#it's been in my drafts for like two years

[bucketsorbueckers]

Trouble - Chapter 1

Age gap Paige X Azzi

Warnings: Language

Word count: 6.3K

a/n: someone dropped this idea in my inbox. i became obsessed. stayed up way too late and woke up way too early to write this bc i actually can't stop thinking about it. IDK how often this will be updated bc i clearly didn't write ahead but yeah. anyways anon, whoever you are, i love you sm thank you for this

also pls let me know if you like this one i know its diffff

Summary:

Paige Bueckers has spent five years as the WNBA’s golden girl—stoic, unstoppable, and famously unbothered.

But she’s also never met Azzi Fudd.

Until the Lynx trade up to draft her.

Azzi’s twenty-three. Number one pick. Gorgeous. Talented. And, not that long ago, was reposting thirst edits of Paige Bueckers like it was her part-time job.

Now they’re teammates. Sharing a locker room. And, if Azzi has her way, a slow-burn love story in the making.

Paige isn’t interested. Azzi isn’t subtle.

And neither of them is remotely prepared.

Azzi POV| 5:07 PM | Night before the draft

Azzi was halfway through her post-shower routine at the hotel, hair wrapped in a towel, legs still damp, wearing the old Chicago Sky t-shirt she’d thrifted freshman year—ripped at the hem and barely hanging on—when her phone rang.

On the screen: Marcus.

Her agent. Her very recently seen agent. They’d met earlier that day to go over everything—schedule, logistics, media. The plan.

Azzi was going number one. That wasn’t new. Wasn’t surprising.

Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year her senior season. Best guard in the class. She’d been headlining mock drafts since before she could legally vote.

Chicago had the pick. Chicago needed a star. She already had the jersey, practically.

So, there was no reason for Marcus to be calling. 

She answered the call with the kind of slow, suspicious grace typically reserved for the moment everything goes wrong.

“Hello?”

“You sitting down?” he asked, and her stomach dropped before he even said the rest.

She sat. Not because he told her to. Because her knees went loose all at once, and the edge of the bed caught her before the floor did.

“There was a trade,” he said. “It’s still you at number one. But it’s not Chicago anymore.”

She blinked. He waited.

She blinked again. “Then who—”

“Minnesota.”

Silence.

“Minnesota?” she repeated, like maybe that was a city she’d never heard of. “As in—”

“Yup,” Marcus said. “Lynx traded up. Desperate move. One of their guards tore her ACL in practice yesterday. Front office went all in. It’s a good opportunity, Azzi.”

But Azzi wasn’t listening. Because her brain had stopped at Minnesota and detoured immediately to Paige Bueckers.

“No. No, wait. Like… Paige Bueckers Minnesota?”

There was a pause. Then: “Well, I believe their facilities are technically in Minneapolis,” Marcus said, flat. “But yes. Pretty much the same thing.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She was too busy recalibrating the trajectory of her entire adult life.

Paige Bueckers. Paige fucking Bueckers. The woman who made midrange fadeaways look like foreplay.  Who never smiled in post-game interviews and somehow made that hot was going to be her teammate.

Azzi looked down at her shirt. Chicago blue—which now felt traitorous. She pulled it off immediately. Now standing in the mirror in just her bra and underwear, she stared at herself.

Oh god.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be drafted by Chicago, do the polite press thing, and flirt with Paige Bueckers lightly on Instagram after proving herself in the league.

She was not supposed to get launched straight into the orbit of her actual dream girl. This was not a drill. This was not a cool moment. This was Defcon horny.

“I have to go,” she said suddenly.

“Azzi, I think we should—”

She hung up before Marcus could finish. Rushed to her suitcase. Dug beneath the carefully folded outfits. Ripped through socks and slides and backup lashes until she found it.

The hoodie.

Faded gray. Slightly oversized. The same one Paige had been photographed in years ago after some summer league game—hood up, headphones in, looking so good Azzi had nearly choked. 

Azzi had seen the picture on Twitter and ordered the hoodie that day. No hesitation.

She pulled it on now. Like maybe it would protect her from the very obvious, very embarrassing crush she still hadn’t grown out of.

It did not.

If anything, it made things worse. Because now she looked like a girl who knew what she was walking into. And was already in way too deep.

She checked the mirror. Pouted. Tilted her head.

“Shit,” she muttered to her reflection. “You’re absolutely gonna ruin everything.”

Group Chat: baby goats🐐🐐🐐

Azzi:

THEY TRADED THE PICK

I’M GOING TO MINNESOTA

MINNE-FUCKING-SOTA

WHY WOULD GOD DO THIS TO ME

Jana ??? girl congrats???

Caroline: wait like BUECKERS minnesota????

Azzi: SHE’S THERE

SHE’S GONNA SEE ME

SHE’S GONNA KNOW

Caroline:what is she gonna know??

Azzi: THAT I’M DOWN BAD

that i’ve been reposting her since sophomore year

Jana i’m sorry didn’t you tweet “paige bueckers if you’re reading this i’m free on thursday. and also every day for the rest of my life" once

Caroline:

oh you’re cooked

Azzi: she’s gonna think i’m a fan

she’s gonna know i’m a fan

i’m gonna get benched for being horny

Jana: can they even put that in the contract?

Azzi:  they’re gonna invent a new clause for me

—-----------

Azzi woke up the next morning with two purposes:

Look unbelievably good.

Don’t make a complete fool of herself in front of Paige Bueckers.

She had a better chance of walking on water than pulling off both.

Her room was already full of people by the time she brushed her teeth. Makeup team. Hair. Stylist. Publicist. A girl holding a tiny steamer and the biggest coffee Azzi had ever seen.

She let them pull her into the chair while they moved around her in practiced formation. Clipped her hair back. Adjusted the lighting. Began.

“Morning,” her stylist said, already unzipping garment bags like they were revealing state secrets. “We’ve got two looks—one for tehs stage, one for the afterparty. You’re gonna like both, but you’re gonna love one.”

Azzi smiled, soft but sure. “Knew I could trust you.”

She sat still as they worked—moisturizer, concealer, quiet chatter filling the gaps. She knew the drill. Sit. Breathe. Let the professionals do their thing while she tried not to overthink hers.

The carpet dress was black silk, ankle-length, with a halter neckline and a slit that would photograph well but not scream trying too hard. Her makeup stayed close to natural, but her eyes were lined sharp exactly how she liked it. 

She looked at herself in the mirror when they finished. She looked good. And not just ‘for a rookie,’ not just ‘draft night ready.’ She looked like someone who belonged—who had trained her whole life for this and was getting what she deserved. 

Still, she adjusted the strap at her shoulder. Smoothed the fabric at her waist. Picked up her phone like it might ground her.

Jana: You breathe yet?

Azzi: No but at least I’ll look sexy while dying

Jana: Post a thirst trap. Establish dominance.

Azzi: You think I won’t??

She didn’t. She posted a mirror selfie mid-makeup with the caption: draft day bts. She half hoped maybe Paige would see it. But Paige didn’t even follow her so the thought was desperate and mortifying in a way she didn’t want to admit. 

The crowd in the room slowly thinned out until it was just her.

Makeup brushes packed away. Dresses zipped back into garment bags. Someone murmured something about call times and press schedules, but Azzi only half-heard it. She nodded, smiled, stayed seated.

She looked back at the mirror. Tucked a curl behind her ear. Took a breath inhaling the slight taste of hairspray and perfume. 

Tonight was about a lot of things. Her future. Her game. Her name being called first. She knew that. She could feel the weight of it behind her ribs, the stretch of everything about to change.

But still, she couldn’t stop imagining Paige seeing her like this.

Not on TV. Not through a tagged post or a highlight clip. Here. In the same room. Breathing the same air.

She didn’t even know if Paige would be there. Maybe she’d be watching from home. Maybe she wouldn’t be watching at all. Maybe this was Azzi being ridiculous—letting a decade-old crush sneak in the side door of the biggest night of her life.

But the thought lingered.

She grabbed her phone again. 

Azzi: if i trip on stage it’s not nerves it’s gay panic. tell my story right.

She sent the text and immediately threw her phone onto the bed like it was hot. Not because it was dramatic. Okay���maybe a little because it was dramatic.

She stood. Smoothed her dress again, even though it didn’t need it. The fabric was fine. The fit was perfect. It was her hands that needed something to do.

Her heart was doing that weird, too-hard, too-loud thing it did before tip-off. Only this time, there were no sneakers. No court. Just cameras and lights and the unbearable possibility of her dreams coming true in front of the woman of her dreams.

Poetry, or something like that.

She turned to the mirror. Looked at herself for a long second. The girl in the reflection looked ready.  She didn’t feel that way.

“Let’s go,” she said, quietly. To no one.  To herself. To the version of her that still didn’t totally believe this was real.

She adjusted her earrings. Lifted her chin. Took one last breath, like it might hold her together.

And then she stepped out of the room—into the hallway, into the chaos, into the version of her life she hadn’t dared to imagine too clearly. Not out loud.  Not until now.

—--

The moment she stepped onto the orange carpet, everything sharpened.

The lights. The voices. The flashbulbs that went off three at a time. It was like stepping onto another planet—one where the air smelled like hairspray and nerves and the smiles came too fast to be real.

Azzi squared her shoulders, tilted her chin half an inch higher, and kept walking.

She’d been to big events before. Red carpets in college, press days for awards., hell even NYC fashion week. But this was different. This was the night. The one she’d been working toward since she could barely dribble with her left hand.

She moved through the chaos like she’d practiced it—because she had. Step, stop, pose. Give the camera a little shoulder. Smile, but not too big. Enough to say I’m happy to be here, not I can’t feel my face.

“Azzi! Over here!”

She turned toward the voice, one arm resting at her side, the other lightly bent at the elbow. Every pose intentional. Controlled. Like her body wasn’t buzzing with the kind of nervous energy that felt suspiciously like hope.

Hope that maybe Paige was already inside. Hope that maybe she’d notice.

“Who are you wearing tonight?” someone shouted.

Azzi named the designer, barely heard herself say it. She could feel her heart under her collarbone, steady but too loud. A camera shutter clicked. Then another.

“She’s stunning,” someone near the ropes whispered. Azzi didn’t look to see who said it. Didn’t want to ruin it by knowing.

Instead, she kept moving. She made it to the midway point of the carpet before she caught sight of a familiar face.

“Yo,” someone hissed near a row of photographers. “Tell me I’m not sweating through my dress.”

Azzi turned—smiling, grateful—and found Kiara Johnson fanning herself with her hands. Her dress was fire engine red and absolutely unfair.

“You look beautiful,” Azzi said smiling. 

Kiara rolled her eyes. “Thanks. You look unbothered. Hate that for me.”

Azzi laughed, and for a moment, the cameras blurred out. The nerves, too.

Behind her, Simone was already deep into an interview, talking with her hands like the cameras might miss her otherwise. Somewhere to the left, Delaney was yanking at the top of her strapless dress like it might betray her at any second.

They were all here—lined up, glossed up, trying to look chill while buzzing out of their skin. No one said it, but everyone was thinking it: getting drafted was one thing. Making a roster? Whole different story. And the lights were hot. The makeup was sweating. The stakes were higher than any of them wanted to admit.

Azzi took a breath. Smiled. Tried to look like she belonged.

“See you on the other side,” Kiara said, brushing past her with a wink, already headed toward the interview line.

The moment slipped by, and Azzi moved with it—fielding a few more questions, posing for photos, laughing at something one of her old teammates said. She nodded, waved, kept walking.

But finally, she made it through. The final stretch of the carpet calmer. Fewer cameras. Less shouting. Just the hum of anticipation and the low thrum of music from inside the venue.

Azzi slowed her pace. Let the moment sit.

People always said draft night moved fast—that it blurred. She didn’t feel that. If anything, everything felt too sharp. The air too cool on her shoulders. The lights too bright. Her skin too tight across her ribs.

She’d done this before. Interviews. Spotlights. Moments where people clapped just because she walked into a room. But this time was different. This time, it felt like something was about to begin, and she didn’t know who she’d be on the other side of it.

She reached the end of the carpet and stepped out of frame.  But then she paused.

She glanced back—over her shoulder, slow and searching. Just in case. Just in case maybe Paige was there. Standing off to the side. Looking at her like…

She didn’t even know. She just wanted to know. But there was no one.

Just a few photographers packing up. A tech guy adjusting a boom mic. The kind of silence that hums when it’s supposed to be loud.

Azzi lingered for half a second too long. Then turned back. And stepped into her future. 

Paige’s POV 

Paige dropped onto the couch and handed Courtney a beer.

“Thanks,” Courtney said, cracking it open with the corner of her hoodie sleeve like they weren’t sitting ten feet from the kitchen.

It was draft night. The kind of thing you watched because you had to, not because you wanted to.

Paige had made it through exactly half a press request before deciding she didn’t want to be there in person. She hadn’t said why. Just texted her agent staying home. thanks though.

But she knew she needed to watch. So, here she was. 

Tori had torn her ACL three days ago—awkward landing in a non-contact drill. She’d crumpled before she even hit the paint. Paige had watched it happen. Hadn’t said much.

Now, the front office had scrambled, like they always did. Moves made over phones and closed doors, things shuffled before most people knew there was a gap.

Enter Azzi Fudd.

Number one pick. Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year. Flashy handle. Clean jumper.

Apparently league-ready, though Paige found all rookies questionable on principle. Even the good ones. Especially the ones who came in shiny and hyped and smiling too much.

She took another sip. Let the beer go warm in her mouth before swallowing. Tapped her fingers once against the bottle in her hand. And then Azzi Fudd appeared on the screen.

“Didn’t she cross up that French guard at Worlds?” Courtney asked, squinting toward the TV.

“Probably,” Paige said.

Azzi stepped onto the orange carpet in a black silk dress.

Sleek. Minimal. The kind of dress that clung just enough and moved when she walked. High neckline. Open back. Legs for days. Not showy, but precise. Every detail meant to look like it hadn’t been thought about at all—which meant it had been thought about a lot.

She posed like she’d done it before. Hand at her waist. Chin tilted just slightly. Confident. Camera-ready.

The kind of look that worked hard to seem effortless. And mostly got away with it.

Paige watched her for a second longer than she meant to. Not because she cared. She didn’t.

She just hadn’t expected her to walk like that. Like she owned the carpet. Like she knew how she looked. Like she knew people were watching and wasn’t interested in pretending otherwise.

She wasn't sure why she was surprised.

Azzi was good-looking. Everyone could probably admit that. But the confidence -

“She’s good-looking,” Courtney said, casually. Like she was reading Paige’s mind and calling her out on it before Paige could pretend otherwise.

Paige didn’t flinch. “She looks like a kid.”

Too fast. Too automatic.

Courtney turned her head. Just slightly. “That is not a kid.”

Paige brought the bottle to her lips. Didn’t drink. Her eyes drifted back to the screen, where Azzi was still smiling like the world had already said yes. And the thing was—no. She didn’t look like a kid.

Not in that dress. Not with that walk. Not with the way she tilted her chin at the camera like she already knew every eye was on her. 

She looked like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. And was probably used to getting away with it.

Trouble. 

But Paige didn’t say that. Didn’t even think it, not officially.

“She’s confident,” Courtney added.

“She’s twenty-three,” Paige said. “They’re all confident.”

It wasn’t a slight. It was just math.

Her phone buzzed, screen lighting up beside her. She glanced at it. Her agent.

Need to post a ‘welcome to Minnesota’ tonight, P. It’s a good look.

Paige rolled her eyes. Clicked the screen off without replying. She wasn’t in the mood to perform a warm reception.

She set the phone facedown on the coffee table. Picked her beer back up. The draft coverage rolled on in the background—names, stats, dresses, practiced smiles.

She didn’t watch. She already knew what she needed to know. The Lynx had a new rookie. And Paige had a season to win.

The volume was still muted when they called Azzi’s name. But the words still crossed the screen: 

“First overall pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…the Minnesota Lynx select Azzi Fudd.”

Courtney leaned forward. “There it is.”

Paige didn’t move. Just watched as the camera panned to Azzi—already on her feet, hugging the people at her table. Composed. Moving slow. Like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life and had no plans to let anyone else touch it.

She moved through the crowd like she belonged to it. Dress sleek, smile soft but deliberate. No stumble. No nerves showing.

“Clean,” Courtney murmured. “I’ll give her that.”

Paige made a quiet sound in her throat. Not agreement. Not disagreement either.

Azzi reached the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey with the right amount of polish. Flashes went off around her. People cheered.

Paige took another sip of her beer.

“She’s gonna be on your left,” Courtney said.

Paige shrugged. “If she earns it.”

On screen, Azzi waved at the crowd. Her smile cracked a little wider, just for a second. Genuine. Then the screen faded to black.

Paige shifted on the couch. Let the silence settle for a second. Ran through her mental list of shit she needed to get done.

And then the music kicked back in—cinematic, dramatic, over the top. The draft coverage returned with one of those slow-motion montages ESPN couldn’t resist. Azzi crossing someone up at Worlds. Azzi pulling up from the logo with zero hesitation. Azzi grinning, scissors in hand, cutting the net.

“Azzi, huge congrats. First overall—how does it feel, and what are you most looking forward to as a member of the Lynx?”

Azzi smiled. “I mean… everything, really. It’s a great team, great coaching staff. I’ve grown up watching this league, so to be part of it—especially with this franchise—feels surreal. I’m ready to learn, to work—just excited to be part of the culture.”

“She’s media trained to hell,” Courtney muttered from the far end of the couch, one leg tucked under her.

Paige didn’t respond.

Azzi was answering all the usual questions—grateful, humbled, excited to learn. She hit every note perfectly. Not too eager. Not too rehearsed. Just enough to come off smooth. And then the reporter smiled, a little too wide. A little too pointed.

“You’ll be joining a team with some serious veteran talent. I’ve gotta ask—are you excited to play with someone like Paige Bueckers?”

Paige blinked.

Courtney groaned. “Here we fucking go.”

Azzi hesitated. Barely. But enough to see it. The pause. The shift in her shoulders, like she was resetting.

She smiled again, quick and reflexive. “Yeah, of course. I mean—she’s Paige Bueckers.”

Paige closed her eyes for a second. Inhaled. Forced herself not to look over at Courtney, who she knew—without question—was sitting there with that annoying-ass grin, just waiting. Exhaled. Opened her eyes. Azzi was no longer on the screen.

Slowly, she turned her head.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Courtney held it together for maybe half a second. Then lost it—low and sharp and immediate.

“She said it like one of your fan girls.”

“She said it like someone answering a forced question on live TV.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, a forced question that made her whole spine go stiff.”

Paige didn’t bite. Just kept her eyes on the screen, now back to showing some other prospect hugging their family.

Courtney leaned back, grinning. “I’m just saying—if she goes all shy and stuttery every time you walk in the room? I’m not gonna survive.”

“She’ll be fine.”

Courtney snorted. “You sure? 'Cause right now she’s out here sounding like she still got your jersey saved in her closet.”

Paige stared ahead, expression flat. “You done?”

“For now.”

Paige sighed. “She’s a kid, Court. It’s draft night. She was nervous.”

“Nervous about playing with the Paige Bueckers,” Courtney squealed, lifting her hands like she was presenting a prize on a game show.

Paige clenched her jaw, “Why the fuck did I invite you over again?”

Courtney shrugged. “Because I’m one of the few people who still put up with your ass.”

Paige scoffed. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Courtney said, cracking open another drink. “But I’m right.”

Paige didn’t argue.

—----------

Later that night, after the noise had faded and the apartment had gone still, Paige crawled into bed and stared at the text from her agent. She didn’t roll her eyes, but the instinct was there.

She knew she should do it. She’d known since before the draft even started. Since the trade went through. Since someone in PR mentioned “messaging alignment” and how nice it would be if she tapped in as a vet.

A simple post. A “Welcome to Minnesota.” A teammate move. The kind of thing that looked good. That people noticed.

She remembered her own draft night. The nerves that crept in after the cameras cut. The way everything felt bigger than she was, even if she didn’t show it.

And she remembered what it meant—seeing a name she recognized in her notifications. A vet she respected saying something as small as can’t wait to hoop.

She hadn’t known, at the time, if she belonged yet. If she’d be accepted. That one message hadn’t fixed it, but it had helped.

Paige sighed, unlocked her phone, and started typing.

She didn’t follow Azzi yet. She hadn’t thought about it. Not really her thing to follow people before they showed up. Rookies came and went. Most of them weren’t worth tracking until they were in the gym.

But Azzi was going to be her teammate. Number one picks don't go anywhere.

And so, Paige typed “azzi” into the search bar. First result. Blue check. Profile picture of her in a UCLA uniform. 

She tapped follow. Found a photo of her holding the jersey on stage. Shared it to her story. 

Typed:

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work. Tagged her. Posted it.

Then she locked her phone, flipped it face down on the nightstand, and turned out the light.

Azzi’s POV

The afterparty was loud, gold-lit, and dripping in free liquor. Azzi was still wearing her heels—even though she swore she wouldn’t be that girl—but the champagne buzz made it easier to lie to her calves.

She was mid-laugh when Caroline grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her away from the circle of girls around the DJ booth, and shoved her phone into Azzi’s face like it was breaking news.

“AZZI.”

Azzi turned, grinning. “Jesus. What?”

Caroline didn’t speak. Just shoved her phone forward again like it was a bomb. “Look.”

Azzi squinted. Read what was on the screen. Blinked once. And then fully screamed.

Because there it was. Paige Bueckers’ Instagram story. 

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work, @/azzifudd. Tagged. Plain as day.

Azzi clapped a hand over her mouth. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yes, bitch!”

Azzi grabbed Caroline’s phone like it might vanish. Stared at the story. The caption. Her name. Her face. Paige fucking Bueckers had posted her.

“Did she follow me?” Azzi asked, voice already an octave too high.

“Yes.”

“She tagged me?”

“YES.”

Azzi shrieked again. Someone turned and looked. She didn’t care. She was pacing in tiny drunk circles, heels clacking against marble, one hand still holding her drink like a lifeline, the other pressed flat to her chest.

“I’m gonna throw up,” she said.

Caroline looked delighted. “No, you’re gonna cry. Then you’re gonna DM her. And then you’re gonna marry her.”

Azzi stopped mid-circle. “Do I DM her?”

Caroline blinked, like she couldn't believe Azzi took that seriously. “Are you insane?”

“Yes?”

Azzi fumbled for her own phone. Opened Instagram. Her hands were sweaty. Her brain was screaming. But there it was. Paige Bueckers. Blue check. Following you.

She screamed. Again.

Caroline absolutely cackled. “You’re gonna combust,” she wheezed, clutching her stomach.

Azzi didn’t answer. Just leaned back against the wall, head tipped toward the ceiling like if she moved even a little, the alcohol and adrenaline sloshing around inside her might actually spill out.

“She posted me,” she whispered.

“Yup.”

“She knows I exist.”

“She definitely does.”

Azzi dropped her phone. Caroline caught it mid-air.

“I peaked,” Azzi said, eyes glassy. “It’s all downhill from here.”

Caroline laughed so hard she snorted. “This is the gayest moment of your life.”

“So far,” Azzi shot back, managing a wink.

Caroline cracked up again, and Azzi just sat there—grinning like a dumbass and letting herself have it. The moment. The buzz. The quiet shock of it actually happening.

And yeah, sure—maybe the woman she’d been casually obsessed with since she was eighteen had just acknowledged her existence...publicly. And maybe her brain had short-circuited a little. But this wasn’t just about Paige.

This was hers.

Her name. Her number. Her jersey. The dream she’d chased across a thousand late nights and long practices, now finally unfolding—loud and real and hers.

—-

Her and Caroline ended up in bed together.

Not like that. Just sideways across the hotel mattress, still in their dresses, makeup smudged, Azzi’s heels abandoned somewhere under the desk. The lights were off, save for the glow of Caroline’s phone screen and the pale halo of the city bleeding through the window. Azzi was lying dramatically on her back, one arm flung over her face.

“She posted me,” she whispered for the third time that hour.

“Yes, Azzi.” Caroline’s voice was dry. “She posted you. We know. We have analyzed every font, every pixel, every breath of it.”

Azzi lifted her phone off her stomach and tilted it toward her face again. Paige’s story was still up. Still tagged. Still maddeningly casual.

“Do you think she picked that picture on purpose?” she asked.

“I think the options were limited.”

“But it's a good photo.”

Caroline rolled onto her side. “You looked hot. She noticed. Congrats.”

Azzi groaned, half-smiling. “She didn’t notice.”

“She did.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

They were quiet for a second. Just the sound of distant traffic, the soft hum of the hotel AC, and the fizz of Azzi’s brain trying not to read too much into something that probably wasn’t anything.

Probably.

“I should repost it,” Azzi said finally.

“Yes,” Caroline said, without hesitation.

Azzi stared at her screen.

“What do I say?”

“Don’t overthink it.”

“I am overthinking it.”

“I know.”

Azzi hovered over the repost button for a full minute. Then tapped it. Drafted three different captions. Deleted all of them. Groaned into the pillow. Caroline waited, patient like the best friends always are when you’re being slightly insane but they loved you anyway. 

Finally, Azzi typed:

Let’s. Then added a basketball emoji. A wolf. A white heart. Paused. And hit post.

The story blinked up on her screen. Her name and Paige’s, together. Not side by side, exactly, but close enough. She exhaled, dropping the phone on the mattress between them.

Caroline nudged her knee. “Proud of you.”

Azzi smiled. Soft. Sleepy. “She’s probably not even thinking about it.”

Caroline shrugged. “Maybe not.”

They let the silence settle again. The good kind. The kind that means everything is still, and sweet, and safe.  Eventually, Caroline fell asleep. Azzi didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, she lay there blinking up at the ceiling, heart still doing that stupid flutter thing every time she thought Paige knows who I am.

Her phone kept buzzing. Someone replied to her story with fire emojis. Another repost. Another tag. Her mentions were chaos, but she didn’t check them.

Instead, she opened her own profile. Scrolled. Paused on a selfie with a suggestive caption from last summer. Deleted.

Another one—captioned something like wife me—gone.

A photo in Paige’s college jersey, posted years ago with an “accidental” crop that still showed the number? Archive.

She kept going. Just in case. Not because she cared what Paige thought. She didn’t. Not really.

She just wanted to seem…cool. Chill. Like she hadn’t been watching Paige play since she was young and realized just how good Paige was. Like she hadn’t watched her interview clips on YouTube, or bought that hoodie the second Paige wore it in a tunnel fit.

Azzi groaned quietly into her pillow. This was so dumb. She was a professional now. A grown-ass adult. Still, she archived one more post, just to be safe.

Then finally, she turned off her screen, slid the phone under her pillow, and rolled onto her side. Caroline was snoring softly behind her.

Paige Bueckers had tagged her. And now, they were teammates.

God help her.

—---

Training camp came quicker than she was prepared for.

One minute, she was still drunk off adrenaline and nice champagne, doing half-coherent interviews in a silk dress. The next, she was alone in her car with her duffel bag in the passenger seat and her knees shaking like it was the first day of high school.

The Lynx practice facility rose ahead, sleek and intimidating, like it was designed specifically to make rookies question their entire life.

Azzi stared out the window. Tried to breathe like a normal person.

She could do this. She had done this—first days, new teams, pressure so thick it pressed against her chest like a physical weight. She knew how to show up. Knew how to play.

Still, her legs wobbled when she stepped out. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was Paige Bueckers.

(Probably Paige Bueckers.)

She pulled her hoodie tighter around her neck, shifted her bag over her shoulder, and walked toward the doors like they weren’t the gateway to her actual childhood dream.

The glass reflected her face back at her—tired eyes, lips pressed into something that was almost a smile. She squared her shoulders.

This was fine. She was fine. Totally, absolutely, one-hundred-percent fine.

She stepped inside.

The air was cool and smelled like disinfectant and money—cleaner than any gym she’d ever trained in. The kind of place built for greatness. The kind of place that didn’t just expect banners and trophies but demanded them.

Azzi paused just past the entrance, eyes catching on the wall to her right. Photos stretched down the hallway—players frozen mid-crossover, mid-celebration, mid-legacy. Maya Moore. Seimone Augustus. Napheesa Collier.

And then...

Paige Bueckers.

Azzi’s eyes caught on that one. Briefly. Too briefly. She looked away fast enough to give herself whiplash, like if she didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t register.

It was a good photo though. Intense. A little smug. Paige had her hands on her hips, chin tipped like she already knew she’d won — because she probably had. That kind of quiet confidence you couldn’t teach, just had to be born with.

And yeah. Maybe Azzi had once saved that exact photo to her phone. For, you know. Motivation. But she had deleted it last week like any normal person would. 

Azzi adjusted the strap on her duffel and kept walking. Kept ignoring the creeping thoughts threatening to topple her. 

She didn’t need to stare at a wall of greatness and spiral about where she fit in. Or worse: imagine what her photo would look like up there one day.

What if I never make it?

Nope. Not today.

Today, she had one job: walk in like she belonged. Even if her stomach was flipping and her palms were clammy and her brain was already shouting don’t say anything weird to Paige Bueckers.

One step at a time, she forced herself to think.

She pushed open the locker room door and stepped in, trying to look chill. She wasn’t.

The place was already alive. Bass pulsing through the speakers, someone laughing from the far corner, the sharp rip of a duffel unzipping. It smelled like eucalyptus and someone’s overpriced lotion, warm and floral and a little too strong.

Heads turned.

“Look who finally showed up,” Bridget said, lounging in a sports bra and sweats, socked feet kicked up. “Miss Number One.”

A few others laughed, and Courtney gave her a nod from across the room. “Go ‘head and find a seat, rookie.”

Azzi smiled because what else could she do? She gave a small wave, muttered, “Nice to meet y’all,” and found the open locker with her name on it. 

A few players came over to introduce themselves. A little side hug from Alanna. Another grin from Courtney as she passed with a protein shake in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Welcome to the league,” she said, tossing it over her shoulder like it wasn’t the coolest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Azzi smiled again, this time a little tighter. She was trying not to scan the room too obviously, but the longer she stood there, the more obvious it felt.

No Paige.

The absence settled over her like static. Not loud, but present.

She didn’t say anything. Just peeled off her hoodie, folding it with too much care—like it was the most important thing she'd do all day. She stuffed it into her duffel and wiped her palms on her leggings, fingers twitching.

Eyes darted around again.

Still no Paige.

“You good?” Alanna asked, passing by again.

“Yeah,” Azzi said quickly. “Just… taking it in.”

“I get it,” She said with a small smile. “But you got drafted for a reason. So, remember that.”

Azzi nodded and tried to keep breathing.

She reached for the hem of her shirt and yanked it up, halfway over her head, arms caught for a second, shoulder twisting awkwardly.

Of course, that’s when the door swung open behind her. Because timing was a cruel, heartless bitch.

She stilled. The fabric still clinging to one arm.

And then, the room shifted in that subtle, almost imperceptible way that happens when someone important walks in. Energy coiling. Conversations dipping.

She yanked the shirt off with a violent twist, hair static-y and sticking to her face, and turned around and almost died.

Paige Bueckers. In the flesh. Black hoodie. Basketball shorts. Tall. Blonde. Looking like a deleted scene from a Nike commercial. Like she hadn’t just walked into Azzi’s most persistent daydream.

Azzi stood there, caught mid-breath, shirt clutched in her hands like she was preparing to wave it as a white flag.

Paige’s eyes flicked to her. Not in a weird way. Just in a normal, I-am-acknowledging-you-as-a-human-being way.

And then she nodded.

Just a nod. A small, neutral nod. Like good morning, or I see you exist, or I didn’t just walk in on you shirtless, don't make it a thing.

Azzi nodded back. A simple gesture. Easy. Universal.

Except—no. Not the way she did it.  Too fast. Too eager. Like a bobblehead with something to prove.

Cool, she thought. Real chill. Definitely nailed the nod. But then came the panic spiral.

Was it too sharp? Too aggressive? Had she nodded up or down? Was it more of a chin lift? What if Paige thought she was challenging her? What if it looked like a salute? Oh god—what if it looked like a bow?

She didn’t dare glance back to check.

Instead, she turned to her locker, opened it with forced purpose, and stared into the abyss of the empty space like it held the meaning of life.

She could feel Paige’s presence behind her. That quiet, steady energy. The kind that didn’t need to fill space because it already owned it.

Azzi, meanwhile, was contemplating the physics of spontaneous combustion.

She took out her water bottle. Put it back. Took it out again. Her hand was shaking slightly, which was fun and normal. And then, because apparently her body was still committed to ruining her life, she nodded again.

At no one. To herself. As if to say: Yes. Good. Great. You are the nodding champ!

She blinked at the wood shelf in front of her and whispered under her breath, “Kill me.”

Then she slapped the locker shut and sat down like everything was fine.

(It wasn't.)

Paige’s POV

Paige pushed open the locker room door, hoodie sleeves shoved up, headphones still around her neck. Familiar voices bounced around the space—Courtney arguing with Bridget about something dumb, someone laughing near the back. Normal. Comfortable.

She stepped inside.

Azzi Fudd was halfway out of her shirt, arms stuck, shoulder twisted awkwardly like her body had forgotten the mechanics of sleeves. Paige barely registered it, just enough to slow her pace, glance once.

Azzi finally yanked the shirt off. Hair clinging to her face, cheeks already pink. She turned around like she’d been summoned. And froze.

They made direct eye contact. Azzi’s eyes blowing wide. Paige blinked, looked around the room for a beat, wondering if she’d missed something—spilled drink, surprise visitor, fire alarm. But no. Just Azzi. Still staring. Still mid-panic.

So Paige nodded. Simple. Casual. Nothing loaded. Just Hey.

Azzi nodded back. If you could call it that. It was more like a full-body twitch. Quick. Panicked. Slight unhinged. And maybe even painful.

Paige arched a brow before continuing to walk. But from the corner of her eye, she saw it: Azzi staring into her locker like it was a portal to another dimension. Pulling out a water bottle. Putting it back. Pulling it out again.

Then, unbelievably, nodding. Again. At no one.

Beside her, Courtney let out a low snort, knocking their shoulders together on instinct. Paige didn’t look over. Just rolled her eyes, pulled her headphones off, tucked them into her locker.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But in her head, one word rang clear and smug:

Trouble.

[heartyluv]

Note: This wonderful idea was based on an ask sent by @klossnite! (Click here to read it!) I’m doing my asks like this from now on because it started getting glitchy and weird when I would save them in my drafts. Anyways, she and I were chatting in the comments about Camboy!Caleb, the dynamic he has with his wife, and just how in loveee they are and she would like to see how they were on their wedding night. So know that this is prior to all the camboy fics!

And yes, I am making it canon and known right here, right now! Camboy!Caleb’s wife IS chubby!!!

Creds to @/anitalenia for the dividers!

Warning: Smut, Caleb is fingering you, self-depreciation (you weren’t as confident in yourself before you started making content with him)

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: You were once a fan who paid Caleb to watch him come and whisper filthy things as he did it, and now you’re married to him. When your first night as newlyweds comes to close, something heavy arises inside your mind that only your husband can ease.

Camboy!Caleb/Reader ~ Newlyweds

From the moment you and Caleb woke up to drive to the courthouse early this morning right up to you making it off the plane as you landed in Greece for your honeymoon—it’s been an experience nothing short of surreal.

It never even became a thought to entertain that you’d marry him when you both were strangers as you were paying to show your support for his content creation a few years ago, but only the universe knew how deep your gratefulness went. Officially, you belonged to a beautiful man who had gotten teary eyed as he slid your white and gold diamond ring onto your finger.

The day he proposed to you was a simple one. It was a random morning when you woke up and he was staring at you as you laid beside him in bed. You’d been living together for two years—an official couple for three—and Caleb knew that just calling you his girlfriend wasn’t enough.

He said it softly as he gazed into your sleepy eyes.

“Will you marry me?”

And you knew you were just as whipped when you didn’t hesitate for a moment to murmur yes. He kissed you so tenderly, morning breath and all. It was a fairytale you would brag about until the day you died.

Neither of you wanted a grand wedding with people who outwardly or silently judged him for the work he did or you for being okay with it. So instead of spending thousands on an event that was mainly for other people, Caleb planned a trip for your honeymoon while you booked the appointment to obtain your marriage license with the intention for it all to happen on the same day. It wasn’t the wedding you thought you’d have when you were in high school—with a big gown, a detailed arrangement of flowers, and dozens of guests—instead, it was infinitely better.

You wore one of Caleb’s favorites—a backless light yellow sundress that made you feel like a princess, while he wore a simple white dress shirt with the top few buttons undone and black slacks. Your photographer was an older woman and her husband who took both you and Caleb’s phones to record and snap all kinds of photos for your memories.

The way he kissed you after your vows that came straight from the heart and the second you said I Do had told you everything—that you had absolutely made the right choice.

It was night time as you and Caleb were being driven to where your villa was. He had been guiding you through absolutely everything. The trip and all it would consist of was a secret until he showed you.

After you landed, he had taken you to a gorgeous restaurant that had food so divine that you wished you could’ve consumed more than you had. He then took you to markets that sold all kinds of clothes you adored and small stores that sold the most precious trinkets he knew you’d love.

You couldn’t wrap your mind around how he was able to find so many places that he knew would fascinate you, but you’d been floating through it all with immense happiness. The way he knows you, the way he loves you, is a gift you feel you’ll never be able to repay him enough for.

In awe you gazed at all the people who made these beautiful hills of land a home as you rested your head on your husband’s shoulder. You two were far from tired despite your excursions.

When you got to where you’d be staying for the week and watched Caleb bring your bags up the stairs and inside because he refused for you to lift a finger, you explored the space in comfortable silence. The large bed that faced double doors with a mesmerizing view of the ocean and overlook of the other buildings, the breeze that flowed inside with the comforting smell of sea salt, along with the detailed walls and wooden floors made you wish that you could stay here forever.

“What do you think about going for a swim?” Caleb suggests as he walks towards you with a grin. “Wanted us to have a good first day before I got you to myself for the rest of the night.”

You bit your lip as he kissed your neck, bracing your hands on his arms as he grabbed you everywhere he could. “I’d like that.”

“Go change.” He nipped your ear. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. I feel sweaty.”

You snorted, kissing his lips after you nodded. “Be quick.”

“Of course.”

While the shower ran, you went into your suitcase to pick your swimsuit. But when you actually realized what you had packed, the hesitation that flowed through you was strong.

Every single one was a two piece and that was thanks to a striking moment of confidence when you decided to step out of your comfort zone and ditch the one pieces you strictly wore.

Caleb has seen you naked and you two have had sex, but for some reason, as you slipped on the dark blue bikini set, you wanted to do nothing but cover up and hide yourself from him. You looked at yourself in the mirror that rested against the wall, turning to the side as you looked at how your plush stomach settled on the bottoms. You frowned when you tried to suck it in, wishing that you were smart enough to have packed at least one thing that was full coverage.

Your mind went to all the women you saw today, their flat stomachs a sight to behold in their beach attire as you and Caleb traversed through the tourist locations. It was then that you decided—I can’t go outside like this.

“Baby?” Caleb called out, startling you because you were so lost in thought that you never heard the shower stop or him open the door. “You okay?”

Your lack of response immediately raises the alarms in his mind. All of his attention and concern is on you now when he walks closer to look at you through the mirror.

You look at him with overwhelming love, thinking of how you met and what has come of it. That’s all that should be on your mind along with how you’ll be celebrating—not how you look in a bikini, but you can’t help it. Especially not when you can feel his hard and muscular body press against your bigger one.

You pull your cover up tighter around you and that makes Caleb’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Woah, woah,” he places his hand over yours from behind. “What’s going on?”

Silence.

“Pretty, I can’t help if you don’t talk to me. That’s what we do, yeah?” He studies you as best he can. “We talk.”

“It’s nothing, babe,” you deflect, getting ready to move away, but Caleb doesn’t let you.

“Not only are you keeping something from me, but you’re lying about it. I don’t like that.”

You know you need to come clean. It’s not fair to ruin everything because of your insecurities.

“I just,” you huff, blowing breath through your lips. “I don’t like how I look right now, is all.”

“What’s wrong with how you look?”

“Caleb, we don’t have to talk about this—”

“What’s wrong with how you look?” he cuts you off, repeating himself with narrowed eyes.

“I should’ve brought something that covered up more, that’s it.” Your response is short—curt. And for that, Caleb has to fix it.

He leans down, kissing your shoulder then making you tilt your head to the side as he lips graze against the skin on your neck. “It sounds like you’re talking bad about my wife,” he whispers, sending shivers through you.

“You know I don’t like a lot of things, but one thing I’ll never accept?” He begins to peel your cover up down your shoulders, looking at you in the mirror as if he dares you to stop him with no words necessary to convey the message. “Someone badmouthing the woman I love—Especially, if that kind of talk is coming from her.”

His strong hands come around to grab your stomach, forcing you closer to him as you gasp.

“What are the two things I’ve always told you?” He kisses your earlobe.

“To be proud of my body,” you shudder at the way he holds eye contact.

“Good girl,” he coos. You feel his fingers against your skin as he reaches for where you tied your bikini at the back of your neck. “The second thing?”

“To never be ashamed of what I want.” Your heart hammers rapidly in your chest.

“Perfect,” he says at the same time your top slips off to reveal your heavy breasts once he unwraps you.

“But being able to recite it to me doesn’t mean it’s instilled, right?” He slides his hands up your body to hold your tits in his hands, his thumbs grazing your nipples to make the peaks taut and just as needy as the rest of you.

His hand trails down the side of your body, tapping the outside of your left thigh with one command.

“Lift.”

You raise your leg, your hand bracing against the wall beside the mirror to keep yourself steady. Caleb caresses your inner thigh, smirking as you press your ass again his hardening cock.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you plead desperately, whimpering as his arm comes over and his finger drags up your slit. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“I’m already here, baby. Use your words correctly.”

“Your fingers.” You can’t help but to arch your back in anticipation as he skillfully pulls your panties to the side. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

Your mouth parts as you watch the simple silver band of his wedding ring catch the light of the standing lamp beside you two.

“My wife needs me to take care of her needy pussy, doesn’t she?” Your head falls back onto his shoulder when his thick finger gathers your slick from your quivering hole to bring it to your clit. He circles your bundle of nerves slow, occasionally stopping just to make you bend to his will. “Needs me to show her why she should love the body I plan to fuck my baby into one day.”

“Yes,” you pant without shame, needing any and every part of him inside you.

“Look at yourself when you fall apart for me. I want you to be just as proud as I am.”

You raise your head, watching and feeling how he stuffs you with his fingers. It’s a struggle to keep your leg up as he strokes the inside of your walls, but you refuse to take your eyes off of how wet you’re making him, how your juices make his digits shine while they move in and out of you.

“Caleb…” you cry, feeling the burn in your muscles ache so deliciously. “Fuck, that feels good…”

“I can tell by how you drench my ring, baby. Is this another way you’re choosing to claim me?” he smiles into your neck. “I like it.”

The sight in the mirror of your stickiness clinging to his wedding ring fuels your body with a primal urge you didn’t know you were capable of summoning. This man was absolutely yours, just as much as you were his. The way thin strings of your slick push and pull between your flesh and the band as his fingers coil inside of you is enough to show that.

“I don’t wanna come like this,” you whine, hearing how your cunt squelches like she’s letting him know how much she needs him before you do. “I want your cock…”

“Good,” he purrs, sliding his fingers out slowly to make your thighs tremble. Your leg finally rests and Caleb throws his towel away from his waist, the sound of the heavy material becoming a heap on the floor. He bends you just enough to bring out that arch in your spine that he’s taught you to do so well before spreading your legs wider. A man of his caliber needs space, after all.

You brace your hands on both sides of the mirror as you open up for him like a blooming flower.

“Taste yourself while I fuck you,” he commands and you feel his cock head brush against your entrance as he uses his tip to smear his hot precum between your lips. “You’re going to be proud of every part.”

His fingers push past your plush lips at the same time he guides his thick length into your weeping pussy. Your moans are muffled, his other hand gripping your hip to be able to pound into you like his cock wasn’t already imprinted.

You bring your eyes back to the mirror to see him already looking at you with pride, lust, but most importantly—love. Your tongue peeks out to take his digits deeper and taste the metallic of his ring, making him fuck into you even harder with promise that it was something no one would ever take from him.

Your tits bounce in response to how his tip kisses a part so deep that it makes your eyes sting with tears because it’s so fucking good.

“Don’t ever think about hiding any part of this from me, you understand? There’s a reason why we chose each other. It’s why we’re here.”

“Hmph—yes,” you mumble around his fingers as you continue to suck and indulge on your own sweetness.

“Use your pussy to make my cock feel how well you understand me, then.”

His balls slap your cunt and the sting against your clit is enough to make you cream around him like you were always meant to do. Any thought you had about your body being too much has faded as Caleb’s love and the way he makes you feel becomes of greater importance.

The mirror wobbles in your hold when you feel him stuff you full of his seed. You love how loud he moans at the way you milk his cock for every drop that he has.

“Look at how beautiful you are,” he breathes heavily, still pumping into you slowly after he’s filled you up like he doesn’t want it to stop. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth to bring it to his own, tasting everything that is you.

You listen to him, letting your gaze go along your puffy lips, your tits, stomach, and thighs, before you come back up to look at him.

It’s because of him that you see it. It’s because of him that you believe.

“I’ve never lied to you, have I?

You shake your head. “Never.”

He smiles, his intentions clear as he leans back to spit where you two are connected. “It’s always good to be thorough, don’t you think?”

He slaps your ass hard, causing you to moan at the sudden strike. “Get in the bed so I fuck my wife properly. Doesn’t hurt to consummate our marriage twice.”

Tags 🏷️: @mcdepressed290 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @calebapplepie @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @klossnite @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @brad-is-rad-blog @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @inutrasha94

[blackbonnette]

You know there’s a bird that never touches ground? Never once lands.

OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH ✦ 2x01 Impossible Birds

[rafeslvbug]

please do a military!rafe oneshot inspired by this tik tok pleaseeee!!!

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTjX1kL99/

“okay rafe you ready?” you asked, hand on the bonnet of your car, prepared to sprint down the road.

you had been scrolling on tiktok for too long yesterday, when you saw this trend : a foot pursuit challenge.

and who better to do that with than your military husband?

well, rafe thought of a few people when you raised the idea to him, making a few comments on how unfair it would be, and how dumb it all was.

but here he was.

sitting in the car, tapping his fingers against the wheel, rafe nodded, “ready when you are, baby.”

the camera was already set up and as per rafe’s orders, you didn’t give a countdown - just to make things harder for him, he said. instead, you shot down the road, years of pilates and yoga finally paying off with the speed you managed to acquire during the run.

you heard the slam of the car door as rafe jumped out, his heavy footsteps chasing after you. sparing a look over your shoulder, you saw him fast approaching, his face the picture of calm like he wasn’t even running full speed to get this close to you.

before you knew it, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist and hoisted you into the air, spinning you around and settling you to face him. “got ya,” he grunted, before a smile spread across his face.

“that was cute, baby, tryna outrun me,” he teased, pinching your cheek with two rough fingers.

“cute? i was runnin’ for my life there!” you gasp, hands on your hips as you steady your breathing.

rafe lets out a laugh, deep as he pulls you closer, tilting your head up to him. “well then bug, we gotta teach you to run a little faster, that was good but in real life..” he tuts, causing you to frown.

“well not everyone runs like you! i doubt i’m the problem,” you huff, pouting until he presses his lips to yours, forcing it away with a heavy kiss.

“so i’m not like other men, is what you’re saying,” he mumbles, pulling away with a smirk tugging at his lips.

“oh shut it, rafe,” you mutter, as he tucks you under his arm and leads you back towards the house.

“watch it, baby, other men would let that slide, but as we’ve established..” he drawls, turning his head to speak into your ear, nose brushing against your hair and causing you to chuckle.

hit with a sudden realisation, you stop. “wait- rafe my phone,” you say, turning to go back to the car where you set it up, only for rafe to pluck it out of his pocket.

“right here.”

“oh thank-“ you frown, not finding the video in your drafts. “rafe did you-“

“delete it? yes. all sorts of fuckin’ spies around here baby, can’t let ‘em see the road we live on, that’s a rookie mistake.”

“rafe!” you complain, giving him a look. “there’s no spies here!”

“that’s what they want you to think, bug, our neighbours are prolly spies, don’t be givin’ them any more of your brownies an’ shit, ‘kay?”

“okay,” you grumble, letting him ruffle your hair.

“atta girl.”

[satvrnsearth]

I imagine mornings with nanami would be like this.

you wake up to a familiar touch running up and down softly on your hips. you look to your side, a small smile creeping up your tired face as you see your husband, nanami, resting his head on your back. "morning, kento." you mutter.

"goodmorning, wife." you chuckle softly. "you do know that you don't have to announce it everytime, right?" your hand reaches out to hold his, turning so you were facing him. "it sounds nice. i like the way it rolls on my tongue." he gives you a faint smile, expression soft and vulnerable.

he sighs, reaching out to hold you closer against him—tightening his grip on you like he was afraid that you were gonna leave, and dissappear without a trace. he just held you like that, a soft kiss to your forehead, before resting his chin on top of your head.

“I love you.” he murmurs against your hair. his tone was so gentle and loving, that it made you tear up a little. “i love you too, kento.” you respond, and nanami’s heart just explodes—in a good way, of course. he’s never felt so loved and cared about—his cold demeanor mostly just scared off women, or made them uninterested in him, no matter how sweet he was with his words, or how much of a gentleman he was.

but you were different. you willingly made him part of your life because you wanted to, and he couldn’t be more happy to have met you in this hell of a world full of beasts and chaos. he’s glad that atleast, he has you that he can go home to. he knows his line of work is bound for tragedy—but he would do just about anything to keep you safe. to keep you right here in his arms, everyday, every morning and every night.

but he would also want to keep himself safe, for you, because not in a million years would he want you to break down and cry, knowing that he passed away in his line of duty. your tears are too precious for that.

and you, you felt content and loved, with butterflies fluttering in your stomach like a high-school student with her puppy love. but this was better. because he wasn’t just your puppy love—he was your husband. the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with.

and yes, your thoughts may have been a bit too dramatic for a random sunday morning—but it was a morning with him—and that is what mattered more than anything else in this world.

💭;; yes, this was stuck rotting in my drafts for two-ish days. anyways, who wants to be in my taglist??

credits—

dividers: @cursed-carmine

[yukkiji]

wrong place, right hands

it was just a writing exercise–something silly, something private. a pretend love letter for a class project that was never meant to be seen. but when it ends up in the hands of the very person it's about, everything changes. sometimes, love has a funny way of delivering itself.

starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader ft. kotaro bokuto

genre: fluff, best friend!akaashi, bokuto is super supportive of the two, friends to lovers

wc: 1.5k

author's note: i love my boy keiji sm huhu and this is one my favorite drafts; good thing that i finally got the chance to post this

it was supposed to be harmless.

something private. something silly.

a writing exercise for literature—a pretend love letter, meant to test tone and form and emotional honesty without being real. the kind of thing you write while chewing your pen cap, giggling under your breath at the absurdity of pouring out fake feelings onto a blank page. the kind of thing you submit, laugh off, and forget about.

only you didn’t turn it in.

you kept it. folded it twice and tucked it into the back of your folder, marked not for submission. it felt… too honest. too specific. even if it was just a joke. even if it was meant for no one’s eyes but your own.

you didn’t even sign it.

but you described him. clearly. unmistakably.

you’d written about his voice—the one that lingers in your head long after he reads passages aloud in class. about the way he tips his head when he’s thinking, how he pinches the bridge of his nose when bokuto’s being dramatic, how his hands are “embarrassingly elegant” and distractingly expressive when he speaks.

and now?

now that folded page was sitting in the very capable, very real hands of akaashi keiji.

he read it in the gym.

in front of the team.

you didn’t even know it was missing until bokuto shouted something across the court about “keiji’s secret admirer,” and you looked up, heart seizing, just in time to see your best friend unfolding your handwriting in the middle of practice.

he didn’t laugh.

he didn’t share it.

he just read it—brows drawing together, quiet as the world moved around him—and folded it again like it was something precious.

you ran before he could see your face.

he found you afterward. of course he did.

you were leaning against the locker room wall, arms crossed tight over your chest like you could physically hold in the embarrassment threatening to swallow you whole. akaashi stepped out of the gym, hair still damp from a quick rinse, a folded paper in his hand.

the paper.

he looked at you.

“this isn’t for class,” he said softly. “is it?”

your mouth opened. closed. opened again.

you weren’t sure if your soul had already evacuated or if it was still making a run for it.

“what gave it away?” you asked weakly.

he glanced down at the page again. “well, the line ‘you look prettiest when you’re annoyed at bokuto’ felt… oddly specific.”

you groaned and buried your face in your hands.

“of course you recognized yourself. of course you read the one thing i didn’t mean for anyone to see.”

akaashi’s voice was gentler now. “bokuto found it under the bleachers. he thought it was part of someone’s homework and handed it to me. didn’t realize it was about me until…” he trailed off.

you peeked through your fingers. he was holding the page like it was fragile. like it mattered.

“you weren’t meant to see it,” you said, voice muffled through your palms. “it was… it was supposed to be a joke. a fake letter. i wasn’t even going to turn it in.”

“still,” he murmured. “you wrote it.”

there was a pause.

you nodded, slowly.

“i did.”

akaashi keiji has always been calm.

not just quiet—but calm. in that rare, grounding way that makes people lean toward him without realizing. like he carries gravity in his chest and people orbit it instinctively.

he’s been your best friend for years.

the constant. the person you text when your umbrella breaks, when your brain won’t shut up, when you need someone who won’t try to fix you but will listen. he’s been the voice of reason during bokuto meltdowns, your late-night study partner, the first person to notice when you were upset even when you smiled through it.

he was your lighthouse.

and you… you tried your best to stay afloat. to be steady. to look like you had it all under control.

but he was holding that letter now. holding it like it was something more.

his voice was quieter when he spoke again.

“can i be honest?”

you looked up, startled.

he’d stepped closer.

not close enough to touch—but enough that you could see the tiny droplets of water still clinging to the ends of his hair. enough to notice that his eyes weren’t sharp like they sometimes were on the court. they were soft. searching.

“i liked it,” he said.

you blinked. “the letter?”

he nodded. “i liked that you notice when i get annoyed. that you remember what i wore the day of our midterms. that you like how i read out loud, even when i think i sound like a textbook.”

there was a tiny smile tugging at his mouth now.

“i liked that it came from you.”

you stared, heart hammering.

“and if i’m being really honest…” he hesitated, then gently reached out, his fingers brushing your sleeve. “i’ve been wondering if you’d ever say something.”

“say what?” you asked, breath barely there.

he looked at you like you were the only thing in the hallway.

“that you like me,” he said simply.

the words cracked something open in you.

“i didn’t think you noticed.”

“i noticed everything,” he replied.

you were still processing—still somewhere between panic and floating—when an unmistakable voice echoed from inside the gym.

“whaaaaaaaaat?!”

bokuto slammed open the doors with the force of a gale, arms wide, socks squeaking against the polished floor as he launched into view.

“no. way.” he pointed, bouncing. “no. way this is happening. finally.”

you flinched. akaashi didn’t.

“how long was he—?” you began.

“the letter,” bokuto shouted, positively glowing. “the letter was real?! i knew it! i knew you two were in lo—”

“please,” you moaned, face in your hands again. “please let me evaporate.”

“i read it too,” bokuto beamed. “it was so good! so romantic! the part where you said he has ‘hands like he plays piano in another life’? art. masterpiece. i cried. internally.”

you looked at akaashi in horror. “you let him read it?!”

“i did not,” he said dryly. “he took it out of my bag when i was showering.”

bokuto did a twirl. “i had a feeling! my otp! blooming before my eyes!”

you groaned into the wall.

“i’m never writing anything again.”

“noooo,” bokuto said. “you must write more. you’re a poet. the youth needs your words.”

“she’s exaggerating,” akaashi said mildly, lips twitching.

“she’s not! that letter was amazing. i’ve been shipping you two since junior high!”

“you’ve been what?” you gasped.

“shipping!” bokuto declared. “like ‘relationship-ping’? keep up!”

you stared. “you cannot be real.”

“i’m the captain of love,” he said seriously. “and i demand a kiss. for proof.”

akaashi, impossibly, didn’t roll his eyes. he just looked at you again.

“ignore him,” he said gently. “unless…”

he trailed off.

you met his eyes.

unless.

unless you wanted it too.

and then—slowly, so slowly—you felt his hand reach for yours. fingers threading together like it was something you’d done a hundred times already.

he stepped closer.

and then, soft as a secret, he kissed your forehead.

your knees nearly gave out.

it wasn’t loud or showy. it wasn’t something made for bokuto’s theatrics.

it was quiet. intentional.

like he’d wanted to for a long, long time.

“i was right!” bokuto screamed from behind you. “love is real! i’m telling the whole team. i’m putting it in the group chat.”

“please don’t,” akaashi said, still remarkably calm, though his hand tightened slightly around yours.

you were still frozen, your forehead tingling, breath caught in your throat.

“are we… dating now?” you asked, stunned.

akaashi tilted his head. “we can take it slow. one step at a time. but yes. if you want to.”

you nodded.

“i want to.”

he smiled—a real one, warm and unguarded.

“unless you regret writing the letter,” he murmured.

you looked at him.

at the boy who’d been your constant.

at the boy who noticed everything.

and you said, with a quiet kind of certainty—

“no. i’m glad it ended up in the right hands.”

bonus scene

“hey,” bokuto said proudly, slinging an arm around both of your shoulders as you sat together on the bleachers, post-practice.

“i still think you should’ve made out.”

“bokuto,” akaashi said.

“just saying! that forehead kiss was like, pg. come on. spice it up for your number one fan!”

you reached over and lightly smacked his arm.

he grinned.

“you’re welcome, by the way,” he added, nudging you. “if i hadn’t picked up that letter—”

“i know,” you sighed.

“wait,” akaashi said slowly, turning to him. “why were you under the bleachers?”

bokuto paused.

then looked away. “…that’s not important.”

akaashi stared at him.

you leaned into akaashi’s side, watching bokuto whistle innocently as he swung his legs over the edge of the bench.

“god help whoever he ends up dating,” you muttered.

akaashi smiled again, softly, and brushed a knuckle over your temple.

“let’s just hope they’re patient.”

and maybe—just maybe—romantic enough to write something silly and private that turns out to be everything he was hoping to hear.

[olderthannetfic]

I keep being baffled by the amounts of readers who seem to have fits whenever a fic doesn't have chapters. How do they deal with all the Real Literature TM that doesn't have chapters?

Apart from the very simple "don't like, don't read" approach, if it's because you lose your place because the browser reloads, several options have already been suggested, and I sincerely hope it helps whoever feels that was the big problem.

I am one of those who post all in one go, regardless of the length, so I don't see the point of chapters. Yes, I know, "Post chapter by chapter anyways to improve readership and max your comment count and be more popular" or whatever the equivalent of "Game the algorithm" is on AO3. It feels like cheating to me; it's already all written down, and I am not here to play a numbers game. I crave feedback and interaction, of course; that's why I'm posting, but I don't want to use that kind of trick if it's already, well. All there already. Readers can take breaks whenever they want if they like breaks; I'm not their parent.

I also don't like reading WIPs because I will not have the immersion I prefer, or will forget half of what happened before, and I don't have time to reread everything each time I pick it up again, so I guess I don't see the appeal. You do you, etc. To each their preferences. (As a reader, I am team finished work + full_work or, more often, just download it all. That's how *I* roll; it doesn't mean *you* have to do the same, you know?).

I did try to post chapters a few times. Once, I inverted two of them while posting (still smarting over that years later), and another time, I was posting once a day to follow a daily prompt list… which gave me Big Angst because what if I dropped dead partway? (Yes, someone had access to my AO3 to post the drafted chapters if I croaked). Each time, I was really anxious about where to put the cutoff, or change the POV - at this point it makes the chapters more balanced length-wise, but it would be more interesting to have this scene from X's POV! This scene ends a chapter's subplot, but thematically goes with the next chapter's prompt! It might be stupid, but it is what it is, and I don't see why I should choose to torture myself for something I, as a reader, couldn't care less about.

I just… don't know when to break things up. I write linearly, and while I know the rough idea of where I'm going, I don't have a definite plan and sometimes things will be shaken up as I write. I use visual markers for scene changes and POV changes (not the same markers, actually), but sometimes a scene or POV will be much longer/shorter, so it would all make chapters super unbalanced, so??? Choices? I have to make choices? Nope. Visual marker it is, and I can breathe.

If that's grounds for muting/blocking me, then go for it, I guess? I just don't get the virulence of some of these anons on the topic - it's a you do you situation, and sometimes we just don't get why people do things differently, but that's how it's like sometimes. No need to be mad at people for not doing things the way YOU like.

--

I don't care about maximizing readership, but chapters are the norm in many styles of writing. I prefer to divide a longer work into them instead of using anemic little section dividers. I save those for a sub-chapter division, should I need one.

Honestly, genre fiction is mostly divided into chapters. Yes, there are famous authors who don't use them, and I'm sure you're about to pull five out of your butt, but I think their work reads more poorly than the many, many authors who do use them. Yes, even Mr. Extra Famous And Loved By Fandom, whomever he is this time.

I don't particularly care about non-genre fiction, but plenty of multi-POV literary fiction does use chapters to divide the points of view.

It is common for chapters to be different lengths—desirable even. If a writer can't figure out how to divide something, I think that's a failure of skill... but no, I don't think it's that big of a deal in fic, and I'll read whatever has my blorbos and looks good even if it's formatted poorly and/or in a way I don't prefer.

[in-silver-lake]

parking spot

cw: mentions of drinking, but it's almost not there, college au, fuck!boy billie, no smut sorry synopsis: you finally confront the girl that's been stealing your parking spot a/n: this is from the drafts, i don't even know what this is, also that synopsis is horrible but i can't be bothered with writing a better one. also i suck at titles apparently. not proofread, like at all. again, idek wtf this is but enjoy!

MASTERLIST

“i swear every single time i pull up, that goddamn car is already there, parked in my spot outside of my house. i mean, who the fuck does this person think they are?” 

i had been pacing back and forth in my room, ranting to my roommate, alyssa, for at least half an hour, entirely fed up with whoever kept stealing my parking spot. she sat on my bed, unbothered, carefully applying her hot pink nail polish, sporadically splaying her hand out in front of her to check her work. she occasionally offered quiet hms and uh-huhs, her attempt at sounding interested or understanding entirely pathetic, but fortunately for her i was way too preoccupied with my frustration to notice.

“do you know how far away i had to park today? twelve blocks! twelve big, fat blocks, alyssa, and it’s fucking freezing outside, and -”

i cut off, my eyes going wide as i caught a glimpse out my window of a girl walking up to the stupid, shiny black door of the car that had ruined my past two weeks.

“oh my god! oohhh. my. god.”

without a word, i sprinted out of my room, dodging girls on the staircase as i ran through the house. i threw open the front door, and the still, cold air immediately raised goosebumps on my skin, but i was determined to go tell this thief exactly what i thought of her. 

“hey!” i yelled, an edge to my voice as i marched up to her. she turned around at my shout, and my brain short-circuited, because holy shit - she was beautiful. her eyes were a crystal-clear blue, shining in the winter sunlight, her skin smooth, cheeks rosy with the cold and matching her full, pink lips. her long, dark, shiny hair, held back by a black and white patterned bandana, fell effortlessly across her back and curled under her chin. 

since when are parking spot thieves so hot?

her eyebrow quirked up, and i’m reminded that i’ve been staring for a little too long as she asked, “um…can i help you?”

“um - yes, wait, actually no, i -” i scrambled for words, annoyance increasing tenfold as humour danced in her eyes, clearly finding the fact that i was so caught of guard extremely amusing. why the fuck am i stuttering right now? oh my god, pull yourself together.

drawing in a small breath to compose myself, i continued. 

“you - you’ve been a complete jerk, stealing my parking spot for weeks now! you don’t even live here. do you know how incredibly rude and inconsiderate that is? huh? i’ve had to walk for years back to my house in the cold every time i’ve come back home for the past two weeks because you decided to park your ugly, stupid car here! y’know, it’s common decency around here to stick to your own parking spot!” i huffed, speaking fast, trying to make myself sound authoritative as possible as i crossed my arms across my chest to emphasise my point.

she, infuriatingly, leant back against her car door, arms crossed loosely against her chest, head tilted slightly to the side, her stance entirely too casual. clearly amused, she smirked as her eyes raked up and down my body, something almost predatory in her gaze. my cheeks flush as i’m reminded that i’ve come out wearing my pajamas - striped, pink flannel pants, a white tank top that made it very clear i wasn’t wearing a bra, and my fluffy frog slippers, no less. 

“your parking spot, hm? i’m so sorry, pretty, i wasn’t aware they had been allocated,” she chuckled, entirely too relaxed for my liking. the pet name, falling so casually from her lips, as if she had said it a million times, as if it was made just for her to say, caught me completely off guard.

“well, i mean, no, they haven’t been, not officially, but-”

“so it isn’t your parking spot?” she interrupted, eyebrow lifting slightly in a challenge.

“I mean, i guess not officially, but everyone in the house has their one spot they park in everytime, otherwise you have to park way too far away-”

“right, so far away that it gets too cold to walk back,” she added, eyes still dancing with humour.

“well - well yes, exactly -”

“and if i don’t live here, how am i supposed to know about this system?”

“well, you could have asked around-”

“do you have a best friend?” she asked abruptly, and the change in conversation threw me off for a moment. 

“i - yes, yes i do -”

“and you try to see them every chance you get?”

“yeah, of course-”

“and so if you went to visit them, would you park in the spot outside their place whenever it’s empty, so you don’t have to walk for twenty minutes in the cold to get to their house?”

“i - i mean yeah, i would -”

“okay, cool. we all good then?” she asked. slightly confused, with very little idea of what just happened, i just nodded dumbly, watching as she unlocked her car and slid into the drivers seat. she glanced over at me with one last look, amusement and something else in her eyes, before she drove away, leaving me standing there. i didn’t even get her name.

over the next few weeks, i kept running into her. in the hallway, in the common area, even outside the house one night as we both waited for our take-away to arrive. she was always infuriatingly unbothered, throwing me a casual hey, or a smirk, or a subtle look up and down, as if every time i saw her i wasn’t flooded with annoyance and a little embarrassment. it was irritating how much space she occupied in my head - and it didn’t help that every time she’d throw me a casual glance or eye me with a hint of mischief, my stomach would flutter and my cheeks redden against my will, because goddamn, she was so fucking hot. and it wasn’t even just her looks - it was the way she carried herself with such an air of confidence and self-assuredness, it was magnetic.

i found out that zoe, one of the girls in my house, was the best friend she had been visiting after i saw her - billie, someone told me her name was - leaving zoe’s room one time. i had also been warned of her reputation as a bit of a fuck-boy, something i tried to remember everytime i ran into her and my stomach would flip.

one night, almost a month after i first met billie, i walked downstairs to the kitchen in the early hours of the morning after a long night out, still slightly tipsy and stomach growling with hunger. inexplicably, billie was there, using the small kitchen to bake what smelled like choc-chip cookies, of all things. i stood there for a moment, stunned and rendered momentarily speechless from the simple shock of seeing her here, in my kitchen, at three am. i definitely didn’t admire the way the warm, low light highlighted the delicate curve of her neck, eyes definitely not trailing over her body, clad in pajamas that were uncharacteristically revealing, and my mouth absolutely did not going dry at the sight of her very low-cut singlet-

i shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. i watched as she turned around, tray in hand, and spotted me in the door way. her movements only hesitated for a moment, something akin to curiosity, or maybe want, briefly flickering in her eyes before she placed the tray on the bench beside her. without looking up, she asked, “y’want one?”

fighting a blush - whether it was caused by the residual alcohol in my bloodstream, or being in billie’s presence, i wasn’t sure which (yes i was) - i walked right up to her, appearing confident, sure, as i swayed my hips just a little, and brushed her shoulder with mine as i reached out to pick up a cookie. i pushed myself up to sit on the bench, legs ever so slightly parting, my little black dress i had yet to take off riding up my thighs. she stood in front of me as i took a measured bite out of the sweet, chewy treat. i pretended to inspect it as i purposefully, slowly, licked my lips, as if to catch any crumbs.

after i decided i had lingered in the moment long enough, i said,“they’re alright,” shrugging my shoulders in mock indifference. they honestly tasted amazing. i looked up to see billie’s stare was transfixed on my shiny lips, eyes tracing every moment of my tongue. in the low light, i could’ve sworn i saw her pupils dilate.

“mhm,” she hummed, sounding completely distracted as she dragged her eyes, seemingly reluctantly, back to mine. 

she took a step closer to stand in between my legs, the soft brush of her hand on my knee making goosebumps erupt on my skin, but i never flinched, never showed any sign this was affecting me. her hand smoothed upwards, along the outside of my thigh, her touch light but carrying so much weight, the heat of her hands a delicious contrast to the cool metal of her rings. her eyes were lidded, still trained on my glistening lips, as she slowly leaned in. i leant forward to meet her, stopping a breath away, close enough to see the anticipation on her face. for a moment, we were both still.

then, with a knowing twinkle in my eyes, i said, “i’m going to go to bed now,” close enough that she would’ve felt my breath against her lips. 

i slid down from the bench, her warm touch on my thigh lingering for as long as possible before her hand slipped away. her eyebrows knitted in confusion and her hand twitched by her side, as if holding back from reaching out to me again. her mouth hung open slightly, a hint of embarrassment on her face, the tables completely turned.

“goodnight,” i said simply, my voice low, dripping like honey, before i walked out of the room, leaving her with nothing, a satisfied smirk on my face.

[samisverycool]

Hi! I love your yandere prince (sorry but you've written him too well not to like <3)

I just had an idea pop up and just wanted to share it.

So, the reader seems like a relatively strong female, in the sense of how she views herself and does seem to have the ability to yell at others when needed. (Unlike that time she was hit by two maids but then again it something she wasn't prepared for but she survived!)

And I just really wanna know how the princes reaction would be if reader stood up for someone sternly and even frightened the mean person by her glare. (Like maomao did from apothecary diaries and jinshi was surprised)

Thank you so much for writing your character! Hope to see more! Loads of love!<3

OMDZ this has been sitting in my drafts for so long 💔💔 bro im so busy its not even funny like release me rn pls 🙏

—> ooh yes, the reader is a very capable person! i haven't actually seen apothecary diaries, sorry 😞. thanks for the req tho ♡

࣪ ִֶָ☾. yandere prince . part five

part four

"that's exactly what i'm saying!"

a young maid by the name of lila beamed up at you, big eyes sparkling with excitement.

you were in the throne room, cleaning windows with other maids while the prince kept watch from his royal seat. lila was a new hire, and just a few years younger than you. she was shy at first, but after she warmed up to you it was near impossible not to adore her childish charm.

the two of you laughed as you sprayed and wiped, sprayed and wiped. the chatter was starting to increase in volume as the other maids started to give sideways glances at the pair.

you cracked a joke, making the young girl lose composure as she stumbled back. her heel caught onto the hem of her skirt as she bumps into another maid's bucket of soapy water. it clatters loudly onto the stone tiles, making some maids flinch.

lila gasped as she whirled around, hands flying to cover her mouth in shock. "oh. my. goodness. i am so sorry! that was an accident, please forgive me!" she immediately grabbed a nearby mop and bowed her head. "i'll help you clean it up. again, i'm really sorry—"

"well, yea, you should be."

the sour maid, marla's, voice cut through, sharp and unamused. her eyes were dull as she crossed her arms, "i didn't make this mess, so you can clean it up by yourself. maybe that'll teach you not to be so obnoxious while the rest of us are actually doing our jobs."

lila's face fell as her grip on the mop grew shaky, bottom lip trembling as she tried to hold tears back. her innocent eyes glazed over, not having the courage to talk back.

you frowned upon seeing her so upset. you stepped forward, "that's enough."

marla's gaze turns to you, incredulous. "excuse me?"

"she said she was sorry. it was an accident. don't you have any empathy?" you said flatly, placing a reassuring hand on lila's shoulder.

marla's scowls, "maybe you shouldn't be distracting others with stories—"

"maybe if you didn't pride yourself on picking on children, you would be more tolerable. stop yelling, it's unnecessary and frankly, embarrassing."

marla looks livid, lila is trying to stifle a giggle, and your eyes trail over to the throne.

there sits the prince, so quiet you forgot he was even there. papers were clutched in his hands, some in his lap, but his eyes were focused on you. he had this expression, not one of anger, but of awe.

"everyone, continue. you, my sweet, come here."

everyone bows their heads as they resume their work, even marla hurries back to her spot. you gently pat lila's back before approaching the dais leading up to the overly lavish seat.

you bow before the prince, but he pulls you closer. his eyes are wide, and you're taken aback by his boldness.

"you continue to surprise me," he laughs, too giddy, too pleased. "i knew there was something in there," he poked at your chest, "a fire. it just had to be provoked."

he smiles as his eyes light up, as if he can actually see a flame in your heart. this was the first time he'd ever seen you act this way, and it was addicting. like he needed to see what other emotions he could make you feel.

"you look cute when you're angry," he mumbles against your neck.

you glance around awkwardly, and the other maids pretended not to see anything.

[insomniakisses]

Current requests I'm working on

Woso:

Welcome Surprises -

"Okay soo I was thinking g!p reader x steph catley. R is younger than her, like 20/22 years old, she's either a player too or something else you can choose, and have their first time together, but it's actually r first time ever too cause she's never been with anyone before. At first she's a little shy but then absolutely destroy steph 😏👀"

Needy Moments -

"Please can you do a Lucy bronze one shot? maybe Lucy x reader hiding their relationship in England camp - but also kinda failing and being needy with one another cause they can’t spend a lot of time together. Something along those lines - smut if your comfortable with it but otherwise fluffy! Xx"

Not Embarrassing at all

"What about leah having a bad period with her endometriosis and buff reader helping her? either normal or g!p reader if u could?"

Little Firecracker

"could you write a fic with moms mapi and ingrid and their little pup who’s like 5 and pup just runs around with her tias and steals everyone’s things at practice? 🩷"

Alpha Material

A Lena fic thats about her showing how alpha she is and how big she is etc.

More than happy to help

"plsss would you write shy inexperienced alpha reader having a rlly intense rut and eventually getting help from confident omega leah who she’s been kinda dating for a few weeks but they’d been taking it slow before this?? hope that makes sense lmao thinking too many thoughts rn 😅"

Oh Baby! Why didn't you tell us?

"idk if this works in the au but if you wanted another more angstier request (even though you have an insane amount lol) maybe one of the teams has a younger and newer omega r that they think has an outside alpha for their heats but r is just suffering through them alone because they don’t want to bother anyone. then the team finds out by checking in on r during a heat or they accidentally reveal it or something (up to you!!) and the team freaks out. it could end in fluff and comfort or fluffy smut or whatever you want to write!!! love your work so far and looking forward to what you write!"

Not Just for cooking

"oh my god would you ever write something based on your most recent alpha!lena hc about fucking on the counter, the way your mind works is amazing"

We're here baby

"Omg I’d love to read your work! Ofc the two alphas get down ;) i want to say you can I’ve seen some on here!!

The request is alpha Leah x omega r x alpha lessi?? Either hcs on who bonded first, personalities or even a story on them finding their omega but r has been hurt in the past & doesn’t believe BOTH are her mates?

Smut ofc ;) you’re amazing ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥"

Don't Worry baby, we're here now

"Can I request a alpha steph catley x alpha leah Williamson x reader smut

Reader is a omega disowned by her family because she would not mate with a man but she wants to be mated by women she meets 2 alphas steph and leah who make her feel loved , one day reader has seen leah or steph and is cornered by another couple of alphas who try to claim r as her heat has hit but steph and leah save her and claim her as their own"

Wbb:

THEY'RE MARRIED!? -

"Could you do a Caitlin one where her and reader were dating for a long time and cait proposed during their junior year of college and during their senior year they secretly got married, so the public doesn’t know only close friends and family. And reader is a soccer player who recently got drafted by the Chicago red stars and has been called up to play for the uswnt, while Caitlin got drafted to the fever, and reader never changed her name on the back of her jersey to her married name, so mid season Caitlin goes to a game and reader surprises cait by putting clark as her last name on her jersey, and at the end of the game they meet up and go home and not even hours later its gone viral that both star athletes are married and there’s pictures and video every on social media."

Look don't touch

"Can you write about omega reader making alpha Paige wear a cage as a punishment for having teased reader all day. So kind of like pay back reader ties paige to a chair wearing the cage while she touches herself?"

Back off!

"can you write protective alpha paige x pack omega? maybe write some omega space in it too?"

Come here babygirl

"Can you please write how reader and Morgan met in the omegaverse!! Please and thank you!!!"

Unexpected Rut

"Hey I saw the anon omegaverse question and it gave me an idea. Could you do a alpha Paige x fem reader smut where Paige goes into an unexpected rut due to a combination of stress and her new relationship with reader?"

TLOU:

Mating Season

"Alpha werewolf Abby Anderson x werewolf reader please :)"

Just tell me babygirl

"Could you write for Ellie coming across Abby's gf and she needs to get information from her so she decides to fuck her to get it"

TVD:

Staking her claim

"Could I request an Alpha Katherine Pierce x Omega Reader with smut and a breeding kink and blood kink??"

Big Bad Wolf

"Something soft with hope when u think shes mean but shes just a baby"

[hnslchw]

one of these days (part 2) - Aemond Targaryen X Reader

Summary: You were young when you promised to love him. You meant it. You still do. But something unspoken has rooted itself between you—something cold, something cruel. And the deeper you fall into the life you've built, the more you wonder if love is enough to survive what comes next.

Warnings/Themes: MDNI, slight ooc plot details, BLOOD AND CHEESE, targycest, marital strain, emotional conflict, greif/loss, references to war, infidelity, child death, trauma, implied sexualcontent (non-explicit), references to violence, complicated family dynamics, psychological distress, HOTD canon violence (pls tell me if Ive forgotten anything)

Word Count: 1.1k words

Authors Note: hello guys sorry short update 😖 I'll be posting the finale soon tho soooo. Anyways please let me know what you think and if there's any mistakes and warnings I've missed.

Taglist: @immyowndefender

part 1, part 3

The skies over King’s Landing bled a gentle grey the morning Aemond left for Storm’s End.

You stood by the window with your three year old son asleep in your arms, his soft breaths fogging the pale silk of your gown. Aemond kissed your temple and rested a hand briefly on your belly—round now, full of the child you’d soon meet. He didn’t know that Lucerys would fly to the same castle that very night, didn’t imagine that the winds would turn and never let either of them return the same.

You kissed him goodbye.

By the time the raven arrived, the skies had turned violent.

The scroll fell from your fingers before you’d finished reading.

Your knees struck the cold stone with a sound that echoed. And then the pain came, sudden and slicing—your womb contracting violently as if trying to mourn in flesh what had been lost in spirit.

The maester was summoned. The servants carried you to your chamber. You tore into sheets, into your own skin, into Aemond’s name as the contractions came faster, more brutal than the first time.

“Please—please, just get him out,” you sobbed, head flung back against the pillows, drenched in sweat and blood.

Your screams echoed down the halls of the Keep, and only Helaena dared enter the room, silent and pale, gripping your hand through the waves of agony. You didn’t stop screaming until your throat was raw, your body torn, and your son’s first cry split the air like a cracked bell.

He was alive.

So were you.

But something in you had changed. You knew it the moment you held him—knew it in the way your tears wouldn’t fall and your hands trembled even after the pain had passed.

You didn’t ask where Aemond was.

You already knew.

You wrote the letter while your sons slept.

Each word carved out of you like marrow, but gentler than war.

Mother,
I beg of you, I beg for peace. I have two boys now. The second came too early—he is strong, but he cries like he remembers every scream I made to bring him here.
I do not ask for forgiveness, only an end. I married a man I loved. I thought love could be enough to quiet the fire in our blood. I was wrong.
I know what Aemond has done. I know you grieve Lucerys. I do, too.
But if you burn the world, my children will choke on its ashes. Please, Mother. End this. Before the gods take more from us.

You sealed it with trembling hands and gave it to the raven-keeper before the dawn rose. You never heard back.

The silence said everything.

Aemond found your drafts of the letter days later. His face, unreadable as he skimmed the pages—lips tightening, eyes going distant.

“You were going to run?” he asked, voice low. “Take them to her? To them?”

“I was asking for mercy,” you replied, barely able to look at him. “Not for me. For our sons.”

But the damage had already been done. That night, he did not touch you. He stood by the window instead, as far from your bed as war was from peace.

Days passed. You saw him only in passing. The coldness in his eyes, the mechanical motions of fatherhood, the shadow of loss eating at his spine—it all made him less a man, more a monument.He turned away from you that night, and the cold that settled between you never left.

🗡️

You’d tucked your firstborn into bed only hours ago—he had begged for another story, and you’d caved, his little hand curled against your wrist as you whispered tales of brave dragons and gentle kings. Your youngest slept swaddled in the cradle by your side.

You stood outside the nursery door with Helaena, the two of you sharing whispered thoughts, heads bent together as the sounds of sleep settled into the hall. She laughed at something small you said, and for a moment, you both looked through the nursery doorway as if the world might stay suspended there forever.

Then the thud came.

Soft. Dull. Then again, harder.

“Did you hear that?” you asked.

Helaena turned, eyes already narrowing. “That wasn’t—”

The door slammed open.

A scream—your scream—tore the air in two.

The men were inside the nursery before either of you could move. One held a dagger. The other, a sack. Your eyes widened as you recognized them—not their faces, but what they were here to do.

“Which one?” the fat one grunted. “You choose. Else we take both.”

“No—no, no,” you choked out, shoving past them, reaching for your son, who was sitting up in bed now, confused and blinking.

“Stay away from them!” you screamed, throwing yourself in front of the cradle and the bed, arms wide.

“Which one is the heir?” the thin one said, eyes dancing. “Come now, Lady Wife. You know how this works.”

“I’ll give you gold,” you begged. “Dragons. Anything.”

But they didn’t want dragons.

They wanted blood.

You lunged, but the fat one struck you down. You hit the ground hard, cheek splitting open on the stone.

And then it happened.

You didn’t see it—you only heard your son’s voice say, “Mother?”—before the silence fell.

A heartbeat.

Then screaming.

You scrambled forward, slipping in something wet. Blood.

Your son’s blood.

Your firstborn. Gone.

“NO!” you wailed, clutching what was left of him, sobbing like your bones would break. “No, please—he was just a boy, he was just a baby—”

The guards came. They were too late.

The men were gone.

You pressed your forehead to your child’s still-warm chest and sobbed. Helaena held you as you shattered. You don’t remember what was said after that. Only the way your world cracked in half.

Your son. Your heart.

Taken.

Not by war. Not by honor.

But in a bed where he should have been safe.

And in the marrow of your grief, you knew this had been your mother’s reply.

No ink. No words.

Just death.

[ghoulmore-girl]

I just wanted to say something about this, because I saw the post & got it sent by a kind person in my asks, and I’m actually one of the people being talked about.

I don’t use AI for my tarot or astrology posts. I never have. I’ve done tarot in real life for years — with friends, at gatherings, for people I care about, and sometimes even strangers who needed a kind moment. I didn’t learn this from a screen or a machine, I learned it through real connection. Through watching others read, through practice, through intuition, through time. This is something deeply personal to me, and it’s honestly a little painful to have that dismissed so quickly by someone who doesn’t know anything about me or the care I put into my words.

I understand that not every reading is going to connect with everyone. That’s completely fine, it’s natural, and even expected. We all have different energies and different ways of understanding things. And yes, I tend to write with a softer tone, or try to pull out the gentler or more hopeful aspects of a message, but that’s not “fake/corny” or “AI.” That’s me. That’s how I read. Because that’s the kind of guidance I needed at one point in my life, and I try to offer that now for others. Because I believe kindness goes a long way.

What’s really upsetting is this wave of harsh accusations and generalizations I’ve seen lately. It’s starting to feel like a witch hunt. People are being called out or spoken about in really cruel ways, and for what? For trying to offer something thoughtful? For having a writing style that someone else doesn’t like?

Not even two weeks ago, there was literally a blog made with the specific goal of “hunting down” so-called AI tarot readers. They were copy-pasting people’s posts into AI checkers (which aren’t even reliable) and using those results to publicly accuse people of using AI. A lot of those readers were completely innocent. It created so much anxiety and distrust in a space that’s supposed to be about intuition, connection, and support. And now the same kind of energy is happening all over again, just in a different form. It’s exhausting and honestly really sad to see.

I’ve been writing for years. I started posting fanfiction on Wattpad back in 2015 or 2016, then moved over to AO3. I have hundreds of fics, story ideas, half-finished books, and random docs full of writing.

Writing is a huge part of my life, and if anyone really needed proof, I could easily show my style, published works, drafts, or timestamps.

This isn’t something I just started doing with tarot — it’s a part of who I am. I'm even writing in a language that is not my maternal language.

So to have someone immediately claim that my words must be AI just because they don’t like the tone or structure… it’s absolutely untrue. And honestly, it really hurts. I know my voice, and I know how much love I pour into what I share.

I don’t mind criticism. I think respectful discussion is healthy. But calling people “pathetic” or “stupid” and accusing them of being dishonest with no proof is not criticism. It’s just mean. And it’s hurting real people who are putting love, time, and spirit into what they share.

Please remember there are real humans behind these blogs. We're not algorithms. We're people. And we’re doing our best to offer something meaningful in a world that already feels heavy enough.

I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE ALL OF YOU

WHAT HAPPENED TO ASTRO TUMBLR

what is it that nearly every astrology post i see is this corny stupid ass word salad chat gpt nonsense?!!!

please please please be smarter than this, be sensitive to this content and don’t engage with it

DON’T LET YOUR BRAINS ROT AWAY

you people are PATHETIC and STUPID

like please what is this😭😭

[harriertail]

how much do you remember

[rayllurn]

Rayllum + Kissing

Bonus:

[haveihitanerve]

Gotham Protects Her Own

“Gotham protects her own.” Bruce had whispered to him once, in a, at the time, not so rare moment of affection, cradling dick to his chest as they looked over his city. Their city. Batman and Robin. Dick had believed him, of course, but he hadn’t really felt it. Not until he had stood at the bats side for the second year in a row, and his cape had fluttered. Dicks cape had never fluttered while he was standing. Running across the rooftops? Sure. Jumping over a chimney? Most definitely. But just standing still, no movement? It had never happened. Bruce’s did, from the very beginning Bruce’s cape had flown behind him, flapping with grace in the wind that was not there. But dicks hadn’t. But now… Bruce smiled down at him, pride lining every line in his face, before he took off across the roof, a challenge and a test at the same time. Dick chased after him, and for the first time since he had become Robin, he flew. His feet barely touched down, cushioned by the roofs, by shadows, and he laughed, wild and bright and free, and Bruce joined him, laugh deep and rich and full. Dick belonged to Gotham now, the city had laid her claim on him, and as Batman and Robin flew across the city, Dick could hear a new laugh join them, light and happy and feminine, delighted by their delight, their acceptance. Gotham protects her own, and Dick Grayson-Wayne, the first Robin, had earned that right, that protection, with his leaps and jokes and belief in Batman, in a belief in the city, in the belief that it could be better. 

Gotham protects her own. Catherine Todd had murmured to him once, late one night, a bruise blossoming on her cheek, eyes heavy from drugs. She was close to death, Jason could feel it practically wafting off her, and he didn't think much of her last words, a hazy drugged hallucination, slurred speech. But then she had passed and Jason had left, choosing the street over his father and then he had understood. People came looking for him, naturally, even his father ventured out, but shadows seemed to envelop him, the streets opened to his footfalls, and he always found a safe place to sleep, never waking with his things stolen or suddenly kidnapped. Jason could feel the city, his very lifeblood, could hear her music in her traffic, felt her song in the earthquakes. Gotham cradled him, sheltered him, and when the time came, pushed him to a left unattended Batmobile, tempting him to steal the tires. For the first time, Jason doubted his city, hated her for sending him into a trap. But then he became Robin, and Gotham squealed in delight, and Jason watched in awe as Bruce flew, as Gotham made his cloak billow, as she nurtured her prodigal son. Batman had gotten injured, once, badly enough that he had struggled with his grapple line, and it had snapped. Jason had screamed, lunging for him, but it was too late. Before he could cry over the dead body of his mentor, he found Bruce at the bottom of the building, not much worse for wear at all. Gotham had cradled him, shadows leaping to cushion his fall. Jason had laughed with glee, rushing Bruce home as quickly as possible, and something had brushed his cheek, a faint kiss against his forehead. Gotham protects her own and Jason Todd-Wayne, the second Robin, had been born into that right, that protection, and felt her city pound through his body like blood, feeding his soul. 

Gotham protects her own. Tim had seen the slogan on a Wayne Enterprise billboard once, when he had been seven, an ad campaign promoting insurance and helpful housing. It had become a sort of mantra for him, something he whispered under his breath every time his father made a snide comment about Tim lacking proper talent or social skills, after every call his parents declined, after every fight that had him biting his lip to stop the tears and debate running away. Gotham protects her own. Became his lifeline, his mantra, a promise of a better life. It wasn't anything he ever believed, until he finally worked up the courage to approach Bruce Wayne about the secret. Tim slipped on the Robin uniform for the first time… And something inside him settled. A woman's voice in the back of Tim’s head squealed. But as he raced over the rooftops, finally at Batman's side as he always dreamed to be instead of a few feet behind, snapping pictures, his cape dancing with the wind, his feet hardly touching down, that mantra, that false belief of hope, of a better life, became truth. Gotham protects her own, and Tim Drake-Wayne, the third Robin, had believed in that truth his whole life, wishing with every fiber of his being that she would protect him, and she finally had. 

Gotham protects her own. David Cain had warned her once, telling her great stories of the city with air of midnight black, of water a putrid green, and of a people a hardy and tough. It hadn't been a compliment, just another obstacle she would need to overcome to fulfill her future missions. She had believed him, of course, but… she had never truly known what it meant. Not until she had stumbled into the city, hurt, bleeding, afraid, and she had felt that… otherworldly power. Reaching for her. Its tendrils soft and kind, like a mother, shadows stretching across her, shielding her, as the League prowled the streets. It wasn't until she saw him. The Bat. And his little Bird, brutal efficiency and yet mercy in every action, wasn't until she saw how Gotham cradled them, lifted them, helped them to fly. Gotham had been more accepting to her than she had thought. Maybe because she hadn't hurt her children. Maybe because she knew her pain. Maybe because Cass had been so afraid. But whatever the reason, when Cassandra Cain-Wayne took to the streets, a proud, blazing Bat on her chest, her cape billowing behind her, Gotham sang. 

“Gotham protects her own!” Arthur Brown had screamed once. It had been in a fit of rage, followed by the sounds of windows crashing and tables smashing against the wall. He had been angry, livid even, the sound of his footsteps heavy and hard on the floor as he stormed around, pissed that Batman was unreachable for him, untouchable, protected by the city he claimed to do the same to. Steph knew the truth in the words, had been protected by them her whole life, finding a window open right when her father got home, the closet door unlocked miraculously after her father had locked her up, alleyways opening for her to escape through when bigger kids picked on her, or the cops chased her. And it happened now, as Arthur Brown came storming for her, rage and malice and every evil intention written across his features. Steph could feel that tug, that indescribable feeling of home, and she took a step back, melting into the shadows as she fled, fled her home, fled her father, fled his wrath and everything wrong with the world. She settled on the roof, the way she always did when he got like this, and waited, as she always did. For it to end. For him to stop. It was that night that she saw him for the first time. Steph had heard of him, of course, the Batman was infamous throughout Gotham by now, but she had never seen him in person. Never watched his work. It was at Bethany’s house. Bethany’s father, Vincent, was screaming again. The way Arthur was. But Gotham, Gotham didn't protect Bethany the way she did Steph. Or maybe Bethany just didn't listen. But Batman.. Batman listened. Batman protected. Steph watched, wide eyed, as he jumped through the window, as he grabbed Vincent by the throat and slammed him against the wall, snarling in his face. Steph watched, hands clutching her teddy, wondering whether she would rather risk her father than this demon. But he stopped. Paused. Threw Vincent to the ground in disgust, unconscious, and turned to Bethany. Beth had stopped moving, the way she always did when Vincent got the way he did, dissociating so she wouldn't feel his hands on her. Steph didn't think it worked, but it was something. Batman bent down, gentle, slowly, a few feet away, extending a hand to Beth. Steph couldn't hear what he said, couldn't see his face, but Beth blinked at him. She blinked, and she walked closer, slowly. And Batman… Batman held her, held her until she was crying, held her through her tears and wiped her eyes and rubbed her back, held her until she was asleep without nightmares, and carried her to bed, tucking her in gently. Steph didn't know how long she sat there, watching as he cared for this little girl, forgoing the Bat Symbol in the sky, and his anger, for her. Gotham protects her own, Steph swore as she watched him drop from the window the same night, flitting away on shadows only she could see. Gotham protects her own, and she would protect Gotham. She would mold herself after the Bat, and help. 

[51nn0n]

They wear the same shade of red