lab who does things coldly but for good reason.

And the best part is Clair Obscur took all of these ideas and all of these kinds of antagonists, and not only did it humanize all of them extremely well, it gave each one of them a melancholy but happy ending TOGETHER. It's simply amazing. They all lived. They all won.

The real problem was all the shitty wizards being sad. It's literally the perfect story.

So no wonder all the reversals come out of nowhere, and no wonder that no matter how much foreshadowing they slather on Verso, you can't seem to mistrust him, because there are SO many other humanized villains and antagonists in this story (even the monsters are humanized and speak to you!) that you can't believe that there will be another one. You can't believe it. And it makes the writing keep striking in a really unexpected way.

It's so smart because these are all usually the fan favorite characters, so for a game to say, why not have the majority of the characters be like this kind of cool and reasonable but very dangerous nefarious wizard character? The answer is, why don't people do this ALL THE TIME

[bearw-me]

new years kiss hard canons for hazbin? no big deal or anything- (would make my entire year if you did)

sure, no big deal. (this request made my whole year)

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 — 𝐇𝐚𝐳𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥

𐐒 includes : gender neutral!reader, alastor, charlie morningstar, vaggie, angel dust, sir pentious, husk, cherri bomb 𐐒 cw : fluff, mentions of drinking, kisses 𐐒 summary : to celebrate the new year Charlie + Alastor have thrown together a nice little party for the hotels inhabitants! 𐐒 note : first time hcs for a ton of characters! hope you guys enjoy!

To celebrate the new year, Charlie had come up with a wonderful idea that she had heard about through the angels. A wonderous party filled with spirits and surrounded by the people she treasured most to enjoy some fireworks, hopefully to start off a new year with high hopes!

With Alastor + Vaggie's help, they created a new balcony on the hotel just for the occasion. . . and to watch the fireworks burst and bubble brightly over hell.

➡ Alastor

the kiss would be unexpected on your part completely

after all, the overlord Alastor himself always has to have the upper-hand

what good would a surprise be if you knew he was going to kiss you the moment those fireworks burst and whistled into the sky?

He probably backs you up into a corner out of sight, or if your sitting by the bar he'll have you at the edge of the seat

He smiles wide, reveling in the fact that your squirming

"What's wrong my dear? Feeling uncomfortable?"

Alastor kisses you passionately, but also, as if he's never kissed someone in his life.

You can't even hear the fireworks behind him, just the static in your head and the press of his body against yours

he'd probably bite you too if he found himself enjoying your lips against his

His hand slithering up your back to hold you close, unable to wriggle away or fall back from him.

Immediately after he disappears

after all, he likes to keep you on your toes

➡ Charlie Morningstar

she's very. . . strange all night leading up to midnight

you just accredit it to stress; she's managed this whole thing by herself and wants it to be perfect

Charlie is checking up on you all night, talking fast as a whip and fiddling with her hands as if she's said everything but what she wants to

A half hour before the fireworks happen, you don't actually see her at all

You find the perfect spot on the balcony

Then, like 5 minutes before you're waiting for the fireworks to go off she just- appears- right next to you. Shoulder to shoulder

"Hey! Uh- could we- Could I ask you something?"

"So, So when the angels told me about 'New Years' and what they do to celebrate I kind of stumbled into a new tradition! And I-well I wasjustkindofwondering"

She was rambling again, petting her hair and not looking at you, trying to smile through it.

"Charlie?" You stop her, "Ask me."

And she doesn't really, just kind of takes your hand in hers and stares down at your lips with a mix of anxiety and content.

That's when realization hits you.

Charlie leans in, and its the softest feeling you've ever experienced.

Her kisses feel like the sun against yours, and you can feel her smile into it, already giddy that she's done it!

➡ Vaggie

vaggie is running around with charlie the whole night making sure things go off without a hitch

and in a hotel full of sinners. . . it takes a while

i think vaggie wouldn't kiss someone just for the hell of it

if she wants to kiss you, you mean a whole lot

so new years is a great deadline to give herself to suck up her courage and just do it

she doesn't usually like PDA (its not that she doesn't like it, its just how she is) but if she kissed you on the balcony, it wouldn't matter because everything else would just fall away

she'd have you in her arms, cupping your face and kissing you almost hesitantly, pecking you a few times before she's finally comfortable enough to finally fall into it

➡ Angel Dust

angel always has company with him so it'd be a pretty public thing if you wanted to kiss him (ofc he doesn't mind; just warning you)

would love your company on new years eve, and would keep you close during the cool night

he's drinking with husk for a bit before midnight starts coming around

and by then, he's already very smug, and very flirty with you

hints that you may be his choice of new years kiss (like he tells you and winks)

its a casual thing (i mean, he told you he'd do it when the clock struck midnight)

but when it happens. . . its like he can feel the fireworks in his chest

bonus if you kiss him back right after

its something he wasn't expecting entirely, but it makes him smile like a crushing teenager

tries to brush it off of course

➡ Sir Pentious

he's extremely nervous to ask you

and is all over the place with his ideas and talking to you

he wants to ask for a kiss and builds up the courage all night, coming up to you confidently and burning out the moment he reaches you

he just can't with you looking at him innocently like that

he goes off into a corner to give himself a pep-talk

"You're Sir Pentious! You can do this! You've built gadgets that have toppled crime rings!. . ."

but when it comes to you, all his plans to kiss you just sort of crumble away in his hands

every plan he's had

but he's determined to find one that works out!

You probably hear of his "rant" through the grape-vine and take a stroll over to where he is

you most definitely have to make a first step, no matter how small, just to give him some glimmer of hope to hold onto

He see's you staring at his chest, glancing away when he notices you and he's overwhelmed with his feelings

grabbing you just a few seconds before midnight and kissing you as if its the last time he'll ever do it

➡ Husk

husk is drinking all night

he likes the party over all, just doesn't want to be a part of it and left to his own devices by the bar

wasn't expecting to spend new years eve with you, but he's. . . actually kind of glad you'd sit with him to watch the fireworks

wouldn't tell you that

honestly, midnight goes by for a few seconds, and seeing others kiss he just kind of catches himself scanning the crowd and then glancing over at you

it surprises you both

but its not something he'd fight either

tries to shrug it off and smile when he leans in towards you

his kiss tickles your face, and his lips taste like black licorice from his whiskey

but its not the drinks that have his head buzzing

i really feel like he'd kiss you until there wasn't another breath left in his lungs; silently hoping it wouldn't be the last time he does it

➡ Cherri Bomb

Cherri asking you straight up if you want to make-out with her

she's very picky when it comes to people she likes (or intends to see later in the night) so feel flattered that she's been staring at you

likes to tease you if you get flustered too

"Aw come on! I've seen the way you've been staring at me ya creep!"

"Come on, I won't bite"

Cherri is DEFINITELY the one to kiss you right as the clock strikes midnight

counting down as loudly as she can until its time

she's probably staring at you all night, glancing at your lips and biting hers playfully

a deadly flirt for sure

and she's not afraid to ask you or surprise you either

or just pull you by the chin and smash her lips into yours

her kisses are rough, but in a good way, like its something she's wanted to a while

[hrts4nagi]

she's the man!

paring :: itoshi rin x f!reader

synopsis :: hiori y/n is devastated after the news of the girls soccer team being cut from the sport program and unable to join the boys team. to rub more salt on the wound, she just broke off with her long-time boyfriend. devising a plan, she disguises herself as her twin brother to take his place at blue lock academy, an all-male prep school.

what she doesn’t expect is falling in love with the academy’s star player.

08.

wc:: 549

“okay, but how did you manage to hide every single soccer ball?” reo questioned, baffled at the situation. 

“a magician never reveals his secrets!” 

there the blue lock team was, all gathered together in the locker room. some elated at the delay, (especially nagi and isagi), others indifferent, but of all people in the room, there was one person who could just strangle bachira right now. 

rin facepalms at bachira’s actions. he was undoubtedly pissed that practice was pushed back, it's only been a couple days since the semester started. all rin wanted to do was get his hand on the ball to practice. if he didn't practice, that meant falling behind. falling behind meant he would be unable to beat his brother. he grows enraged at the thought.

you sigh plopping down onto the bench next to chigiri, “is he usually like this?”

“unfortunately, yes.” you shake your head at the situation. you take in a deep breath feeling one of your cramps coming down. “i’m just gonna lie for a bit, wake me up when warm-ups start?”

chigiri nods as you find comfort in curling up into a fetal position on the bench. maybe nagi was onto something with his power naps before practice. your eyebrows start to furrow in pain as the cramps start up and you wish for nothing more than to be a boy at that moment. all you could think about was miso providing warmth as a substitute for a heating pack. your frown deepens and eyes start to tear up at the thought of your precious cat.

damn hormones.

“hey, hiori why do you have tampons and pads in your bag?” bachira questions holding up both products in his hands.

crap.

you sit up quickly, at the speed that your vision blurs for a second. the heat raises to your cheeks as your mind short-circuits scrambling to find an excuse, any excuse. you look everywhere but towards bachira when you finally get an idea. suddenly, you spring up from the bench. 

“uhm, you guys ever have really bad nosebleeds? like, let's say when you run head first into someone or one of those moments?” some nod along in compliance.  “well, i use them to stop said nosebleeds! see!” you snatch a tampon out of bachira’s hand and stick it up one of your nostrils as demonstration. you shake your hands to bring more emphasis.

half the locker room looks dumbfounded at your statement while the other nod in agreement. “maybe i should get some myself,” mutters isagi. 

“okay, but that doesn't explain the pads,” nagi points out. 

“oh these? i found that these are more effective than bandaids! like when the inside of my cleats rub too hard against my heel i like to put them in my shoe!”

“that doesn't sound like a bad idea actually,” reo thinks. “hey, maybe i can pitch this to the old man.” 

you let out a sigh of relief, retreating back to the bench. “they actually bought it.” you mutter under your breath, slightly baffled and the other half proud in a way. 

rin lets out his fifth sigh in the span of 30 minutes. he was positive that with you being here was taking off a mere 5 years off his life-span. scratch that. maybe even 10.

navigation ::

she's the man!

next -> 09.

previous <- 07.

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