#margin of error ask

[stygiansauce]

Because I am sick currently I’m manifesting my sickness to MOE Jimmy (I’ve read all the rancher sick fics) and I want him to suffer a little bit >:3

~ :D

WOW OKAY????

:D anon, I cannot make Jimmy sick because lore reasons. But I CAN give you sick fic headcanons.

- Jimmy is one of those "I am not sick" people that is so obviously struggling to stand but knows he has things to get done.

- he'll keep going until he collapses or someone tells him to go to bed.

- he's great about taking care of others. Makes homemade soup (scars recipe) and has a collection of teas at the ready.

-Tango doesn't get sick. He just...doesn't. He says its cause he played near horses as a kid and as a result has all the bacteria ever already.

-he gets the flu once (rare event in undergrad) and even though he was barfing his guts out, he still went to his finals because he was not about to fail a class because he got sick.

-Jimmy gets sick and Tango says "put extra lemon in your sweet tea, it'll help." "I don't have sweet tea at the ready babe..." "Oh hell, hold on I'll get you some."

-sick Jimmy likes cuddles. Tango doesn't get sick....you see where thats going. (Tango is assigned as jimmys caretaker because he won't catch it and spread it around)

[asinglesock]

lost a client (nothing bad happened, I'm just not going to work there anymore), got sunburned, agreed to play pit orchestra for Shrek (!!!), had a terrible headache followed by sweet sweet relief after eating dinner, did NOT clean house, did NOT spend significant time studying for my exam

[communistkenobi]

A newborn baby girl will have to go through life with the wrong sex on her birth certificate after a registrar’s error, which her parents have been told they cannot change. Grace Bingham and her partner, Ewan Murray, were excited to register their first child at the Sutton-in-Ashfield Registration Office in Nottinghamshire last week. But, after nights of broken sleep, they failed to notice the registrar had written the wrong sex on the birth certificate until after it had been submitted. “We were horrified but assumed that, as we saw the mistake just a few seconds after it had happened, correcting it would be an easy matter,” said Murray. “But although the registrar apologised for her mistake – and the area manager also apologised – it turns out that birth certificates can’t be changed.”

this article is interesting because it demonstrates that cis people can very easily apply structural thinking to sex assignment - this couple immediately identifies that their daughter, having mistakenly been assigned male at birth by the registrar, will have administrative problems in employment, education, travel, and so on. they pretty adeptly identify the foundational role that sex assignment plays in the administrative and civil functions of a state, and how incorrect sex markers effectively produce a ‘rational’ reason for discrimination within these administrative and civil arenas:

The General Register Office (GRO), which is responsible for administering all civil registration in England and Wales, and the Home Office have both confirmed that Lilah’s birth certificate cannot be reissued, although an amendment can be made in the margin of the original document. But Bingham said this is not enough. “People reading a birth certificate might easily miss a tiny note in the margin – which means that Lilah could be regarded as male when she applies for school, her passport, for jobs – for everything that she needs a full birth certificate for.”

And given that this was published in The Guardian, this article makes zero mention as to why it’s impossible for this couple to receive an updated birth certificate with correct information (something the author notes was possible to do a year ago), but the reason is obviously transphobia. 

Now one might ask why there’s no exception for cis people whose birth certificates were recorded incorrectly at birth, but this reveals the instability of cissexualism. How would you determine who is a cis person with a mistaken birth certificate, versus a trans person who wants to change their mistaken sex assignment record? Sure, you could say well, this is an infant, of course she’s “really” “biologically” female (something the parents argue in the article as grounds for having their child’s birth certificate re-issued), but 1) that certainly can’t be argued for in all cases, 2) 'biological sex' is understood by medical doctors as alterable through hormones and surgery, which trans people are often required to undergo in order to change their records, and 3) binary sex assignment is already imprecise and discretionary, particularly if infants have sex characteristics that don’t conform to binary F/M assignment standards (which is part of how the category of intersex emerges, framing this failure to conform to state census categories as a biological defect - and in fact, many intersex people do not discover they are intersex until the onset of puberty or later, at which point they are even less in luck if they want to change their sex assignment - and if they don’t, if they are cis but have sex characteristics that do not conform to cis standards, they will be discriminated against anyway). 

Even setting aside the issue of transgender and intersex people for a moment, states fuck up all the time in administration! you've probably either experienced this directly or know someone who's had some kind of record fucked up by the government at some point in their life. If you get married they could fuck up changing your last name, fuck up your disability status, record your social insurance number wrong, print the wrong address on your driver’s license, fail to acknowledge you as a dependent when filing taxes, incorrectly mark you as having graduated when you’re still a student, fuck up your immigration paperwork, record your name wrong during immigration, etc etc into infinity, and this is not even getting into errors that occur when different levels of government pass information between one another. This level of administrative rigidity is purely to punish people who fail to perform cissexualism correctly, and in the case of this couple's child, the administrative error of the state is imputed to them as a personal failure that she and her parents will now have to deal with for the rest of their lives. 

I think the ultimate analysis is not that transphobia will become less precise and hit more "wrong" targets as it expands its reach, but that this is the exact same operational logic as all other liberal state measures - if you encounter a systemic issue, it’s your fault for not avoiding it, fuck you, go away. You’re poor because you’re lazy, you’re unhoused because you’re lazy, you’re disabled because you’re lazy, and your daughter is now administratively transsexual because you’re lazy. In this case, we don’t even need to assume the intentions of the state - they outright say it:

The family complained to the GRO but was told the mistake was their responsibility and could not be fully rectified. “The duty to ensure that information recorded in any particular entry is true is the responsibility of the person providing the information and not of the registrar general or the registrar recording the birth,” the GRO said.

[bombermangifs]

Bomberman NES 1983 | "Stages"

[jj-one]

STUDY HARD, GET EDGED HARDER!

this is smut, do not interact if under 18

jisung’s trying to finish this code, but the minute you sat on his lap, he knew the only thing getting finished today was him.

pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut with very little plot, semi-public s*x, sub!jisung, he whines and begs a lot (how i like my men tbh), thigh riding, overstim, light degradation, handjob, orgasm denial, oral (m. receiving), cum eating words: 5.2k

[ note. ] — another jisung fic, are we surprised ?? (no.) it’s the way this was supposed to be under 2-3k but clearly i’m incapable of writing anything short sooo..

He checked his phone sixteen times within the past hour. At first, Jisung told himself it was fine, you were in class, you needed to focus, you were probably taking notes or doodling a series of hearts in the margins of your planner like you always did. But now it was 2:34 pm and he was one ‘are you mad at me?’ text away from losing his goddamn mind.

Usually, you’d text him the second class was over. A little “miss you” here, a blurry selfie there, a not-so-subtle thirst trap when he least expected it, something to let him know you were thinking about him. But today? Nothing. Not since that teasing message you sent earlier at 11:47 am:

you left a hickey above my bra strap, you menace ;(

i’m wearing a tank top. if anyone asks i’m blaming it on a curling iron burn.

That had launched him into a full-body crisis in the middle of Comp Sci lecture. Now he was half-hard, suffering from sleep deprivation, and trying to tackle three weeks’ worth of broken functions with his already fried brain— while simultaneously spiraling over why you hadn’t texted him again yet.

Which brings us to his current dilemma.

The library’s unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, except for the faint rustles of pages turning and the occasional exasperated sighs from stressed out students spread throughout the space.

Jisung sat tucked into the farthest corner, wearing a slightly oversized hoodie with the sleeves bunched up to his elbows, staring blankly at the same lines of code on his laptop. He’d been stuck in the same recursive function that kept crashing his entire program— something about an ‘undefined base case’, but he couldn’t focus long enough to fix it. The error messages meant nothing when all he could think about was the flash of your thighs in that skirt you’d been wearing this morning.

And across from him, not helping even a little, was Jeongin, who was currently detailing the world’s most cursed porn plot with way too much enthusiasm.

“So then the girl just spits on it like it’s no big deal and starts- bro, are you even listening?”

Jisung snaps out of his trance, looking up too fast. “Huh?”

Jeongin rolls his eyes, shaking his head, “knew you weren’t listening.”

“I was,” he lied, voice slightly cracking, and it only made Jeongin raise an eyebrow and gesture pointedly toward his friend’s phone, which lit up for the third time in under a minute.

Jisung snatched it up before even checking the name, heart already doing backflips.

sungie, where are youuu

i’m done with class and i’m boredd, wanna see you

He was now internally screaming. If Jeongin wasn’t here right now he’d be kicking his feet and giggling like a school girl right now. But instead he tries to keep his composure, though he’s failing miserably.

He swallows thickly, ears immediately turning red as he reads your message over and over. Recollections from last night were now running through his head, the mental image of your body under his, breathy moans in his ear, the feeling of your lips on his neck— it was burned into his memory forever.

Jisung’s brain short-circuited. His heart launched itself straight into his throat. And his dick? Yeah, it had ideas..

Jeongin tilts his head, catching the panicked expression on Jisung’s face. “Dude,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Just go meet up with her already. You’re useless like this.”

“I’m not useless,” Jisung said defensively, even as his fingers fumbled to type out a reply with hands that were very much trembling. “I’m trying to debug this stupid loop!”

“You’re trying to not bust a nut thinking about her,” Jeongin deadpanned. “You’ve copy-pasted the same broken function like six times in ten minutes. I’m still confused how you even managed to bag the hottest girl on campus.”

“I didn’t bag her,” Jisung mumbled, his face growing hot once again. “She… likes me.”

“No shit she likes you. She owns you.” Jeongin pointed at the now purplish-red bruise on Jisung’s neck. “That’s a leash, not a love bite.”

“Stop talking, I’m trying to finish this code.”

Jeongin leaned across the table, squinting at his screen. “You haven’t written a single working line in the past thirty minutes. The cursor’s been blinking in the same empty function this whole time. You typed ‘y/n’ in the comment section of your code, and then drew a dick in ASCII next to it. You know damn well you’re not debugging anything except your feelings.”

Jisung groaned loudly as he slumps forward, his forehead hitting the keyboard with a soft ‘thud’. “She just- she’s distracting, okay?”

“She’s not even here right now.”

“She lives rent free in my head.”

“You pay her rent,” Jeongin quickly corrected, “with your dignity.”

Jisung barely had time to fire back before his phone buzzed again. His posture instantly straightens, reaching for his phone like it contained the meaning of life.

so why haven’t you kissed me today? why do you hate me?

He wheezed. “She thinks I hate her—!”

“You’re literally wearing the hoodie she gave you,” Jeongin cuts in dryly. “You made her a playlist last night called ‘songs that remind me of her moaning.’ She’s obviously fucking with you, bro.”

Jisung was only half-listening, already typing like his life depended on it.

i’m in the library, baby. i thought u had another class??

also i don’t hate u i’m OBSESSED w u

Your reply came not even a minute later.

mhm. obsessed? prove it. where exactly in the library are u?

He froze, looking up like a deer caught in headlights.

Jeongin didn’t even flinch. “Don’t panic,” he responds flatly, reaching for a pretzel stick. “Just give her your location and accept your fate.”

Jisung completely ignores him, fingers moving fast, typing out a rushed response that was borderline devotional.

back left corner by the windows. alone. i mean, with jeongin. but like mostly alone.

u coming?

depends.. are you gonna leave me another hickey this time or nah?

He slammed his forehead against the table.

“You good?” Jeongin asked casually, chewing on his pretzel like his friend wasn’t in the middle of a full-blown mental breakdown.

“No,” Jisung mumbled into the wood. “I’m gonna die right here. On this table. Tell my computer I love her.”

“Death by horny girlfriend.” Jeongin chuckled, “you’d be the third one this semester.”

Jisung turned his face, still smushed against the table, eyes glazed with academic doom. “I’m so gonna fail this exam..”

“You’re gonna fail life if she sits on your lap again and you cream your pants in front of me.”

Jisung glared. “I didn’t cream my pants last time.”

“You moaned when she kissed your jaw, bro. Out loud. In public..”

“It was a low moan.”

“A moan is a moan, my guy.”

Before Jisung could argue back, he receives yet another message.

look up, dummy.

His entire body went rigid, hands hovering midair, pupils dilating like a cat spotting a nearby predator.

“Bro?” Jeongin asked, watching the color drain from his face.

“She’s here,” Jisung whispered. “Oh my god, she’s actually here.”

And just like that, his palms were sweating. His heart beating abnormally fast as if a bomb was about to go off in his chest. He knew what was to came next. You were going to strut over here in something tiny, say something filthy, and sit in his lap like you owned both the chair and the man in it.

Jeongin turned just in time to see you coming.

“Oh nope. Nope.” He grabbed his stuff immediately, like a man narrowly avoiding trauma. “I’m not third-wheeling this lap dance sequel. I’ll be in the café. If I’m not back in an hour, it’s because I died of secondhand embarrassment.”

Jisung was still trying to stammer out something when Jeongin patted him on the shoulder with mock sympathy and left him for dead.

You were in a tiny black pleated skirt that flared when you walked, paired with a white, paper-thin tank, barely clinging to your frame. The outline of your lace bralette clearly visible beneath it under the warm library lighting. Your lips were glossy— glistening with that pink shimmer you knew drove him crazy, a hint of eyeliner, and that signature flirty sparkle in your eye made Jisung forget his own name, and why he ever thought he could handle you.

His mouth slightly parted as you spotted him and waved with a little grin that caused him to hold his breath. Every guy in the vicinity turned to look. Of course they did. You looked like you’d walked straight off the cover of a playboy magazine.

Except you weren’t paying attention to anyone else, walking straight towards him— past the tables, past all the stares, and before he could even think to slide over and offer the empty seat next to him, you climbed right onto his lap like you belonged there.

You casually slung your arm over his shoulders, settling against him like it was a normal day and you’d done it a hundred times before. Your thighs framed his, the sweet scent of your perfume clouding his senses while the softness of your chest against his front made him see static.

“Hi, baby,” you leaned it, trailing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You looked like you were missing me.”

“I-I uh-” He blinked rapidly, trying to process literally anything. “You’re- you-”

You couldn’t help but giggle at how much of a nervous wreck he was, but kept teasing him anyway. “Use your words, handsome.”

“You’re wearing that.”

You raised a brow, wide-eyed, feigning innocence. “This?”

Shifting slightly on his lap to get more comfy, your hips tilted just enough for your warmth to press more directly against the growing tent in his jeans. His soul left his body once again.

“I was gonna sit in the chair,” you said, glancing lazily at the empty seat beside him, “but you looked so cute and lonely over here. So serious. So tense.”

“I am tense,” he squeaked.

“You wanna know why?” he added quickly. “Because you’re literally sitting on me in the middle of a public—”

Your fingers slid into his hair, playing with the strands at the nape of his neck. “You don’t want me to sit here anymore?”

Jisung’s hands flew to your waist without realizing, fingers splayed against the thin material of your top like he was trying to will himself into self-control. “No- I mean, yes- I mean- I love when you sit here.. but—”

“But?” You echoed sweetly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“People are looking,” he hissed through clenched teeth, heat blooming all the way to his ears. “Everyone’s looking. I-I can feel my GPA dropping just from this. My professor probably sensed it through the air.”

You didn’t seem fazed at all by his comments, letting your nose brush his cheek. “Let them look. You’re my boyfriend. I wanna show off what’s mine.”

He whimpered— actually whimpered. In the middle of the damn library.

You were just smiling, completely calm, perfectly poised, one hand lazily tracing the edge of his hoodie while your weight shifted subtly again, your thigh dragging ever so gently across his cock, already painfully hard beneath you.

You weren’t even grinding that hard.

You didn’t have to.

Because his sanity’s already slowly unraveling.

“Y/n…” he whispered, barely coherent. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I barely did anything yet.”

“That’s the problem..”

You looked down at him, lips curved into something wicked. “You’re such a dork.”

He huffed, letting his head fall back against the seat.

“But you’re my dork,” you added, embedding a kiss to his cheek and then his temple. “My cute, squirmy, overstimulated little dork.”

“I’m not overstimulated.”

“You’re rock hard.”

“I’m emotionally vulnerable.”

You cackled. Loud enough for a student at the next table over to side-eye you, which you promptly ignored.

Jisung, meanwhile, tried to slowly roll his hips under you, praying to all gods that no one could tell how close he was to combusting. Your thighs were so soft. Warm. You smelled like vanilla and something sinfully feminine. The way you sat on him like nothing was happening, like your soaked panties weren’t dragging back and forth over the flexed muscle of his thigh— made his whole body lock up.

“If you’re this worked up now…” you murmured, voice sultry and featherlight, “…how are you gonna survive when I ride you later?”

His eyes rolled back.

A shaky breath punched from his chest. He choked on it, hands gripping your waist even tighter as his legs jerked beneath the table.

You pulled back just slightly to watch him come undone with a satisfied little smirk. “Color’s back in your cheeks. Must be working.”

“I’m begging you,” he croaked, “please just let me finish this. I need to pass this class.”

You thread your fingers up into his hair again, tugging gently at his roots. “Mm. If you get an A, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Desk. Mirror. Kitchen table. You name it.”

Jisung whimpered again.

Someone coughed in the next aisle. You didn’t care.

He tried to keep his cool. He really did. But when your lips would brush up against his ear, and your fingers slipped just slightly beneath his hoodie to rest on his bare skin, he knew he was beyond the point of no return.

You stayed perched on his lap, the model of calm— like you had no idea what you were doing to him. Like his cock wasn’t straining in his jeans so hard he thought he might pass out. His jaw was tight, lips bitten red, and his entire body’s trembling with effort.

The worst part of it all was how deliberately slow your hips circled over his thigh. It was so subtle. Calculated. The tiniest roll forward, just enough to let your clothed core drag across the curve of his thigh. Not bouncing. Not humping. Just that slow, lazy grind of slick heat over denim— completely hidden from view beneath the table.

“Shhh,” you muttered, completely unaffected. “Thought you wanted to finish your code?”

He was trying to finish this script. He really was. But the lines of code on his screen were blurring together, his glasses fogged-up and slipping down his nose. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, stifling a noise he didn’t even recognize.

“I-” he gasped, the only thing anchoring him being the white-knuckle grip he had on the edge of his laptop. “I can’t think like this-”

“Like what?” You asked, lips brushing his jaw as your hips picked up it’s pace. “Like your girlfriend’s grinding her needy little cunt on your leg while you’re trying to finish your sad excuse of a Python script?”

He bucks into you helplessly. His cock throbbing in utter desperation. His jeans were already soaked. You were soaked. The cotton clinging between your folds as warmth spread across your thighs like wildfire. His thigh pressed perfectly against your cunt with every slow grind, grazing over the sensitive bud just right.

Jisung clenched his jaw, eyes fluttering shut. He could feel it. The outline of you. The mess you were making on him. The sharp, desperate ache in his cock that had him this close to snapping. The denim of his jeans felt tight, unbearably tight, and every shift of your hips sent him teetering over the edge.

“H-holy shit, y/n…” Jisung’s voice cracks, sharp and frayed. “You’re so wet. I can feel it through- fuck- through everything.”

“Mmh?” You hum softly, “what was that, baby? Speak up.”

“You know what,” he whined. His thigh twitched again, and you seized the opportunity to grind harder, dragging your soaked center over the thick muscle.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he hissed, looking around uncomfortably. “You’re seriously gonna.. I can’t, baby—”

“No one’s looking,” you interrupted calmly, your hot breath fanning over his neck, fingers curling into the back of his hair like a gentle command. “Unless you make them look. Unless you start moaning like a little slut who can’t control himself while his girlfriend gets off on his leg.”

“I’m not-” He swallowed, but his voice was weak. Broken. “I’m not a slut.”

“No?” You mocked, your voice all honey and knives. “Then why’re you twitching every time I say something filthy? Why are you leaking through your boxers when I haven’t even touched your cock?”

He let out another pitiful sound.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything, just let me cum, please. I can’t- fuck- I can’t take it anymore.”

The way he looked up at you, all teary-eyed and trembling, it sending a rush of heat pooling to your core. His cheeks were flushed a baby pink, lips slightly parted, chest heaving like he’d just run five miles. Your good boy— smart, nerdy, sweet Jisung— reduced to a desperate, needy mess just from the way you were riding his thigh in public like it was your seat.

“You’d do anything for me?” You asked, rolling your hips again, slowly, letting your clit drag perfectly over the seam of his jeans.

His hands spasmed on your legs.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, please. I’d do anything- I’ll get on my knees right now, I’ll eat you out under this table if you let me. I’ll fucking worship you, y/n, just pleaseplease let me cum—”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “You sound so pathetic,” you scoffed. “So needy. And all I did was sit on you.”

He nodded frantically, his breathing ragged.

“I am pathetic. I know I am. I can’t help it, ’m so obsessed with you. I think about you all the time. I jerk off thinking about you sitting on my face. I came in my hand the other night just imagining you calling me your good boy.”

You clenched at that.

“Oh, baby,” you cooed. “You’re so fucked up.”

You spread your knees a little more over his leg so you could rock harder, now deliberately dragging your wet pussy over the wet patch of denim he’d soaked through. Tensing up as he fought not to move, to grind up into you like he wanted.

His breath came in short, silent bursts now. Chest rising and falling beneath you, lips parted, sweat beading at his brow.

“Y/n…” he breathed, trying so hard to sound composed, but nearly sobbing from how fucking good it felt.

“What is it, baby?” You bat your lashes at him, hips rocking forward again. “You’re not gonna cum in your jeans, are you?”

His entire body shivered.

“I-I will,” he stuttered. “I swear, if you don’t stop.. mmph, ‘m already so close, you’re- your pussy’s so wet—”

You leaned in slowly, lips grazing over the shell of his ear. “If you cum now…”

He gasped, throat catching on the first syllable.

“…you’re not fucking me later.”

His breathing stopped.

You pulled back just enough to see the panic settle in his eyes.

“You hear me, Ji? If you cum in your pants like a desperate little virgin, I’m walking out of here and locking my legs until next week.”

“I want you to feel how wet I am for you,” you whispered. “I want your thigh soaked. I want your cock leaking. But you don’t get to cum unless I say so.”

Jisung was panting now. He was actually trembling— not shaking, not twitching— trembling, like he was barely surviving.

“Y/nnn,” he whined. “This isn’t fair.. ’m not gonna make it.”

“You will,” you said, rolling your hips harder, dragging the mess between your thighs across the thick ridge of his leg again. “You will because you want to fuck me. You wanna cum inside me, don’t you?”

He groaned, mouth agape, eyes half-lidded and glazed over.

“Yes,” he pleaded. “God.. yes.”

You rewarded him with one more slow grind, your drenched panties catching perfectly on your clit— and it took everything in him not to buck up or spill into his boxers right then and there.

He almost disobeyed. Almost gave in. But somehow by some miracle of sheer desperation and willpower, he held back. Barely. Just barely.

You could feel him clenching under you. His cock twitching behind the zipper, leaking so much precum he’d made a dark patch on his jeans, mixing with the slick you’d left behind.

“You’re so good for me,” you praised, pressing light kisses against his jaw. “Sitting still, letting me use you. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he strained. “I can’t take it anymore, please—”

You smiled against his skin, kissed him again, then pulled back.

“Then come with me.”

His eyes widened. “W-What?”

You stood up, skirt fluttering down your thighs, straightening your tank top like you weren’t dripping down his leg seconds ago.

“Archives section.” You whispered, voice honeyed and commanding.

And just like that, Jisung— flushed, throbbing, soaked, and desperately blue-balled, let you pull him through the rows of books, already dizzy with the promise of what’s to come next.

+

Jisung’s wrist was still pulsing with warmth from where you grabbed him, dragging him down two flights of stairs with no explanation and zero resistance. He followed like a lost puppy, notebook half-open, backpack swinging awkwardly behind him as you led him past the “ARCHIVES ONLY” sign and into a forgotten aisle of books no one under 65 had ever touched.

The hallway past the microfilm cabinets was barely lit, tucked behind a wall of outdated journals and abandoned thesis papers. No one ever came back here. The security camera hadn’t worked in months and you knew that because you checked the first week you started fooling around with Jisung in public. It was the perfect spot for what you had in mind.

His hoodie was crooked. His hair was a mess. His jeans were stained — not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but you saw the evidence of your slick and his precum smeared across the thigh you’d just used like your personal toy minutes ago.

His eyes were blown wide. Glazed. Wild with the kind of desperate frustration that came from being edged and denied so thoroughly he could barely think. Your skirt was still slightly rumpled and your lip gloss a little smeared like you planned it. You looked wrecked in the prettiest way and he couldn’t stop staring.

You gently pushed him up against the bookshelf, meeting the cold tiles as you dropped to your knees, looking up at him with the sweetest, filthiest smile he’d ever seen.

“W-What are you doing?” He blinked like rapid fire, turning into an even blushier mess. “Wait- wait, are you—?”

Without a word, you reached down and pulled his jeans further open, just enough to free his cock. It sprang up against his stomach— angry red at the tip, twitching, wet with a fresh bead of precum leaking from the slit.

“Ohh, Ji,” you cooed, brushing your thumb across the tip, smearing the slick mess down his shaft. “You really are about to cum, huh?”

“Y-Yeah,” he choked, breath hitching as his needy hips jerked into your hand. “Please touch me, ‘m so fucking close—”

“I am touching you,” you teased, wrapping your fingers around him slowly, deliberately. “What, not good enough?”

He let out a ragged moan, head thunking back against the wall.

Your grip tightened just enough. Your fist started moving slowly, not enough to bring him over, but enough to torment him. Just enough to keep him right there, on the edge, nerves strung taut like piano wire.

“F-Fuck, that’s—” he gasped, hips stuttering. “That’s so good.. please, faster. Baby, please—”

You smiled while looking up at him. “You begging already?”

He whined, high-pitched and wrecked, his hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you, he’d explode.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered. “Just let me cum- I’ll eat you out for hours, I swear- please y/n—”

You tightened your grip and gave a long, twisting stroke that made his whole body jerk.

“Mm-mm,” you hummed. “Didn’t I say you don’t get to cum unless I say so?”

His hips bucked wildly into your fist. “I’m trying,” he moaned. “I’m trying so hard, but it feels so fucking good- your hand feels so good..”

“Yeah?” You whispered, pumping him harder, “my hand feels good? Poor baby. Can’t even handle a handjob without crying.”

“I’m not crying—”

You glanced back up.

His eyes were glassy. His lashes were damp. And his cock was throbbing so hard in your fist it looked painful.

“You are,” you murmured. “You’re crying ‘cause you want my mouth, huh?”

He whined like a kicked puppy.

You grinned.

“You want me to suck you off so bad you’d get on your knees and beg, wouldn’t you?”

He nods frantically, gasping for air. “Yes, yes. I would- I’d do anything- please, y/n, I need it. Need your mouth, wan’ it so bad—”

“You’re so cute,” you giggle, twisting your wrist mid-stroke just to make him squirm. “So fucked out and needy over something you haven’t even felt yet.”

“I’ve imagined it,” he blurted. “I’ve thought about it so many times- your lips, your tongue, I touch myself to it- fuck, ‘m gonna cum—”

Your hand stops immediately.

He let out a strangled, broken moan, the kind that came from the soul. As his cock throbbed helplessly in your hand, right on the edge, aching for release.

“Don’t you dare cum,” you hissed. “Not unless you want me to walk away.”

He whimpered. You watched the muscles in his abdomen tighten, his thighs shaking as he fought it— struggled against his own body, literally holding back an orgasm with every last shred of willpower he had left.

His eyes fluttered open again, desperate, ruined.

“You did good, baby,” you whispered. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You let go of his cock and pulled your hand away, sticky, soaked in his precum, still warm with the weight of him.

He sobbed— a tiny, wrecked sound that made your thighs clench.

You hadn’t even taken him in your mouth yet, and Jisung was already about to cry.

The flush on his cheeks crept down his throat, his hands struggled to stay put, not knowing what to do with them. His cock was hard. So hard. Red and slick and visibly throbbing as you pumped it slowly in your hand. Every now and then, his hips jerked subconsciously, helpless, like his body was trying to chase something even his mind couldn’t form words for.

You looked at him from between his thighs, chin tilted, lips parted just enough to tease.

“Still with me, baby?”

He nodded a little too fast. “Y-Yeah. I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”

You smiled. “You’re doing so good.”

And then you slowly licked a stripe from base to tip, watching his entire body flinch.

“Nngh,” his mouth flew open, head tipping back to hit the shelf behind him. “Oh my god.”

“Not yet,” you remind, letting your tongue flick beneath the head, collecting every drop of precum you’d pulled out of him. “But you can pray if it helps.”

He let out a strangled laugh, cut off halfway by a moan as your lips finally wrapped around the tip and sucked— lightly, just enough to watch his knees buckle.

That’s when you gave him what he really wanted.

You slid up and down, slowly, letting him feel every inch and crevice of your mouth, your tongue pressed firm against the underside of his cock, and didn’t stop until you had him nearly down your throat.

You look up through your lashes, gaze dropping to his lips, then back up to his eyes.

His eyes were already rolling back when yours locked with his. The second he realized you were watching him— deepthroating him while holding eye contact, he let out the filthiest, most guttural groan you’d ever heard come out of him.

“Y-y/n fuck- fuck, your eyes- your mouth- baby, please, please don’t stop—”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs shake.

You sucked harder now, faster, bobbing your head as your hand stroked what your lips couldn’t take. Drool started to peak out from the corners of your mouth and dripping down to your chin. Your jaw ached. Your eyes were watering. But you loved every second of it because he looked absolutely wrecked.

He was trembling like a virgin sacrifice, hips twitching, mouth open in a soft, breathless ‘o’ as his hands finally came to your head— not pushing, not guiding, just holding, as if he needed something to cling to so he doesn’t burst at the seams.

You were soaking wet.

Your thighs pressed together under your skirt, heat thobbing between your legs. Every time he moaned, every time he whimpered your name with that desperate, wrecked voice, you felt another pulse of wetness soak your panties.

You loved this.

Loved watching him come apart because of you.

He was a babbling mess now, muttering nonsensical praise and pleas spilling from his lips.

“Your mouth’s so warm, oh my god. So good, so fucking good, feels better than anything.. Think m’gonna cum, please let me cum in your mouth..”

You pulled off just enough to say, voice breathless, “then do it. Cum for me.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, deep and wet and perfect, not stopping until his entire body went still, shaking, before bucking up into your throat as he finally came.

“Fuckfuckfuck, I’m cumming—!”

His head dropped forward, eyes wide and panicked as his cock twitched hard, spilling thick spurts of cum hot and heavy down your throat. You sucked him through it, not letting up until he was whimpering, thrashing, his knees buckling as he slumped back against the shelf.

You swallowed everything, not a drop of him wasted.

Then licked your lips, smugly grinning.

When you stood back up, he was still dazed. His eyes followed you like you were gravity itself.

“That was—” He wheezed. “I think I just- did I die? Am I dead?”

You leaned in close and whispered, “You died a slut.”

He choked on his own saliva.

And then, of course.. came the sound that ruined everything.

His phone buzzing. Loudly. With that stupidly obnoxious ringtone.

A Zelda theme remix.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, eyebrows lifting. “Is that your mom?”

Jisung turned redder than you thought humanly possible.

He yanked the phone out of his pocket and hissed, “Yes.”

“Answer it.”

“I will not—!”

You reached for it and put it on speaker before he even had the chance to protest and stop you.

“Jisung?” His mom’s voice rang out. “Did you remember to eat something today?”

He turned paler than a ghost.

You smiled sweetly, reaching over for a tissue and using it to wipe the corner of your mouth.

“He’s getting plenty of protein,” you said, and swiftly hung up.

Jisung let out a noise that could only be described as dying baby animal.

“I’m never recovering from this,” he smacks his forehead with his palm.

You peck his cheek. “You’ll recover. Eventually. After I sit on your face.”

He whimpered again. “You’re gonna be the reason I fail out of college.”

“And you’ll love every second of it.”

[stygiansauce]

So here I’m sitting, trying to work on one of my WIPs, and my brain goes, hey, yknow what is a fun head canon for MOE?

No? But I’m sure I’m about to be told.

Maybe it’s already canon to MOE, I can’t remember. But Tango can draw really really well. He doesn’t think he can, thinks he’s limited to engineering sketches. (Or doodles on the margins of proofreading papers) He especially can get frustrated when he finds himself sketching Jimmy. Because he doesn’t think he can ever draw Jimmy correctly. He’s wrong, he’s drawing Jimmy well enough most art students would weep, but he holds himself to impossible standards.

I don’t know, just the thought of Jimmy getting all flustered by finding a stash of these drawings of himself and he can see all the love Tango pours into them, and Tango goes “Yeah, they aren’t good enough.” Whilst Jimmy’s brain short circuits because ?!??! what do you mean you see me this beautiful and these drawings are amazing???

~Elen (🍠)

My Elen!!

So. this. I've been rotating this in my head for a few days now and I cannot find a reason to NOT put it in. I don't know if it will appear in the main story (so much is outlined and half written now) but I will try my damndest because I LOVE Tango who can draw.

It's normally Jimmy who I have doodling in my aus. But thinking about it, Jimmy spent most of his free time growing up out doing things. He was working part time jobs and doing school work. Tango on the other hand, did school and Ranch and maybe he saw Zed. Most of his childhood is yapping with Jevin on their horses. He's had tons of time to teach himself how to draw.

he has a little book in his saddle bag. and a simple charcoal pencil that he sharpens with his pocket knife. and he draws what he sees. birds, bison, landscapes. and when he gets to college he learns to draw more mechanically. but it always has a bit of an artistic flair his classmates never had He draws a sktech for one of his projects and it has shading on it. Or he marks up an exam with explanations of his thought process, and he gives visuals to many of this thoughts. Tango has always been someone to just snap his fingers and understand something, he's learned that many people need visuals, so he always provides them.

Drawing people though? I don't think he has a lot of practice in that. He can do loose outlines of a person in a landscape, but never detailed enough to know WHO the cowboy in a drawing is. until he met Jimmy. Theres a moment where he's up late, somewhere between the start of their flirting and the lollipop scene of chapter one. He's working on a project and is thinking about Jimmy's blushing flustered face and just, draws it. It doesn't look very good, and it doesn't look like Jimmy at all, but that doesn't stop him from trying again. As they get to know eachother and as Tango commits Jimmy's face to memory, they improve. Tango is a practical guy, he doesn't have social media and he hardly uses his phone, this is his way of "stalking the gram". this is how he gets to look at Jimmy when they aren't around eachother. on loose bits of papers, on the edge of his homework, on the back pages of a sketchbook he hasn't drawn in since he was last in texas. is Jimmy's face. Sleeping on the lab couch, taught in frustration, smiling softly. The only thing that Tango just cant seem to get right are his eyes. Nothing can capture them, not even the person who stares into them everyday.

GOD THIS MANNNNNNN hes to romantic aough. Thanks for this!! I needed this big time . much love Elen!

[nymika-arts]

It's five actually. Learn how to count.

i said give or take 🙄

[romanceyourdemons]

time travel regulation organization where it’s not official policy, but it’s common practice for field agents to keep a binder at their desk with the names of their family and friends, their address, their anniversaries, their schedules, their passwords. everything you would need to steal an identity—virtually anyone who’s been a field agent for more than a year has had to steal their own identity at least once. the timeline they all work to protect is concerned with wars and presidents and major motion picture releases. some margin of error is allowed, and it’s not uncommon to find agents walking around dazed, coming back from a mission to find their best friend unexisted and a wedding ring on their hand that matches the ring of a stranger. some give up on all relationships, not even letting themselves love their siblings. some wear lockets on their missions, so that if the photo on their desk has shifted in its frame on their return, at least they have something left of the timeline that now never was. agent zhang, who works hebei-shandong-jiangsu AD 1850-2000, has eighteen different family portraits. in some some agent zhang has a wife, in some a husband, in some neither. three portraits have one child, one has four, one has seven, most have none. some are in courtyard houses. some are by white picket fences. many have parents, but the newest one has none. you ask agent zhang if it wouldn’t be easier just to let the alternate timelines go. agent zhang points at a child four portraits back, a little girl with a missing front tooth and a goldfish bowl clutched in her arms. “i never learned what that goldfish was called. i took her out for ice cream as soon as i knew she existed, and i didn’t even get to see her come home from school the next day.”

[earthtooz]

jealous ratio because i really like him like that, fluff, reader is a menace

“who gave you those flowers?” 

ratio’s voice is demanding and snarky, eyes ablaze with a similar kind of disgust when you walk into your home with a bouquet in your arms. putting your keys on the counter, you greet him with your usual smile and prance over to place a kiss on his scowling expression.

which softens momentarily at the feel of your lips on his skin.

“hi, veritas,” you greet.

“welcome home, love,” he murmurs in return, smiling when looking at you, but the scowl returns when he makes eye contact with the flowers. “who gave you these?”

“aventurine did.”

the world freezes over with ratio’s silent rage and you’re the only one untouched despite being the catalyst. searching for a vase nearby, you’re more than content to let his possessiveness simmer, in fact, it’s something you are used to now.

when you manage to dig up an empty vase from a cabinet nearby, ratio’s footsteps scurry towards you.

“you’re keeping them?” he asks.

“why wouldn’t i? they’re a gift.”

“a gift? 

he’s fuming, absolutely fuming now as he watches you fret over the bouquet, trimming the ends, putting water in the bot, arranging them to look nice and lovely, all whilst your lover stared at you hawkishly. you pretend not to notice the way his eye twitches occasionally, allowing him to watch you work.

his mind must be working at a million thoughts per second, so you’ll just let him be until he can talk to you again.

“why did he give you flowers? there must be an occasion that i am unaware of.”

after finishing your final touches, you turn around with all the garbage in your hands and walk past the scholar. he follows. “to say thanks. he recently consulted me for one of his projects and the results were fruitful, so he bought me a bouquet in gratitude.” 

pink roses. last time ratio read, they were supposed to symbolise gratitude, the ideal choice to send to someone who has helped you. 

“well. if that’s the case then he owes me a planet’s worth of flowers.”

“lighten up, veritas, he was just being friendly.”

“friendly?” he all but snaps. 

“yes, friendly. is there an issue with that?” 

“that gambler being friendly implies to him being up to no good.” he attaches himself to your hip, hovering over you as you make a mug of coffee. “he is a menace, an undesirable anomaly, a type one error, i advise you keep your interactions with him limited. only one of us should need to deal with his antics so i suppose i’ll have to bite the bullet on this one, darling.”

“you are so brave, my hero. are you done? anymore talk about aventurine and i might just think you’re in love with him.” ratio splutters at your wild accusations, missing the way you smile under your breath. then, you throw your arms around the scholar and he doesn’t return the embrace, still dumbfounded. “i missed you and the first thing you do when i come home is talk about another man.”

he scoffs, lifting you up onto the kitchen counter. there, he rests his hands on either sides of the counter beside you. “your mouth is twice as foul as his.”

“and yet you still love me.”

“marginally.”

“you!”

tomorrow, you return home to a luxurious bouquet of red roses sitting on the kitchen island.

i'm writing this as a pregame to the diluc fic i have in the works.

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[averyspizookies]

Locked.

Part one.

Pairing: Final four UCLA Azzi x UConn Paige, Enemies to lovers.

Word count: 6.8k

Note: hi guys, I really hope you all enjoy this!! It’s based off the clip of juju saying “I hate ucla bro” lol, so yeah I had fun writing it. It’s not well edited, but I really want you guys to give more feedback, it’s how I was inspired to write most of guarded and I miss y’all!! Anons or dms even always welcome. Thank you all for reading. Let me know if you see any errors!🤍

My master list

____ ____ ____

“Bro—I’m not guarding that hoe.”

Paige’s voice echoed through the nearly empty hotel conference room the UConn team had taken for the night. Her chair squeaked as she leaned back dramatically, arms flung wide like she was being personally victimized by the film.

KK didn’t even look up. Just sighed, her cheek smushed into her notebook, highlighters and half-dead pens scattered. “Well,” she mumbled, “you kinda don’t have a choice.”

Paige groaned, “I’m serious. I hate UCLA. Like, on a spiritual level. They’re all—sunny and shit. With their stupid faces and tans like they live in a fucking Nike commercial.”

Across the table, Ice glanced up from her screen, eyebrows raised. “Paige. Half the stuff you just said isn’t even remotely basketball-related.”

“I knowww,” Paige drawled, already halfway draped over her chair, sounding offended by the very existence the West Coast. “But it’s still true. They’re too... happy.”

“I dunno...” Caroline piped up, voice calm, but curious. She was scribbling something in the margins of a notepad, but her eyes flicked up. “Azzi seems kinda nice. Off the court, I mean.”

Paige sat up like someone had just personally offended her. “Nice? Not with the way she plays.”

“She literally isn’t even a dirty player,” KK said, finally looking up, confused.

“No, no, no—y’all don’t get it.” Paige huffed, already flipping open her laptop with laser focus. “Here. Let me educate you.”

She fast-forwarded through last year’s matchup against UCLA with the speed and precision of someone who’d watched it on loop.

“Thirteen forty-two,” she muttered, timestamp burned into her memory.

The video froze on Azzi Fudd, calm and composed, dribbling the ball up the court like she had all the time in the world—like gravity didn’t exist for her. Paige unpaused, and there it was: the shot.

No hesitation. No pass. No screen. Just Azzi, the ball, and the net. The swish was so clean it sounded like water,

It haunted Paige.

“Bro, so what?” Ice asked, pulling back from the screen, her voice casual but amused. “That’s just—”

“So what?” Paige cut in, incredulous, already gesturing wildly. “That’s fucking— it’s just—”

“A good play?” KK offered, sipping from her water bottle, barely hiding her smirk.

The other girls giggled, and Paige scowled, eyes still locked on the paused video like it had insulted her.

“Whatever. She’s a bitch,” Paige muttered, slamming her laptop shut. “Trust me.”

“You’ve literally never talked to her,” Ice pointed out, gathering her chargers and cords.

“Don’t need to. I can feel it,” Paige insisted, shoving things into her bag with uneeded aggressiveness “She has bitch energy. bitch aura.”

KK was already halfway to the door with Ice, but she turned back, grinning like she was about to drop a grenade. “Maybe you just wanna get in her pants.”

Ice exploded with laughter, nearly choking as she tried—and failed—to cover it up with a cough. The two of them disappeared through the door, still cracking up.

Paige was left alone in the quiet room, surrounded by the glow of half-lit screens and scribbled scouting notes.

“Hell no,” she grumbled, even though her face felt a little too warm and she suddenly couldn’t look at the paused image of Azzi on her laptop without thinking about the way her ponytail bounced when she shot, or the way her eyes didn’t blink after she followed through.

No. Absolutely not.

She slammed her laptop shut again.

Definitely not.

***

The UCLA team rolled into the Final Four hotel like a wave of California sun, dressed head-to-toe in royal blue and gold. There wasn’t a hair out of place or a single scuffed sneaker in sight. They looked every bit the part of a team built for the big stage—cool, polished, camera-ready.

They strolled through the lobby like it was a runway, a day out from their Final Four matchup against South Carolina. A rope separated fans from the players, but it didn’t stop the noise—screams, phones raised high, posters waving in hopes of a signature or even a glance.

Most of those screams were for one person.

Azzi Fudd didn’t acknowledge them. Not really. A polite smile here, a wave there, but never long enough to feed the frenzy. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned long ago that attention was a currency—and too much of it could bankrupt your peace.

She’d been “the star” since her sophomore year, though she’d never say it out loud. You didn’t have to.

Slam covers. GQ. Vogue. A $3 million Nike deal dropped just months ago that had turned her from basketball prodigy into a full-blown brand. Ten million on Instagram. More on TikTok. She didn’t even run half of it anymore—there was a team for that. A fan favorite? Understatement. Fans didn’t just support her; they idolized her. Worshipped her like goddess.

Edits of her game highlights mixed with thirst-trap music regularly hit millions of views. Every game day, her name trended.

She moved through the lobby with her best friend and teammate Lauren beside her, flanked by security. Lauren was the only person who never changed around her—never acted like she was someone to tiptoe around.

“Ughhhh,” Lauren groaned the second she face-planted onto the plush hotel bed, the mattress dipping with a satisfying thump.

“I know,” Azzi replied, flopping down beside her, voice muffled in the pillows.

March had been a blur of red-eye flights, endless film sessions, bruising practices, and must-win games. And now, they were here. The Final Four. Another night, another city…

But tomorrow? Tomorrow wasn’t just another game. It was South Carolina.

And maybe, just maybe... after that? UConn.

Azzi sighed again, but this one came from somewhere deeper in her chest. The part that still remembered last year. And the year before.

“What the hell are we gonna do about UConn?” she blurted, still face-down.

Lauren groaned and turned her head, dark curls spilling over her cheek. “What?”

Azzi rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling like it had answers. “They’re not here to mess around. Paige—she’s not leaving without that championship.”

Lauren blinked at her for a second. “Well... neither are you.”

Azzi didn’t reply.

Lauren sat up a little. “We’re ready. We’ve got you. We’ve got height. UConn’s bigs are good, but they don’t dominate the post like they used to. And you’re averaging twenty-three a game, Az. We’ve got this.”

Azzi nodded, slowly. Lauren was right. Technically. Statistically. But reality wasn’t always made of numbers.

They both knew the truth: if Azzi or Lauren went down—or even just had an off night—the rest of the roster cracked like glass under pressure. It had happened before. Too many times.

They didn’t have depth. They had each other.

And tomorrow, it had to be enough.

“I gotta stop Blondie,” Azzi muttered.

Lauren burst out laughing. “Right. And she’ll be trying to stop you. You two are like... the same person, just on opposite coasts.”

Azzi made a gagging noise and stuck out her tongue. “Don’t even say that.”

Lauren grinned, unfazed. “I mean... c’mon. Both of you are bajillionaires. Both have followers in the tens of millions. Both have armies of fans thirsting over edits. Both of you are the face of your programs.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and flopped an arm over her face. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Admit it. You’re the West Coast Paige.”

Azzi lifted her arm just enough to shoot Lauren a look. “Please. If I ever start flailing around and yelling at my teammates mid-game like she does, bench me.”

Lauren cackled. “That’s fair.”

Still, the words stuck. Paige was UConn’s golden girl—their anchor, their edge, their fire. Everything Azzi was for UCLA. Their rivalry was iconic. Edited to hell and back. Every time they met on the court, it was like the internet paused to watch. Azzi never let herself look too close, but sometimes... she did. And that was the problem.

“Whatever,” Azzi said, shaking the thoughts out of her head. She sat up and grabbed her sneakers. “Let’s go.”

Lauren blinked. “Go? Go where?”

“The gym.”

Lauren sat up like Azzi had just suggested running a marathon. “Azzi. We just got off a plane. My knees are still vibrating.”

Azzi tugged on her arm, relentless. “Yeah, well—tough. I want to win.”

Lauren groaned but grabbed her gym bag anyway, mumbling something. As they reached the door, she gave Azzi a long look.

“You know... you’re not as nice as everyone thinks.”

****

“C’mon bro, let’s go. Just real quick,” Paige whispered urgently, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Ice, lounging sideways on a stiff hotel bench in the hallway, arched a brow and glared at her. “Paige. Madison. Bueckers.”

“Yeah?” Paige grinned, dragging her voice into something sugary and innocent, eyes wide and untrustedworthy.

“You are six feet tall and a fully grown adult woman. You’re more than capable of getting shots up alone.”

Paige crouched beside Ice like a little kid. “Yeah, but—” she took Ice’s hand in her own—“it wouldn’t be any fun without my very best friend there.”

Ice smacked her hand away with a smirk. “You’re such a pain.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you. For 30 minutes. No more.”

She tossed her gym bag over her shoulder, blonde hair whipped into a messy bun, in black UConn warmup pants and a slate gray shirt still damp from earlier shootaround. Ice sighed, tugging her hoodie over her braids and muttering under her breath as they wandered down the hotel corridors, lost twice and laughing about it both times.

Then, Paige shoved open the double doors to the gym.

Immediately, Ice stopped dead in her tracks.

“Bruh, Ice—what’s your deal?” Paige asked, crashing into her back.

Ice didn’t move, eyes locked on the court. “We should come back later.”

“What? Why?” Paige slipped around her, utterly confused. “It’s not like—”

Her words cut short as she stepped into the gym.

There were already people here.

Lauren Betts stood alone near the far basket, 6’7”, commanding space like gravity. Her UCLA shorts clung to her frame, her form fluid and efficient. Watching her in person—up close—was different. The stats on paper didn’t show how naturally dominant she was. She wasn’t just tall. She was elegant in the way skyscrapers are elegant.

Paige gave Ice a look. “It’s fine.”

Ice hesitated, then followed her.

They set up on the opposite half-court, silently respecting the invisible boundary. Sneakers squeaked against the floor as Lauren continued her workout, sweat glistening down her back. Paige and Ice tied their laces, then jumped right in—Paige leading one-on-one drills, exploding into the lane, her footwork a blur of muscle memory and talent.

Every jumper was water. Every crossover was tight, slick. Her passes snapped through space like knives. The kind of flow that made time irrelevant.

She didn’t hear the gym door creak open.

Didn’t hear footsteps.

Didn’t notice the sudden shift in temperature.

But Lauren did.

“Azzi!” she said, a little too brightly. Too forced.

Paige froze—not because of the name, but because of the tone. Her back straightened like a shot. She turned, slowly.

There she was.

Azzi Fudd. In nothing but UCLA-rolled shorts, a royal blue sports bra, and sweat-kissed curls braided into a bun that framed her face like something out of a GQ shoot. Her face, flushed from rinsing off in the bathroom, was unreadable—but her eyes?

They were daggers.

“Don’t,” Azzi snapped at Lauren, already annoyed.

Lauren offered a helpless shrug.

“Well. Look who it is,” Azzi said, voice syrupy-sweet and sharp as a blade. She walked forward, arms crossed, her stare pinned straight on Paige like a heat-seeking missile.

The tension snapped like a rubber band pulled too far.

Paige turned fully now, her hands resting on her hips, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug. “Azzi Fudd. How are you?”

There was no warmth in her voice. Just a hollow echo of politeness. A taunt wrapped in pleasantry.

Azzi cocked her head, cool and unbothered. “I’m great. Ready to play.”

They stared each other down, less like rivals and more like predators unsure which one was hungrier.

They didn’t blink.

They didn’t break.

They hated each other.

And not in the cliché way most people claim to hate their rivals. This wasn’t school spirit, or trash talk, or even competitiveness.

This was personal.

But neither could say why.

“Good,” Paige said finally, breathing out slowly, like she had to push the word out past her pride. “That’s good.”

Azzi smiled—chill, collected, cold. “I hope to see you guys on the court. It’s always… fun, to play against you.”

Paige chuckled dryly, a sound that lacked all humor. “Yeah. Sure. ‘Fun.’”

Their gazes clashed in the middle of the court—blue eyes against brown, California sunshine versus Minnesota. Neither flinched.

Azzi held her smirk a second longer, then turned and walked back toward Lauren, her strides sharp, her presence magnetic. Without a word, she picked up the ball and started drilling again—only harder now, sharper.

Paige turned back to her side of the court too, jaw tight, pulse quicker than before. She hadn’t lost control. Not really. But something was different now.

*****

Ice, Paige and Azzi, Lauren all worked. The coexisted in the space even though the air felt charged-and it was.

After Lauren missed a step for the second time in a row Azzi groaned.

“Lauren! Cmon.”

She sighed and whipped her sweat off her hands, lookimg back to Azzi. “I'm tired Az! And so are you. Can we leave? It’s been like an hour and a half.”

Azzi glanced over quickly to where Paige and ice were.

They were blowing through some drill where Paige blocked ices shot and kicked out for a three.

She was sweating- probably out of breath too.

But still, she was full out sprinting each time, never missing, always talking to ice.

She pulled her head back.

“No..not yet.”

Lauren’s gave her a glare, following where her eyes had just been. “Really?”

Azzi locked eyes with her, still breathing heavily dispite wanting to keep going. “Really what?”

“Azzi” she started, “I’m not stupid.” Lauren’s voice dropped down to a whisper. She glanced over Azzi's shoulder again to motion towards Paige. “I know you just wanna stay here and work longer then Paige…for whatever stupid feud you too have going on.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was completely right.

She grabbed the ball out of Lauren’s hands and started dribbling. “Cmon, let’s shoot some threes.”

“Your evil Fudd.”

****

Paige… I’m gonna pass away,” Ice groaned dramatically, sprawled half-upright against the wall.

“You’re not dying,” Paige replied flatly, the words almost lost beneath the crisp swish of her shot ripping through the net. She was locked in; shoulders square, eyes sharp, every release a surgical strike.

“No. I am. This is it. I’m leaving this world sweaty and betrayed.”

Paige didn’t look her way. Just caught the ball off the bounce and let another three fly, all net. “If you die, can I have your slides?”

Ice rolled her eyes so hard her whole head tipped back against the wall. It had been over 90 minutes of nonstop one-on-one drills, makeshift shooting contests, and—more than anything—unspoken warfare between Paige and Azzi across the court.

Neither of them said a word to each other.

But the tension screamed.

They mirrored each other perfectly: the same relentless drive, the same stubborn refusal to quit, the same stolen glances.

It was like a silent chess match. Only with sneakers, sweat, and pride.

And Ice? She was done.

She let out a fake cough loud enough to rattle the gym. It echoed.

Neither Paige nor Azzi looked up.

But someone did.

Lauren.

Across the court, Lauren caught Ice’s exhausted eye and tilted her head with concern. Ice looked at her, nodded dramatically toward her own body and mouthed, “I’m dead.”

Lauren barely smirked, but the laugh hit her eyes. She mouthed back, “Me too.”

UCLA and UConn weren’t even rivals, not officially. But the Azzi-Paige Cold War could’ve melted steel beams. The two of them acted like the other’s existence personally offended them—but even that didn’t explain the weird electricity in the air.

Lauren’s gaze flicked toward the locker room hallway. She tilted her head meaningfully, mouthing, “Meet me?”

She stood up slowly, muscles stiff from shooting, and started walking toward the bathroom. Ice caught the signal and nodded.

As Ice made her move, Paige finally snapped out of her shooting trance.

“Ice?” she called, not looking away from the hoop. “Where’re you going?”

Ice froze for half a second. “Bathroom. Real quick,” she said casually, already halfway down the court. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Paige just hummed and sank another jumper.

Azzi didn’t look up either, but Ice noticed her brows twitch the moment Paige spoke.

Curious.

The door clicked shut behind Ice as she slipped into the bathroom. Lauren was already leaning against the counter, pulling her hair out of its sweaty bun and sighing.

Ice didn’t waste time. “We need to do something about them.”

Lauren didn’t hesitate. “Agreed.”

“Like… what even is their problem?”

“I don’t think even they know,” Ice muttered. “It’s like they hate each other, but also can’t stop looking at each other like they wanna… I don’t know. Fight or kiss or fight and kiss.”

Lauren snorted. “Right?! Thank you. I’ve been saying that. No one else sees it!”

“Oh, I see it,” Ice said, pacing now.

“So what are you thinking?” Lauren asked,

Ice paused and looked at her. “Okay. Don’t call me crazy.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a promising start.”

“I’m serious. I get a vibe. I think they’re into each other. Or at least—something. Something messy and probably way more interesting than either of them would admit.”

Lauren leaned in. “Keep talking.”

“Well,” Ice began, smirking now, “even if they’re not into each other, they’re gonna have to figure this out eventually. We have a few single rooms left open, right?”

Lauren’s eyes widened slightly.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s evil.”

“I know,” Ice whispered, grinning like the Grinch. “But it’s also kind of genius.”

Lauren burst out laughing, her whole body shaking. “Oh my god. You're insane. I’m in.”

****

They slipped out of the bathroom like criminals on a mission.

The plan? Foolproof. Dirty. Beautiful.

Get Paige in first.

Say it was about going live.

Use her one weakness.

And let the rest fall into place.

Ice led the way, casual as hell, phone in hand like she was just scrolling TikTok. But her brain was calculating every move like it was game point. She dropped herself dramatically onto the hardwood, legs sprawled, phone propped up against her knee.

Time to bait the hook.

“Paaaige,” she drawled out, voice extra whiny, like a little sister trying to get her way. “C’mon, dude.”

Paige, mid-dribble, didn’t even turn fully. Just flicked her eyes over. “What, Ice?” Her tone was short, distracted, a little annoyed. Classic locked-in Paige. Even this late, she was still trying to one-up Azzi across the court.

“We’re done,” Ice said. “It’s literally two a.m. We. Are. Leaving.”

Paige sucked her teeth and let the ball roll back into her palm. “Yeah, aight. You can go. I’m stayin’.”

She squared back up at the top of the key, body angled, hips light. She moved like she was in her own world. Just her and the rim.

Until Ice dropped the magic words.

“If you leave right now… we’ll go live.”

Paige froze mid-shot. The ball still in her hands, forgotten.

“You deadass?” she asked, brows raised. “Ice, don’t play with me right now.”

Ice gave a nod, biting back a smirk. “Deadass. You know I hate going live but— Let’s give the people what they want.”

Paige squinted. She was suspicious, but intrigued. “You being for real? Like, we’ll actually go live? Not that ‘five minutes and end it’ shit?”

“I’m talking real live. Long live. Comments on. No filter.”

Paige hesitated, then slowly cracked a grin. “Say less.”

She jogged over to grab her bag, tossing her head back and wiping sweat off her neck with the collar of her shirt. Her grey UConn tee clung to her like she’d just showered in it, and her hair was a wild mess of curls pulled into a lopsided bun.

“I gotta shower first, though,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Not tryna go live lookin’ like a raccoon.”

Ice nodded casually, already rolling into Phase Two. “Bet. Actually, I need to shower too. I was thinking…”

She paused like she just now thought of it.

“…since the team rooms are all right next to each other, and it’s stupid late, what if we used one of the extra rooms across the hall? Less noise. Plus it’s got its own bathroom.”

Paige stopped for half a second, clearly thinking. Then she shrugged. “Aight, cool. That’ll work. I’ll hit the shower first, come in like twenty?”

Ice smiled, trying to look chill but barely holding back. “Say less.”

She watched as Paige turned and strutted off toward the elevators, humming under her breath, already dreaming about Instagram comments and dumb livestream filters.

Behind her, Ice pulled out her phone and sent one message to Lauren:

“Room secured. It’s go time.”

***

“Lauren?” Azzi asked, glancing over as she wiped sweat from her temple. “I think they’re leaving. Would you like to head out now?”

“Yes! Finally,” Lauren said, a bit too enthusiastically. Then, stepping closer with a sudden thought, she added, “Oh, also—I was thinking about doing some yoga before bed. If you’re up for it. I just didn’t want to get our room all messy, so maybe we could use one of the extra rooms?”

Azzi blinked, surprised. Lauren never suggested yoga. Usually, Azzi had to beg. “Sure, sounds good. I’ll rinse off first.”

“Alrighty,” Lauren replied, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile too hard.

They left the gym a few minutes after Paige and Ice, casually making their way back to the dorms. Inside their room, Lauren slid the door open and stepped in first, pausing just long enough to surprise Azzi again.

“You can go first. I’m going to text Jayden real quick.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Jayden? Who is that?”

“Oh. Just… some guy,” Lauren lied smoothly, avoiding eye contact as she reached for her clothes. In truth, "Jayden" was the code name for Ice—they’d coordinated this entire plan together.

Azzi didn’t push. She just nodded as she grabbed her towel. “Alright. But I want to hear all about this mystery man when I’m done.”

“Promise,” Lauren replied, already tapping away on her phone.

Lauren: Hey, Azzi’s in the shower now. Should be about 15 minutes ‘til we head over.

Ice: gotcha, Paige is already in the room. Left her phone on the table too

Lauren: they’re so perfectly stupid it’s painful. I’ll text when I drop Azzi in.

Ice: bet 🫡🫡

The sound of water running filled the room, and not long after, Azzi stepped out. Her curls were looser now, stretched from the conditioner. The front half of her hair was still braided, the rest hanging wet down her back. She threw on a pair of Nike Pro shorts and a UCLA hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her signature Stewie socks peeked out above her slides.

“Laur? You ready?” she called, finishing brushing her teeth.

“Yep!” Lauren answered a little too quickly. She tried to play it off with a casual nod. “All set.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m totally fine. Why?”

“No reason,” Azzi said with a shrug. She stepped into her slides and followed Lauren out.

Once they were walking, Lauren texted again.

Lauren: Heading over now.

They strolled toward the extra room, which was a short walk from the main UCLA block. Azzi stayed focused on her phone—probably checking team emails—while Lauren’s attention locked onto the door ahead. She felt her pulse tick upward.

Lauren pulled the keycard from her pocket and swiped it.

“Can I see your phone for a second? I think I might’ve posted something by accident,” she said casually.

Azzi, distracted, didn’t hesitate. “Sure.” She handed it over and stepped into the room.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her eyes landed on the bag and clothes thrown over the bed. Her stomach dropped.

“I’m pretty sure this is someone else’s room,” she said, turning sharply toward Lauren.

Lauren just smiled, stepped back, and closed the door with a sharp click. Locked.

“Lauren! What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Az! We’ll be back in the morning,” Lauren called through the door.

“We’ll? Who’s we?!”

That’s when Paige’s voice called from the bathroom. “Ice? That you?”

Azzi’s eyes widened in horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ice strolled up beside Lauren, already laughing.

Inside, Azzi slapped her palm against the door. “Lauren! What the hell!”

“Sorry Az!” Lauren shouted back, voice chipper.

“Y’all have fun in there!” Ice added, barely containing her giggles.

“Ice? Seriously?” Azzi groaned. Then she paused. “Wait—do you have my phone?”

“Yup!” Lauren answered through the door, practically glowing. “Told you, we’ll grab you in the morning.”

“Bye Azzi! Tell Paige I said goodnight!” Ice chirped before the two conspirators walked away, still giggling.

From inside, Azzi could still hear them laughing down the hall.

Then the shower stopped.

Out walked Paige, towel slung over her shoulders, sports bra on, shorts low on her hips. Her eyes flicked up when she spotted Azzi standing by the locked door.

“Yo. Azzi?” Paige said, confused, water still dripping down her back.

“Yep,” Azzi replied with a resigned sigh.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Paige asked, voice deep and unbothered, arms folding across her bare chest.

Azzi crossed her arms too and pointed at the door. “Lauren and Ice thought it would be hilarious to lock us in here for the night.”

Paige’s eyes followed the motion. She walked over and tugged the handle twice. Nothing.

“Your joking.”

“Nope.”

With a muttered curse, Paige banged on the door. “Ice! Stop playin, open the door!”

From the bed, Azzi said dryly, “You really think I haven’t already tried that?”

“Man, shut up,” Paige muttered, not looking at her.

Azzi lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine. Do your thing.”

Paige gave the door one last shake, then turned, annoyed.

“You try callin’ somebody?”

“Lauren has my phone,” Azzi answered calmly. “What about yours?”

Paige dragged a hand down her face. “… I left it on the table.”

Azzi threw her hands in the air. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.”

Paige sucked her teeth and dropped down into a chair across from the bed. “this is some bullshit.”

“Well, do you have a better idea?”

She stared at Azzi for a moment, jaw working like she wanted to snap but didn’t have the energy. Then she leaned back with a grunt.

“Nah. Guess I don’t.”

“Mhm,” Azzi murmured, folding her legs beneath her. “Didn’t think so.”

They sat in the thick quiet for a second—Paige glaring at the floor, Azzi watching her from the bed. Neither spoke, but the tension in the room hung heavy, thick as humidity. And neither of them looked away.

****

Back in Ices room, her and Lauren sat on the bed talking.

“So, you have like any real idea why those too hate each other?” Lauren asked.

“Not really” ice replied. “Paige is..stubborn to say the least, when set her mind on hating Azzi, it’s not changed.”

“Same for Azzi. There like, the same person.”

“I know!”

“You know what we should do? Let’s go live right now.” Ice said.

Lauren nodded and moved closer to ice on the bed, getting in frame for the tik tok live.

Ice started it and the comments rolled in.

“Ice and Lauren?? What kinda duo is this?”

“Why are yall together this is so random😭😭”

“Acting like yall don’t have game tmrw night smh😪”

“Where’s Paige and Azzi?”

It’s not uncommon for fans to ask about Paige and Azzi, them being the stars.

Lauren looked over at ice, giving her a side eye at the comment then laughing.

“Umm who are Paige and Azzi?” Ice said at the camera, her voice dripping in sarcasm as Lauren laughed.

The chats started blowing up

‘WAITT why yall laughing 🤨🤨’

‘Suspicioussss’

‘Maybe Paige and Azzi duo soon’

“Doubt it” Lauren said under her breath at the last comment, which of course the chat caught

‘WHAT ARE YALL HIDINGGG’

‘Acting mad strange right about now’

‘Lauren wdym bro😭😭’

“Me and ice aren’t good enough for yall?” Lauren said, while ice snickered.

‘Nooo just let us know where Azzi and Paige are🤫🤫’

Ice and Lauren both read the comment, then ice answered.

“Umm Azzi and Paige are..busy”

‘BUSY DOING WHAT?’

‘What is going on atp🤨🤨🤨’

‘Mhmm so there together #NewDuoAlert’

“Yall are messy” ice laughed

****

“We’re in here for the night, you know,” Azzi said, her voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Yeah. Figured.” Paige didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the carpet.

Azzi tossed a pillow in her direction. “You take the bathtub.”

The pillow hit Paige’s chest with a soft thump. She caught it, then lifted her eyes slowly, a brow raised. “You’re joking.”

Azzi’s arms crossed, mouth pulled in that maddeningly calm way she had. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, standing a little straighter. “Because you’d have to be out of your damn mind to think you’re getting the bed that easy.”

A pause.

Azzi held her stare for a moment too long. Then, voice softer, quieter: “Why do you hate me?”

That caught Paige off guard. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even bitter. Just... curious.

She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said honestly, which was dangerous—truth always was with Azzi. “Because I hate UCLA, maybe. And you... you basicallyare UCLA.”

“Mhm.” Azzi’s eyes didn’t leave hers. There was something unreadable in them. Not challenge. Not sarcasm. Just... presence.

“Why?” Azzi asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you hate UCLA?”

Paige shrugged like it was stupid, like this conversation wasn’t unraveling her from the inside out. “You guys are all... blue and shit.”

Azzi laughed. Like, really laughed. And damn it, it made Paige want to smile too.

“What’s funny?” she asked, lips twitching.

“I’ve just never been hated for a color before.”

“New experience for you then,” Paige said, smirking now. The tension shifted, a little looser. Still there, but not choking.

“Okay. Then why do you hate me?” Paige asked, firing it back like a challenge she didn’t mean to make.

Azzi tilted her head slightly. “Because I hate guarding you.”

Paige blinked. “...Is that a compliment?”

“It’s just a fact.”

The silence that followed was different. Not awkward. Not cold. Just... weighty.

“I don’t love guarding you either,” Paige admitted after a moment.

Azzi leaned in slightly, like gravity had shifted. “Why’s that?”

Paige found herself mirroring her—leaning in too, like they were finally on the same wavelength. Or maybe circling something they’d been pretending wasn’t there.

“Because your shot’s quick. Stupid quick. Hard to read. I hate that.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just listened, head slightly tilted. Waiting.

“I like knowing things before they happen,” Paige continued. “I like reading the play before it forms. You don’t let people do that. You’re... slippery.”

“Thank you,” Azzi said softly.

“Like you said. Not a compliment. Just a fact.” Paige’s tone was calm, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Something new.

Another silence—this one thicker. Heavier. Like an unspoken truce had been signed and neither of them wanted to admit it.

“Your shot’s pretty,” Azzi said, and it landed like a drop of warm rain on skin.

Paige blinked. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Azzi nodded, her gaze unwavering now. “Your three-pointers are easy, though.”

“Easy?” Paige asked, narrowing her eyes playfully.

“I mean, you usually come off a screen. Not always. But enough.”

Paige didn’t bristle at it. The way Azzi said it wasn’t critical. More like analysis. More like she watched her. Closely.

“Your midrange, though,” Azzi added, a crooked smile pulling at her lips. “That’s practically cheating. You stop on a dime, change direction, attack the paint. Can’t predict that. It’s... brutal.”

Paige stared at her. Really stared. Like she was watching film, trying to dissect a play she didn’t quite understand.

“High praise from you,” she murmured.

Azzi just shrugged, smile still lingering, eyes still locked on hers. “Maybe“

Paige scratched the back of her neck, still standing while Azzi leaned casually against the edge of the bed like she owned it. That alone irked Paige—not the bed, but how Azzi always looked so composed, like nothing ever got to her. Paige wasn’t used to feeling off balance, especially not around someone who wore smugness like it was stitched into their jersey.

“You always talk like that?” Paige asked finally, voice low, gritty.

Azzi raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like a therapist who also dropped thirty in the semis.”

Azzi grinned. “Only around people who need therapy.”

Paige let out a scoff that was half a laugh, dragging her palm over her mouth like she could hide it. Then she crossed the room, dropped onto the chair in the corner with a full man-spread—legs open, elbows on her knees, chin resting in one palm. Watching Azzi like she was still trying to scout her.

“Alright, go ‘head. Say what you really think of my game.”

Azzi’s eyes lit up, just slightly. “You want honesty?”

“Nah, lie to me,” Paige muttered, rolling her neck with a smirk. “Of course I want honesty. C’mon. I can take it.”

Azzi studied her for a beat longer, then pushed off the bed. She walked closer, slow, steps soft against the hotel carpet. She stopped a couple feet away, arms folded, expression calm but edged with something a little more playful now.

“You hunt space better than anyone I’ve seen,” Azzi said. “Like—you create it out of nothing. And you don’t even hesitate. Most guards, they wait. Think twice. You just go.”

Paige didn’t move, but her smirk tugged a little deeper on one side. “Aight,” she said.

“But,” Azzi added.

“Knew it.”

“But you overuse your left crossover when you’re tired. You don’t trust your weak-side kickout. And you lose track of the weakside cutter when the play breaks.”

Paige leaned back like Azzi had just hit her with a cross to the jaw. “Damn.”

“You asked,” Azzi said, that crooked smile back again.

Paige ran a hand over her braid, biting down a grin. “That’s crazy comin’ from someone who pump fakes like she’s in a community college acting class.”

Azzi scoffed. “You bit on it twice in the last game.”v

“I slipped,” Paige said.

“You did not.”

“I slipped,” she repeated, eyes glinting now.

Azzi stepped closer. “Slipped right into a midrange jumper. I remember.”

Now Paige stood up, the chair creaking behind her as she rose. Not aggressive, not threatening—but there was something in the way she loomed a little taller now, arms hanging heavy at her sides, body loose and ready like she was checking someone at halfcourt. They were nearly eye to eye, close enough Paige could count the flecks in Azzi’s brown eyes. The air between them tightened.

“I could guard you,” Paige said, voice low.

Azzi tilted her head, not backing off an inch. “Not for four quarters.”

“I’d get in your head,” Paige added.

“You’re already there,” Azzi said, soft and devastating.

That landed heavier than either expected.

For a second, neither moved. Paige’s chest rose and fell a little slower now, not calm—but careful. Like if she moved too fast, the moment might crack.

“Alright,” Paige said, breaking it. “That’s enough of this... vibe.”

She stepped back, like she needed the distance to breathe, then walked to the other side of the room and dropped onto the bed like it owed her money—legs open, hand rubbing her face like she’d just stepped off a double-overtime game.

“You sleep on that side,” she said, tossing a thumb at the far end of the bed without looking.

Azzi hesitated, then crossed the room and sat, pulling her legs up underneath her.

They both stayed facing forward, like the other might disappear if they looked too long.

A long stretch of silence passed. The room was dim, lit only by a muted bedside lamp. The kind of light that made things look softer than they were.

“I don’t actually hate you,” Paige said eventually, her voice rough with sleep or something close to it.

Azzi didn’t look at her. “I know.”

Another beat.

“I still don’t like you, though,” Paige added.

Azzi smirked at her lap. “Would’ve been disappointed if you did.”

Paige let out a low chuckle, then flopped back dramatically, arms behind her head like she owned the ceiling.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” she said.

“For Texas?”

Paige turned her head slightly, eyeing Azzi. “You cocky now?”

Azzi shrugged. “You asked.”

Paige let that sit a minute. Then closed her eyes. “South Carolina’s not gonna let y’all breathe.”

“We don’t need to breathe,” Azzi said, voice dropping lower, like the truth in it was simple. “We just win.”

Paige opened one eye. “You always talk like that?”

Azzi nodded. “Only around people who listen.”

For a long time, they didn’t say anything.

Just the sound of the air conditioner humming.

Paige stayed on her back, legs still wide, body sprawled out like she wasn’t used to fitting into clean corners. Azzi sat curled up, spine straight, arms around her knees like she was trying to stay contained.

Opposites.

But the silence between them wasn’t cold anymore. Just stretched. Like taffy.

Eventually, Paige rolled onto her side, facing Azzi. Her voice dropped.

“You really hate guarding me?”

Azzi glanced over. “I do.”

“Why?”

Azzi hesitated. Then let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Because you don’t stop. Not when the shot clock’s low. Not when the lane’s clogged. Not when you’ve missed four in a row. You just keep coming.”

Paige blinked, the words hitting her stomach before her ears.

Azzi kept going. “And you talk. Always. In the middle of plays. Between free throws. It’s distracting.”

Paige grinned. “That’s the point.”

Azzi looked away. “Yeah, well. It works.”

Paige sat up, the bed creaking again. “You talk too.”

“Not like you.”

“true.”

Azzi didn’t respond. Just pulled the blanket up a little.

Then, like the room had shifted again, Paige said—quietly, sincerely—“Good luck tomorrow.”

Azzi looked at her. “You too.”

They stared at each other for a second too long again.

Then, slowly, carefully, Azzi laid down, facing the ceiling. Paige did the same. The room dimmed further as one of them clicked the lamp off.

And in the dark, without speaking, Azzi shifted just a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

It was Paige who spoke first, voice barely above a whisper.

“You cold?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

Instead, she moved again—slow, like sleep was pulling her limbs. Her shoulder found Paige’s, tentative, then settled there like it belonged.

Paige stiffened at first.

Then—gradually—relaxed.

Azzi’s breath evened out, soft and slow.

Paige stared at the ceiling.

And didn’t move.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because something sharp and slow and burning was blooming in her chest. Something she hadn’t planned for.

Something like… not hate.

Just the sound of Azzi breathing. Just the heat of her shoulder, warm against hers.

Just the silence—finally not thick, not heavy.

Just… full.

Paige closed her eyes.

Didn’t sleep.

But didn’t move either.

Not yet.

[haeiheart]

LEE DONGHYUCK | NOT A BIG DEAL

LEE DONGHYUCK

SUMMARY: You and Hyuck have always been inseparable. Best friends who stick together through every minor inconvenience, every 2 AM fast-food run, and especially every party. Their little deal? If they’re both single and drunk at a party, they make out for a good time and purely to avoid awkward hookups with strangers. No feelings, no complications. It’s a good deal no? But when a new guy, Jeno, enters y/n life just like that. They both feel that for the first time, their “not a big deal” deal feels like it might’ve always been something bigger.

GENRE: friends to lovers - kind of fwb hyuckyn - jealous avoidant hyuck! - sweet jeno - minimal angst - slight reader x jeno.

NOTES: first time releasing a full written fic… bye im scared pls be kind (◞‸◟；) also first time making a header? design?? hehehehe. I hope you guys enjoy this though, i personally enjoyed written it so i hope you all enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed making it for you guys!! :3 THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD SO IM SORRY IF THERES ANY ERRORS >_<

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

BEFORE THE PARTY

You and Hyuck have always been inseparable. The best of friends. The kind who finish each other’s sentences, send texts at the exact same time, and know each other’s go-to orders at every café on campus. It’s always been easy with hyuck. You don’t overthink things with him.

That’s why your little pact made perfect sense.

“If we’re both single, and we’re both at a party, and we’re both drunk, we find each other.”

It wasn’t some deep, life changing agreement. It was just a way to keep each other from making bad decisions with strangers. A safety net, nothing more. It always worked. Every single time. It was the perfect deal after all, you both get the pleasure needed in a fun night out. No commitment, no feelings.

Until tonight. But let’s rewind back a couple of weeks.

The day you met Lee Jeno.

3 WEEKS AGO @NCU CAMPUS

College life has always been a blur of assignments, late-night food runs, and whatever chaos Hyuck drags you into. Between classes and parties, your days feel like a well-balanced mix of stress and fun. Thank goodness you had your best friend to keep you sane right?

You first met Jeno during an elective course, one of those random classes you picked to fill credits unfortunately. He was the kind of guy who didn’t talk much but somehow made every conversation feel important. You sat next to him out of convenience, and it wasn’t until the next few classes that you really spoke to him, which was currently right now.

“Do you always write your notes like that?” he had asked, glancing at your mess of shorthand scribbles and little doodles in the margins. You could tell he wanted to laugh at it.

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah?”

He grinned. “It’s interesting. You do know this is a literature class, right? Because your notes look more like a doodle coloring book for toddlers my baby brother's age rather than actual notes.”

You snorted. “Well, you look like you should be in an engineering class, not here.”

“I was forced to take a humanities elective,” he admitted. “But it’s not bad. I like the class.”

“Because of the material or because of me?” you teased, raising a brow.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

And just like that, Jeno slipped into your life.

The thing about him was that he never tried too hard, he didn’t force his presence, didn’t demand attention the way Hyuck did. He was just… there. Reliable. Easy to talk to. It was easy to get hooked on a guy like Jeno.

You started walking out of class together, grabbing coffee before your next lectures. You studied together, shared snacks, exchanged casual texts that eventually turned into daily check-ins. Somewhere along the way, you got comfortable with him. But it wasn’t until one particular afternoon that you noticed something else.

OPEN FIELD STUDY AREA @NCU CAMPUS

It was another dreadful afternoon, pilled with assignments you swore just appeared in front of your face. You and Jeno were sitting outside on campus, reviewing notes. Though half the time you guys were mostly making corny jokes and laughing at shared interests. That was until Hyuck showed up unannounced, like he always did, dropping himself onto the bench next to you with a dramatic sigh.

“What’s up, losers?” he greeted, snatching one of your fries before you could react, looking as happy as always to mess with your little head.

You rolled your eyes as a faint smile appears on your face. It’s been awhile since you saw him. “Hyuck, this is a study session. You know, where people focus?”

“Sounds lame,” he deadpanned, then turned to Jeno. “So, how do you put up with this one?”

Jeno smirked. “I think she puts up with me.”

Hyuck’s expression didn’t change, but you knew him well enough to catch the slight pause—the way his fingers drummed against his knee a little too fast, the way his jaw tightened for just a second. It was so quick that you almost missed it. Almost.

But then, as fast as it came, it was gone. Hyuck smirked, leaning back on his elbows. “Well, good luck, man. She’s a handful.” You smacked his arm, rolling your eyes again, but the feeling lingered. Hyuck only stuck around for a short while and you never questioned it, but the odd part was he was too quick to leave the setting as well. Feeling lost as he suddenly got up and fled the scene after saying his byes and ruffling your hair.

After that, things felt… different. Not drastically. Not in a way you could point to and say, this is where everything changed. But the subtle things. Like how Hyuck stopped crashing your study sessions with Jeno as often. How he’d make jokes about you “ditching” him but never say it outright. How he seemed to drink more at parties, getting reckless in a way that made you worry.

It wasn’t obvious, but it was there, buried beneath layers of laughter and banter. And maybe you noticed it too late.

@NEOCAFE - 127 DISTRICT

Hyuck doesn’t text first anymore.

That’s the first thing you notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, you’ve been busy anyway. School, assignments, late-night study sessions with Jeno. But the silence sits in your chest like a weight, pressing down heavier each day. You truly did miss your best friend, nobody else was as much of a dork loser like he was.

You still see him around. In class, at parties, in the spaces you used to share. But it’s different now.

No more texts that say where are you? when you take too long to respond. No more arms slung over your shoulder as he drags you out of the library for a “much-needed” break. No more late-night walks, just because neither of you wanted to go home yet. God you truly did miss lee donghyuck.

The worst part? You know it’s your fault. You were the one who stopped looking for him first. You were the one who let the space between you grow. And now, you don’t know how to close it.

Jeno Notices “You’ve been quiet lately.” Jeno’s voice is gentle, his eyes scanning your face as you stare blankly at your untouched coffee. It’s the third time he’s caught you zoning out in the past hour and he was getting worried.

You blink, forcing a small smile. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. You can tell by the way he tilts his head, studying you. “It’s about Hyuck, isn’t it?” The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. You exhale, looking away. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything right away. He just nods, as if he already knew. And maybe he did. Maybe everyone did. You’ve spent so much time pretending things are fine that you almost forgot Jeno sees right through you.

So when he reaches out, fingers brushing over yours, you don’t pull away. Infact you allow yourself to get embraced by his comfort. Was Jeno’s comfort what you needed all this time?

@YOUR APARTMENT

The thing about Jeno is that he never rushes anything.

Not his words, not his movements, nothing. He lets things happen as they are, as if he trusts time to work things out on its own. Which is probably why being around him feels so easy, you always had a smile on your face when you were with him.

Like now, for example. You’re both sitting on the floor of your dorm, backs against the couch, a half-empty bag of chips between you. You’ve been talking for what feels like hours—about everything and nothing all at once.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jeno says, holding up a hand to stop you mid-story, his eyes already crinkling in amusement. “You mean to tell me you climbed a tree to save a cat, but then got stuck yourself?”

You groan, covering your face. “Okay, listen—”

“No, no, no, I need to process this.” He grins, resting his chin on his palm. “How long were you up there?”

“Like… twenty minutes?” you mumble, cheeks burning from embarrassment clearly…

Jeno loses it. He tilts his head back, laughing so hard his shoulders shake. You gotta admit that laugh of his does wonders to girls. He was a real catch. A once in a lifetime cutie, you should consider yourself lucky to have him around right?

You huff, crossing your arms. “Are you done?”

He wipes at his eyes, still chuckling. “Oh man. I- yeah. Yeah, I think I’m good.” He snickers again. “Twenty minutes. Amazing.”

You try to glare at him, but his laugh is infectious, and soon enough, you’re giggling too.

Jeno turns to look at you, a soft smile lingering on his lips. “Y’know, I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you talk about yourself.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“I mean, you’re always talking about Hyuck or your friends, but I like hearing about you.” He leans against the couch, watching you. “Your dumb little childhood stories. Your love for cats. Your terrible decision-making skills.”

You snort, nudging his leg with your foot. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you love it.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I might.”

Jeno tilts his head, studying you for a second. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard. You consider lying, but Jeno has always been good at seeing through people. So you exhale, looking down at your hands.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just feel… lost.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything right away. He just shifts a little closer, his knee bumping against yours. You don’t realize how much you needed that until it happens.

“I get that,” he finally says. “Sometimes it feels like you’re walking through fog, and you don’t know where you’re going. But…” He nudges you lightly. “That doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

You look up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, warm and genuine. “I’m here.” You don’t know what possesses you to do it—maybe it’s the way his voice is so steady, so sure. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, like you’re important. But before you can overthink it, you lean in.

Jeno’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his lips quirk up in amusement.

“You’re not about to kiss me mid-existential crisis, are you?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Shut up.”

But he’s still grinning when he finally closes the distance. The kiss is soft, almost hesitant at first. But then you feel him smile against your lips, and suddenly, it’s all laughter and warmth and the taste of leftover chips.

You break apart for air, and Jeno chuckles. “That was—”

You groan, covering your face. “Don’t say it.”

“— surprisingly nice for two people who just ate sour cream and onion chips.”

You swat at him, laughing. “You ruined it.”

He catches your wrist, grinning. “Nah. That made it better.”

You shake your head, still breathless, still here. Jeno doesn’t fail to make your day once again, as he leans in, continuing where you both had left off as if it was almost natural.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel so lost.

PRESENT TIME

And this is how your weeks have been spent. With Lee Jeno. Full of kisses, laughter, playfulness, and comfort. Jeno arrives with an armful of snacks, two sodas balanced precariously on top. “Alright, before we do anything, I have to ask…why do you have like, seven different cat towers in your apartment? Are they that spoiled?” as he takes in his surroundings once again.

You shut the door behind him and scoff. “Excuse you, my children deserve the best.”

Jeno grins, setting the snacks down. “How many do you have again?”

“Three.” You sigh dramatically. “But honestly, I think my oldest cat hates me.”

He snorts. “Why?”

“Because I accidentally stepped on her tail when she was a kitten, and she’s never forgiven me.” You flop onto the couch, pouting. “Now every time I call her, she looks at me like I owe her child support.” Jeno bursts out laughing, nearly knocking over the bag of chips. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”

You nudge him with your foot. “Oh, shut up. You’ve definitely done worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Doubt it.”

“Oh really? What’s the dumbest injury you’ve ever had?”

He thinks for a moment before admitting, “I once tried to jump over my couch but tripped, hit my head on the armrest, and passed out.”

You gasp. “Wait—like, fully unconscious?”

“Yup.” He sighs. “Woke up two minutes later to my mom yelling at me for being stupid.”

You’re already laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “Okay, okay, once, when I was seven, I thought I could ride my bike down the biggest hill in my neighborhood with my eyes closed.”

Jeno’s eyes widen. “No. No.”

“Yes,” you wheeze. “Flew straight into a bush. My mom had to pull twigs out of my hair for an hour.”

He practically collapses against the couch, laughing until his shoulders shake. “You’re actually crazy as a kid.”

“Thank you,” you say proudly.

The laughter fades into a comfortable silence. Jeno leans back, staring at the ceiling. “You know, I never really asked—but what was Hyuck like when you were kids?”

You hesitate, but the memories come easily. “Chaotic. Loud. Got us into trouble, like, every other day. He would drag me into the most ridiculous situations and it wasn’t even my fault.”

Jeno smirks. “Sounds about right.”

You smile softly. “One time, we thought we could build a pillow fort. We barely even got the first pillow up before the entire thing collapsed and we both fell.”

He laughs. “Did you get hurt?”

“Surprisingly, no. But Hyuck cried for a full hour because he swore it was sabotage.”

Jeno shakes his head, amused. “He hasn’t changed at all, has he?”

“Nope.” You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “He’s always been… Hyuck.”

There’s a pause, but Jeno doesn’t push. He just watches you, waiting.

You clear your throat. “Okay, your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

He hums, tapping his chin. “Alright. You know how everyone thinks I’m all sporty and serious?”

“Yeah?”

“Well.” He leans in like he’s about to share a top-secret confession. “I used to write fanfiction.”

You choke on your drink. “No way.”

“Oh, it gets worse.” He sighs dramatically. “It was about superheroes.”

“What kind? Marvel? DC?”

“Neither. Completely original characters. I had a whole series.”

You clutch your stomach from laughing so hard. “Jeno. Are you telling me you were a self-insert superhero fanfic writer?”

He groans, covering his face. “Look, I was twelve—”

“NO, THIS IS AMAZING.” You grab his arm. “Did you give yourself powers? A tragic backstory?”

He peeks at you between his fingers. “…Both.”

You collapse into the couch, wheezing. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever learned about you.”

He grins. “Alright, your turn. What’s your cringiest secret?”

You pause, then admit, “Okay this might not be cringy… but i had a harry potter phase.”

Jeno gasps, clutching his chest. “What house were you in?”

“…Slytherin.”

He high-fives you. “Respect.”

The conversation keeps flowing, lighthearted and easy. You talk about everything, old childhood memories, embarrassing moments, ridiculous hypothetical scenarios (what would you do if you woke up as a worm?), and somehow, even the meaning of life.

It’s fun. It’s comfortable.

But beneath it all, there’s something bittersweet.

Because you both know this is goodbye.

Eventually, the night slows down. The laughter fades, leaving only the quiet hum of the TV in the background. You shift, fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “Jeno…”

He already knows. You can see it in his expression.

Still, he lets you say it.

“I have to go find him,” you admit softly.

A beat of silence.

Then he smiles? He smiles. A small, knowing smile. “Yeah.”

You swallow hard. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle. “You never had to say it, y/n. I knew.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He reaches for your hand, squeezing it lightly. “But… can I ask for one last thing?”

You nod, already knowing what it is.

“One last kiss,” he murmurs.

So you kiss him.

It’s soft, lingering. A silent thank you. A quiet goodbye.

When you pull away, he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. That was a solid 9/10.”

You snort. “Only 9?”

“Could’ve been a 10, but my foot fell asleep.”

You smack his arm, laughing. “Shut up.”

He grins. “Go. Before I change my mind and challenge Hyuck to a duel.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for your shoes.

And as you step out the door, heart racing, you realize—

This time, you’re going to run toward Hyuck.

Because he’s always been the one and it’s about time you told him.

@HYUCKS HOUSE

You don’t know why you’re nervous.

Actually, scratch that—you do know why.

Because this is Hyuck.

Because it’s been weeks. Because you let the distance grow, and now you’re about to do the most humiliating thing possible: show up at his door in the middle of the night, probably looking like a disaster, and pour your heart out.

Great plan. Really solid. No notes.

Still, you knock.

And the second the door swings open, all your thoughts evaporate.

Hyuck stands there, hoodie slightly rumpled, his hair sticking up like he was asleep before you interrupted. His face is groggy, blinking at you like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.

“…y/n?”

You open your mouth.

And immediately start crying.

Like, full-on tears. Embarrassing.

Hyuck panics. “Wait, huh, are you okay??”

You sniff, waving your hands wildly. “I— hiccup— I don’t know why I’m crying!”

His hands move without hesitation, reaching for your arms, steadying you. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?” His grip is warm, grounding. “Did something happen?”

You shake your head rapidly, but the tears won’t stop. God you really missed him.

Hyuck makes a helpless noise before sighing and tugging you against him. His arms wrap around you, firm but careful, like he’s worried you might break.

You bury your face in his hoodie, gripping the fabric tightly.

Hyuck rubs your back in slow circles. “Okay. Just—breathe, yeah?”

You sniffle, nodding against his chest. His warmth seeps into your skin, comforting in a way nothing else has been these past few weeks.

And then, before he can say anything else, the words just spill out.

“I just— Hyuck, I missed you.”

His hold on you tightens for a second before he pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face. His brows furrow, but he stays quiet, letting you talk.

“You’re— you’re so important to me, okay? And I hate that I let us drift apart. And I hate that I didn’t realize sooner that you are—” You hiccup again, rubbing at your face. “I don’t even know what I’m saying, I just miss you so much, and everything sucks without you, and I—”

Hyuck suddenly squints at you. “…Are you drunk?”

You freeze. “What?”

“You’re being so dramatic right now.” His lips twitch like he’s holding back laughter. “You have to be drunk.”

You gape at him. “I am not drunk, you absolute—”

“I dunno…” He crosses his arms, pretending to analyze you as he leans closer to your face. “Messy hair, teary eyes, emotional confessions in the dead of night… this is very intoxicated behavior.”

You groan, shoving at his shoulder. “I swear I’m sober—”

“Alright, c’mon, Crybaby.” He snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside. “At least cry in my room instead of my doorstep.”

You let him drag you in, still sniffling as he kicks the door shut behind you.

And just like that, you’re home.

Hyuck flops onto his bed, patting the space next to him. “C’mere, you baby.” You roll your eyes but sit down anyway, pulling your knees to your chest.

Silence settles between you. Not awkward, not tense. Just… there.

Hyuck sighs, tilting his head toward you. “You really missed me that much?”

You swallow, nodding. “Yeah.”

He watches you for a moment, then scoffs lightly. “Idiot. I was always here, y’know.”

Your heart clenches. “I know. I was just—”

“Being dumb?”

You groan. “Yes, okay! I was being dumb.”

Hyuck smirks, but it softens as he nudges your knee with his. “It sucked without you, too.”

Your breath catches. “Yeah?”

“Obviously.” He huffs, looking away like admitting it pains him. “Who else was gonna make me leave my apartment and go on stupid 2AM snack runs?”

You let out a small laugh. “You love those snack runs.”

“Yeah, but I love them with you.”

You freeze.

Hyuck doesn’t seem to notice what he just said, or maybe he does, because he clears his throat quickly and sits up straighter. “Anyway. What was up with that dramatic monologue outside? You really that miserable without me?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah.”

He blinks.

You sigh, rubbing your arms. “Hyuck, you’re— you’re my person.” You glance at him, eyes searching. “You always have been.” You meant it.

Something shifts in his expression.

For the first time all night, he’s quiet.

Your heart pounds. “I—”

“Wait.” He suddenly lifts a hand, stopping you. Then, deadpan— “Are you sure you’re not drunk?”

You groan, shoving his face away. “Hyuck!”

He bursts into laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners.

And even though you’re this close to smacking him, you realize—

This is why you came back.

Because no one makes your heart race and your soul feel alive like Lee Donghyuck. You don’t even realize how close you’ve gotten until his laughter fades, leaving only the soft hum of the night around you. His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes.

A beat of silence.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans in.

And you meet him halfway.

The kiss is warm, slow— like a quiet understanding. Like something that had always been there, waiting to be noticed. It wasn’t like all the other kisses, the party hookups. This was real.

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. He tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just a little, enough to make your breath hitch.

When you finally pull away, he exhales, pressing his forehead against yours.

“…Yup.” He grins. “You definitely weren’t supposed to kiss me like that if you were drunk.”

You laugh softly, still slightly breathless. “Shut up.”

He hums, thumb still stroking your cheek. “Not a chance.”

And this time, when he kisses you again, neither of you stop to think.

Because for once, nothing else matters.

NOTES: I wouldve wrote longer but my brain fogged oops but i hope you guys enjoyed!!

[cheekybarnes]

˖⁺‧₊˚ CHEEKYBARNES MASTERLIST

hello & welcome! i’m ash, a fic writer in my mid 20s and living in the pacific northwest. i mostly write marvel x reader fics—heavy on bucky barnes, but more to come!

requests are currently closed but my inbox is always open :) see what i'm currently working on here & take a look at my request guidelines

disclaimer: many of my fics are intended for mature audiences and deal with dark or intense themes, so please read the warnings and proceed with care!

✧ indicate fan favorites!

↓ masterlist below the cut ↓

bucky barnes ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

˗ˏˋ drabbles + headcanons ˎˊ˗

five times he almost did → five times bucky didn’t say "i love you", and one time he did.

˗ˏˋ short reads ˎˊ˗

✧ margin of error → you skip the med bay after a mission that left you bleeding to keep bucky from finding out you’re hurt—not realizing he’s home early.

✧ promise without ceremony → bucky gave up on marriage a long time ago. but one day, when he pulls a bullet from your leg, he accidentally proposes.

tactical comfort → when your period hits early during a mission, you try to power through it. but, bucky notices everything, and he refuses to let you suffer in silence.

interim measures → (thunderbolts/bucky x reader) after officially moving into tower, the team is still figuring out how to coexist. game night helps!

pressure points → bucky never misses a tell and hiding an unexpected injury during a mission debrief forces both of you to confront what the two of you are really doing.

something worth holding → you bring bucky flowers for his birthday, and what starts as a simple gesture turns into something far more significant.

under the snowfall → snowed in at a safe house, you start a snowball fight with bucky, sam, and joaquin, and chaos quickly follows.

˗ˏˋ long reads ˎˊ˗

✧ a place to land → after a night out goes violently wrong, you call bucky—without knowing what you’re even asking for. he shows up anyway, until you finally start to believe you’re safe.

✧ hold fast → a mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake. the ice doesn’t hold, and when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.

✧ comms interference → the team knew something was off about you, the one who kept hijacking their comms and saving their asses with pop music. what they don’t know is that you’re bucky’s secret wife.

high water → you’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own.

into the void → inside the void, nothing is real, but the trauma is. as memory turns to ruin, bucky is found by the only person who ever made him believe he could survive what was done to him.

what stays → after disappearing for days, you didn’t expect bucky to show up at your door again, let alone help you through the spiral without judgment.

fault lines → after getting laid off from your job, you're doing everything you can to keep it together. bucky refuses to let you go through the unraveling alone.

the shape of a life → you didn’t plan to become a guardian overnight—and you never planned to ask bucky for help. he wants a future you’re not sure you believe in.

no way but through → a snowstorm swallows the world whole, leaving you and bucky stranded in the middle of nowhere during a mission with no way out.

a love letter to stone → you were bucky’s fiancée in the 40s, spending decades at his grave, never moving on. when he finally comes home, you’re already gone.

salt in the blood → you live in a fishing town far from the mess of global conflicts, until a stranger with a metal arm shows up at your dock asking for a boat.

˗ˏˋ series ˎˊ˗

a seat at the table | congressman!bucky x journalist!reader

journalism was supposed to be about the truth. politics was supposed to be about power. when bucky barnes—former assassin, reluctant congressman—leaves you with more questions than answers, you find yourself caught in a different kind of story. leads into thunderbolts* part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

point of impact | civil war!avengers/bucky x transported!reader

in your world, the avengers are fiction—comics, movies, nothing more. when a lab experiment goes wrong, you wake up mid-civil war with no way out and no script to follow. part 1 | part 2

it’s not what you think | avengers tower au

OLD FIC! you come to the avengers tower late at night with a black eye and bucky finds out it was caused by your abusive boyfriend. (old fic, beware of subpar writing!) part 1 | part 2 | rewrite coming soon???

bob reynolds ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

˗ˏˋ short reads ˎˊ˗

the quiet that follows → (thunderbolts/bob x reader) you can dampen emotions, and you do it to keep the team steady. they try to show up in their own clumsy ways, bob just does it the quietest.

steve rogers ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

˗ˏˋ long reads ˎˊ˗

a place to burn → you and steve were lovers until the accords split the team. now three years after the snap, a failed mission forces you back into his orbit, where five years of silence finally demands an answer.

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (24 - The Last Day)

Chapter Summary: “Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, smut

A/N: Infinity War > Endgame, honestly. There won't be an update next Wednesday as it's already finals week for me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Wakanda was a fortress. 

From where you stood, gazing at the seemingly endless plains and lush forests that cloaked the hidden nation, you could almost believe you were safe. The sight of the golden African sun spilling over the landscape had a sort of hypnotic effect—like it was trying to convince you there was no danger beyond these borders. 

Of course, you knew better. Nowhere was safe with Thanos out there, collecting the Infinity Stones one by one. 

You tore your gaze away from the sweeping view, letting out a heavy sigh before turning to Wanda. She stood beside you on the balcony, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her face etched with quiet worry as she stared into the distance. With Vision gravely wounded and the impossible task of removing the Mind Stone without ending his life looming over everyone, she’d been on edge. You didn’t blame her. Vision was her friend and she cared about him. 

You slid closer, pressing a comforting hand to her back. “You okay?”

Wanda nodded, though she didn’t take her eyes off the horizon. “I will be,” she murmured, her Sokovian accent thickening with anxiety. You didn’t even realize it was still there. “It’s just… I hate waiting like this.”

You remembered the feeling of helplessness in Scotland: Vision had been pinned down, helpless, and you and Wanda had been forced to watch as he was nearly killed for the stone in his head. You closed your eyes, shoved the memory down, deep into that place where unwelcome things go to rot. You were both seconds away from the same fate—until Steve and Natasha arrived, pulling you all back from the brink. Just in time. Always just in time.

“They’re good people here,” you assured her. “They’ll find a way.”

“I know. I just…” Wanda swallowed thickly, her words catching in the process. “I… we were naive to think this was just another assignment. We’ve lost so much already.”

She didn’t have to say who else she was referring to. You knew about her parents, her brother, everything she had endured. And now, this war was threatening to take more. You gently pulled her into a side embrace, resting your forehead against hers for a moment.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” you promised, and you meant it.

—

You left Wanda alone with her thoughts and headed to the lab. It was a pressure cooker—hissing, ready to blow—filled with people moving like they were on rails, locked into some critical task. Everyone had a job, a purpose and no task felt too small when the goal was stopping Thanos. 

You came here because you needed to know your place in all of this—what you could do, how you could help. You couldn’t stand the idea of just waiting around while everyone else carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Bruce Banner stood at a console, studying Vision’s neural scans. He didn’t look happy. You worried he’d start turning green from all the stress of figuring out the impossible task of separating the Mind Stone from Vision without reducing him to something less of a being and more like his former iteration. 

“How’s he doing?” you asked.

Bruce didn’t glance up. “Stable, for now,” he said. “Shuri’s stasis is the only thing keeping him that way.” He finally met your eyes. “If we remove the stone and botch it, we lose him completely. We don’t have a margin for error.”

Shuri spun around, sweeping a hologram to the side. “Banner, look here,” she said, pointing to a tangle of code. “If we sever this pathway first, we won’t risk a chain reaction in the cerebral cortex.”

Bruce studied it. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” Shuri replied, not missing a beat. “But I’ll need time to reroute all these connections.” Her face tightened. “If Thanos shows up in the middle of that, or if anyone so much as unplugs the wrong cable, Vision’s done.”

Across the lab, T’Challa and Okoye conferred with Natasha Romanoff over a holographic map showing Wakanda’s borders. Multiple defensive lines lit up around the perimeter, funneling any possible attackers into one choke point.

Okoye pointed at the display. “We force them here,” she said. “We strike from both sides, and the rest of our forces remain mobile—ready to reinforce wherever the line thins.”

Natasha didn’t look away from the map. “Works for me. If Thanos wants what’s in Vision’s head, he’ll have to go through an army of Wakandans first.”

You caught T’Challa’s eye. “Where do you need me?”

T’Challa broke away from the map and leveled his gaze on you. “I need you with Shuri,” he said, “I hear you’ve been trained by Barton and Romanoff—made a habit of picking up new skills fast. My sister needs the best at her side.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. You understood what he meant without him spelling it out. If Shuri’s lab got breached, there wouldn’t be much left to protect outside.

“Tell Wanda I want to speak with her.” T’Challa added.

It wasn’t your place to ask, but you needed to know. “Where do you need her?”

He let his gaze drift to the massive layout of Wakanda’s borders. “The front lines.”

You’d been afraid he’d say that. You knew Wanda could handle herself, but the thought of her out there—exposed to whatever Thanos threw their way—turned your blood cold. Still, there was only one answer to give.

“Understood,” you said.

—

You stepped out of the lab, feeling a strain behind your eyes you couldn’t shake. Down the hall’s half-light, you spotted Steve and Natasha talking in low voices. Whatever it was, you could tell right away it wasn’t a happy conversation—probably the number of casualties from other places, other worlds, an entire universe. 

Steve caught sight of you first. His eyes dipped to your hand. “That a ring?” he asked. Then, without waiting for your answer, he offered a soft smile. “Congratulations. And… I’m sorry.” You understood exactly what he meant—sorry that a moment like marriage had to happen with a crisis looming.

“Thanks,” you said, offering him a timid smile. “For that and for coming to help me and Wanda in Scotland. I owe you.”

Steve shook his head. “No debts among friends.”

You cleared your throat again, forcing your nerves down. “Mind if I talk to Natasha alone?”

He glanced at her, then nodded. “Sure,” he said, stepping aside. “I’ll go see how Shuri’s doing.”

With that, Steve gave you a pat on the shoulder and slipped away, leaving you alone with Nat.

Natasha folded her arms across her chest and gave you a once-over. Her eyes landed on the ring before she spoke. “So,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “You got married, and I didn’t even get an invite?”

You fumbled for a response. “It wasn’t exactly a ceremony—”

She waved you off. “Relax, I know the details. Wanda and I caught up already.”

“Oh.”

Natasha’ss lips twitched into a half-smile. “So you married your assignment. I guess you really like to go above and beyond.”

A laugh escaped you, along with some relief. “We both know you only gave me that job so I’d have a valid excuse to chase after her.”

Natasha merely smiled, letting you know she was waiting for what you really came here for.

“Listen, Natasha. About the messages you sent…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “Look, I’m sorry about that. Things… they got complicated, and I just—” You trailed off, not sure how to put it all into words.

Natasha gave a slight shrug, like she’d seen all this coming. “I get it now,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. If I thought we couldn’t do without you, trust me, I’d have found a way to drag you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t need me, then?”

“Of course we do,” she shot back, “but it also means if you’d walked away, I’d understand.”

You exhaled slowly, guilt chewing at you. “I walked out on Steve, you know.”

A corner of Natasha’s mouth tugged up. “Steve told me he couldn’t find you.”

You looked down, your foot scraping the floor. Natasha took a step closer to you, her entire posture becoming a little rigid.

“This Thanos thing isn’t just another mission. It’s everything—our lives, the lives of everyone in this universe. Mine, yours, Wanda’s. I promise I’ll fight to the end for all of us. For this team. And I hope you’ll do the same,” she said.

You felt an odd calm settle over you. “I promise. For Wanda, for you, for all of them.”

Natasha’s face softened, and she clapped you gently on the shoulder. “I’m glad to have you back, Y/N.”

—

You found her in the small quarters Wakanda had assigned the two of you, sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing pajamas you recognized from your old drawer in Scotland. The cotton was a bit wrinkled—made sense, given you’d both only had ten minutes to pack what you could before leaving the life you’d built together.

Wanda looked up when you entered, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Hey,” she said.

You set your jacket on a nearby chair, letting out a long breath. “Hey yourself.”

You crossed to the bed, and for a moment, all you wanted was to sink into her warmth, forget the day, and pretend tomorrow didn’t exist. But the world wouldn’t let you off that easily.

“Natasha filled me in,” you said. “I’ll be posted in the lab with Shuri. Make sure no one interferes with her while she works on Vision.”

Wanda’s eyes lit up in quiet relief. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “Someone has to watch out for him.” She set aside whatever she had been distracting herself with. “You’re the best person for that job.”

You blew out a breath. “Doesn’t mean I’m thrilled you’ll be out there on the front lines, Maximoff.”

Wanda giggled and tapped the spot beside her. With an exaggerated sigh, you flopped onto it, resting your head comfortably in her lap. “You worry about me?”

You closed your eyes and she started massaging your scalp, making you mewl in appreciation. “Of course, I do. I’m your wife.”

Wanda laughed. “Wife,” she repeated fondly. Then she sighed and said, “I need to be where the fight is. All this power… what good is it if I’m not going to use it to protect the people I love?”

You opened your mouth, but no argument came out. You wanted to tell her to stay safe, to keep her away from Thanos’s reach, but you knew there was no talking her out of a fight she believed in. She had never backed down.

“Just… be careful,” you whispered, voicing the same plea you’d made countless times, even though you both knew Wanda could handle herself as well as anyone.

Wanda huffed softly, her hand smoothing over your hair. “I’m always careful,” she murmured, eyes softening with concern. “But I also have to do what I can out there. You know that.”

“I do,” you admitted, shifting so you could look up at her. 

The bed dipped as she scooted beside you, the cotton of her pajamas brushing your arm. Wanda leaned down, her hand settling at the side of your face. Your hand slid around Wanda’s waist, pulling her closer until she was nearly on top of you, your lips parting against hers in a  tentative kiss.

“Wanda…” you breathed, voice catching on the edge of desperation.  You had missed her. It felt like an eternity had passed in the single day you couldn’t be alone together. She didn’t answer, only kissed you deeper, pouring a day’s worth of tension into the press of her body against yours.

You rose from your position and tugged her with you onto the bed fully, your fingers curling into her shirt. She helped you yank it off, and then she was pulling at yours, too, the scent of her hair flooding your senses. You helped each other strip away clothes that felt suddenly cumbersome, until there was nothing left but skin on skin. You found yourself pressed into the bed, Wanda’s body above yours, her hair falling like a curtain around your face.

In that moment, you could no longer stop yourself from being selfish.

“Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

She froze, her mouth curved into that coy smile at hearing your repetitive plea. You could see the flicker of mild annoyance at your overprotectiveness—like she thought you were being adorably childish. But then you felt your throat tighten, tears suddenly burning in your eyes at the thought of losing her.

“Please,” you choked out, a tear slipping free. “Please, Wanda… I can’t—I can’t lose you.”

The teasing smile she wore vanished instantly. “Oh, love,” she whispered, pulling you into her arms. You let yourself cry silently into her shoulder for a few moments, feeling a little pathetic for breaking down like this. You knew asking Wanda to run was an absurd request, but you had to say it. Deep down, you knew it would absolutely destroy you to lose her in any way.

Wanda’s own voice cracked as she cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back to hers. “I’ll come back to you,” she promised. “I promise—if there’s nowhere else to go, I’ll run. I’ll run straight to you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding as you let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, brushing away your tears with the back of your hand.

Wanda kissed you again, and this time, her hands slid lower, her hips shifting against yours. You surged up to meet her, your palms sliding over her ribs as she gasped into your mouth. The slow, careful strokes turned into something more insistent: hungry, messy, a collision of lips and muffled pleas.

“Y/N, please…” Wanda mumbled almost incoherently as she moved down your jaw. The huskiness in her voice sent a thrill through you, and you pecked her inviting mouth one more time before moving behind her and circling your arm around her waist, as she braced herself on all fours. Her skin was warm under your touch, her back arching instinctively as she pressed her hips back against you.

Leaning forward, you pressed a line of kisses down her spine, your lips lingering at the base where her back dipped. She shivered, her breath hitching as your other hand trailed down her side, fingertips grazing her hip before settling between her thighs.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you murmured roughly as you watched her body respond to your touch.

Her only response was a soft moan, her hands gripping the sheets as your fingers found her wetness. You teased her entrance, sliding two fingers slowly inside, feeling her walls tighten around you as you filled her. Wanda gasped, her head dropping forward as her thighs trembled, trying to adjust to the sensation.

“God, you’re always so tight,” you groaned, curling your fingers slightly to press against her sweet spot. “And so fucking wet for me…”

She whimpered, her hips instinctively rocking back against your hand. You set a slow rhythm, pulling your fingers out before pushing them back in, deeper each time. The sound of her arousal, slick and wet, only made your hand work harder, your body pressed closer, your clit brushing against the soft curve of her buttocks. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you couldn’t help but let out a shaky moan. You adjusted slightly, angling your hips so your clit slid more deliberately against her with each thrust of your fingers.

Wanda’s moans grew louder, and with every motion of your hand, you felt her body tense, her back arching against you. She pushed her hips back more insistently, searching for the friction she needed. “Y/N… I’m so close,” she whimpered, her thighs trembling under your hands, her walls fluttering around your fingers.

But you weren’t ready to let her go over that edge yet. You slowed your pace deliberately, still lazily pressing your clit against her slippery skin. “Not yet, baby,” you murmured, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Just hold out a little longer for me…”

A frustrated moan escaped her lips, and she tilted her hips back more aggressively, trying to coax you into giving her the release she craved. But you held your pace, savoring the way her body trembled under your control.

“I want to come,” she whimpered, her hands clutching the sheets so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Patience, baby,” you said, dragging your fingers almost completely out of her before easing them back in, slow and deliberate.

The friction of her skin against your clit, her soft gasps, the way she was so pliant beneath you—it was all driving you dangerously close to the edge. But you held back, biting your lip as you drew out the moment, not wanting it to end too quickly.

Your free hand, which had been holding her steadily against you, slid lower, fingers brushing over her swollen clit. The second you started rubbing her there, your own body jolted with need. Your hips snapped forward, rubbing yourself against her shamelessly.

“I’m close,” you ground out, fingers working Wanda’s slick flesh at a fast, demanding pace. “C-Come with me…”

Her body tensed, her walls clenching around your fingers as a broken sob of your name fell from her lips. You didn’t stop, didn’t ease up as your own orgasm hit, your hips grinding harder against her as you rode the waves of pleasure together.

Wanda’s cries blended with your moans, the two of you lost in each other as you shuddered and gasped. Your hand stayed on her clit, guiding her through every aftershock until her body went limp beneath you, her breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to her shoulder as you both came down, your bodies still trembling. “You’re so perfect,” you murmured softly, kissing the damp skin of her neck. “So fucking perfect.”

Wanda let out a soft, tired laugh, her hand reaching back to thread through your hair. You collapsed beside your wife, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. A shaky breath left your lips as you rolled onto your back, exhaustion settling into your bones like a warm, heavy blanket.

Wanda was quick to shift position, sliding over to curl around you. She coaxed you onto your side, gathering you in her arms as though you weighed nothing. 

“Come here,” she murmured, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. You sighed contentedly, letting yourself sink into her embrace. It felt so safe—like no matter what happened outside this room, no matter what the world threw your way, you could face anything.

“You love me,” you murmured, already drifting toward sleep. You felt her smile against your skin—amused by this little ritual of yours, saying the other’s love out loud first.

“You love me too,” she whispered back.

Wanda’s fingers moved in slow, soothing patterns across your back—until they stopped. She let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For making you cry earlier. For—”

You cut her off with a soft shake of your head, your arms tightening around her waist. “Just promise me,” you said.

“I promise,” she whispered, her own eyes shining. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

—

It’s twenty-three days later, and Wanda’s promise never came true.

People wandered around in dazed confusion, half of them gone, the other half trying to make sense of what remained. You barely recognized the place. You barely recognized what was left of your team—or even yourself.

You had no idea where the motivation to wake up each morning came from. Maybe it was the faint ember of hope burning inside you, the belief that whatever the stones had done could somehow be undone. That if Thanos had caused this, he could reverse it. You just had to find him. As long as he was out there, there was a chance to bring everyone—and Wanda—back.

It tore at you to see Wanda’s location still pinned on your phone, only to realize it led to the bedroom you had shared in Wakanda. She had left it there that morning, tucked under her pillow on her side of the bed before joining Natasha on the frontlines. It killed you to know her true location was nowhere. And yet, in moments of weakness, you found yourself checking her GPS as if it would somehow change. Old habits die hard—and you couldn’t seem to escape this one no matter how much it amplified the Wanda-shaped hole in your heart. 

This morning, you found yourself at the old Avengers compound. The halls felt cavernous and too quiet. You checked in, as usual, with Natasha, Bruce, Steve—whoever was around. Most folks you ran into had that same thousand-yard stare, the same one that greeted you in the mirror every time you looked.

You spent hours in front of the massive digital map that dwarfed the main operations room, searching for any scrap that might lead you to Thanos. Where’d he gone? How had he disappeared so thoroughly? You chewed on the question day after day, ignoring exhaustion, heartbreak, and even hunger. If there was a lead, you’d chase it. If there was a whisper of information, you’d hunt it down.

Steve approached as you stood at the console, looking weary in a way you had never seen before. He was usually so determined and motivated, but now, for once, he seemed human—no longer everyone’s constant beacon of hope. He rested a hand on your shoulder, a gesture he’d been making with everyone lately. You figured it was his way of reassuring himself that you were still there, after watching the people he cared about turn to nothing but particles in the air.

“You’ve gotta give yourself a break,” he murmured. “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

You pulled away gently, shrugging him off. “I can rest after we find him,” you said, voice clipped. You tried to keep the desperation under control, and so far, it was working. 

Steve exhaled, resting his hands on his hips. “We’re working on it,” he said. “As soon as we locate Tony—”

“That’s one of my concerns, actually,” you cut him off, rounding the center table to put distance between you. “We don’t know if he’s even still alive, Steve. It’s been three weeks since—”

Steve’s posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “Finding Tony is the top priority,” he said, voice low and taut, like he’d repeated it a hundred times already. “If Banner’s right—if the people we lost can be brought back somehow—anyone we lose now might be gone for good.”

You let out a scoff and almost regretted it immediately, knowing how apathetic it must have sounded. “It’s been three weeks, Steve. If he’s out there, do you honestly believe he’s got enough air, water, or food to survive? We’re gambling on a possibility that shrinks every day.”

“Those are the orders,” Steve fired back, his jaw set. “We focus on finding Tony.”

“Orders?” Your laugh came out harsh. “Whose orders, exactly?”

“Mine,” Steve said, squaring his shoulders. “And I’m not asking.”

You felt your pulse surge. “So that’s it? We chase a ghost ship with no sign of life, no backup plan—while the rest of the universe dangles by a thread?”

Steve’s hand slammed down on the table. “We don’t abandon our own!”

You closed the distance between you, anger flaring. “Don’t talk to me about abandoning anyone! I’m trying to be realistic—”

“That’s enough.” His voice was ice. “You’re out of line.”

“Am I?” You leaned in, practically nose-to-nose. “We all want Tony back, but it’s time we—”

Natasha, who had just arrived, slipped between you. She pressed a firm hand against your chest. “Both of you, stop. We don’t have time for this.”

Steve backed off first, turning away with a muttered oath. You stayed put, adrenaline coursing, hands balled into fists.

Natasha grabbed your arm and steered you out of the room. Once in the hall, she spun you around, eyes blazing. “Hit me.”

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

She dropped into a ready stance. “I said hit me. Clearly you need to let it out.”

You didn’t move. “No.”

She shook her head. “If you don’t acknowledge what you’ve lost, it’s gonna eat you alive.”

“There’s nothing to grieve,” you said evenly, willing yourself to believe your own words with every fiber of your being.  By now, Natasha understood that no matter what she said, it wouldn’t get through to you. She knew Wanda meant the world to you, and you were driven by a personal mission. In her opinion, you were still handling it better than Clint, who had lost his entire family.

“Look, Steve needs you,” she said after a moment. “And I—”

Her sentence was cut short by a sudden commotion from outside. You both froze, exchanged a quick glance, and then ran for the exit. 

People were already gathered on the makeshift runway by the compound’s wide hangar doors. You elbowed your way through the small crowd��Bruce, Rhodey, Steve, and a handful of others—until you reached the front.

And there, at the heart of it all, Carol Danvers was bringing Tony Stark home.

—

It figured that the missing piece to finding Thanos was his own daughter, Nebula.  A snap-like energy signature had been detected across the galaxy just two days earlier, and with the new information she provided, Steve gave the team only a few hours to prepare before setting a course for Planet 0259-S.

If you had been a little apprehensive about the plan to find Thanos, the actual act of locating him—now the biggest hurdle solved—allowed you to fully lean into the expectation that it was only a matter of time before everyone was back, and everything returned to how it was supposed to be. The Avengers had never lost to anyone, not even gods. There was no doubt in your mind that you could all overcome a mere Titan.

So you and the remaining team boarded the modified Benatar—Nebula insisted it was the only ship fast enough to reach the planet in time. You still remembered the moment the engines roared to life, and you caught yourself thinking about Wanda. She would’ve stood at the viewport, eyes wide, taking in the stars with that sense of wonder she always had. But you also reminded yourself that you wouldn’t even be here if Wanda—and trillions of others—hadn’t vanished into dust. 

It was your first trip beyond Earth’s orbit, but it felt like mere minutes before Nebula’s voice crackled through the comms: “Entering the atmosphere now. We’ll touch down in thirty seconds.” Below stretched a battered field of half-dead crops under a sky like stale ash. You and the others fanned out once the ramp lowered—Steve, Banner, Rhodes, Thor, Carol, Natasha, Rocket, and Nebula. Even with the thinning hope in your veins, you still felt a faint thrill of certainty that you’d see that monster face to face and force him to undo this nightmare.

Thanos appeared in your line of sight, sitting on a makeshift stoop in front of a tumbledown shack, his left arm twisted and scarred from the energy of the Gauntlet. He looked worn, as if using the Stones had left him a husk of what he’d been. 

From this point on, it was an ambush—the most ruthless attack Steve had ever sanctioned for the team. You were surprised to see he had it in him. You wanted to strike Thanos yourself, but Natasha held you back, letting the superpowered members and those equipped with advanced suits handle the dirty work. Thor didn’t hesitate to hack off the Titan’s hand, and you actually smiled at Thanos’s screams as you, Natasha, and Steve closed in on the shack.

Rocket rolled over Thanos’s severed hand, the gauntlet still attached. What you all saw next pushed you further into madness:

Every single stone was missing.

Blood had rushed to your head, but you could still hear Steve very calmly inquire where the stones were, despite the ringing that had started in your ears. 

“...after that, the stones served no purpose beyond temptation…” Thanos uttered.

“Where are the stones?” Natasha repeated, her patience slipping in a rare moment of unease in front of an enemy.

“Gone,” Thanos uttered. “Reduced to atoms.”

“You used them two days ago!” Banner yelled.

“I destroyed the stones… using the stones.”

Everything turned to static the moment you heard the word destroyed. You’d pinned your hope on the Stones—on using them to bring her back. Now there was nothing. It was like the ground gave out beneath you, your entire center of gravity tilting around one brutal truth: Thanos hadn’t just wiped out half the universe—he’d taken your only way of undoing it.

The blood pounding in your ears muffled the exchanges. You saw Nebula’s lips move. You heard Thanos’ bullshit about realizing too late how he mistreated his own daughter. But it was like you were trapped in an echo chamber, drowning out the present.

Gone. Reduced to atoms.

He’d destroyed the Stones. You would never see Wanda again.

It was over.

You were quick to draw your pistols and fire a shot straight into his eye, but Thor was quicker—his axe already swinging, aimed directly for the head.

There should have been relief, or maybe some triumph in exacting revenge on the monster who’d purged half the universe. But there wasn’t. Only emptiness. The final blow had landed, and it changed nothing. Wanda was still gone, along with the rest.

A sick sense of finality wrapped around you, the suffocating knowledge that the Snap was permanent.

A few seconds later, Natasha laid a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t bother looking at her. You could feel her gaze, searching your face for any sign of composure. She’d find none. Nebula stood at a distance, staring at the father who had never been a father.

Someone—Carol maybe—muttered, “Let’s go.” And so you did. You stumbled away, feet dragging as if the scorched earth itself was holding you back.

It wasn't a victory. Not by a long shot. It was just the end of one more impossible avenue, closing shut.

The crushing grief welled up inside you, too much to contain. Finally, a scream ripped free from your throat, raw and guttural. It didn’t make you feel any better. It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

But for a fleeting moment, it was all you could do to keep from drowning.

[stygiansauce]

Was tango put off by Jimmy being Grian’s little brother when he first started having a crush on him

YES.

The whole "little brother" thing was supposed to be waayyyyyy bigger than it is right now. I'm not sure where it got lost but I'm trying so very hard to bring it back to the surface.

The original plot of margin of error was more that Grian introduced Jimmy to his friends and was like "this is my brother! don't EVER hit on him, or try to date him 🥰"

And then the whole time that was hanging over tango's head like, "ohhhh I was explicitly told not to do this." And then I forgot to put it in the final draft and now I don't know where to put it.

At this point, they're so wrapped up in each other and becoming actual friends outside of the bridge Grian made them, if I included it now it wouldn't make sense. Tango respects Jimmy too much as his own person (an adult person) to care what Grian wants. Jimmy can make his own choices.

I will find a way to make him feel guilty about it though. I'm sure Etho will if I don't. :D.

Chapter five is built to be a big tension chapter, I bet if I wiggle it enough I could work this idea back into it.

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Ten

CW: Mild-ish sexual content?

WC: 6.1k

Notes: if only Ferrari was really this good…

Baku had come and gone.

The street circuit under lights had delivered all the chaos it was known for, and still somehow, it had settled into something nearly predictable. McLaren had been fast. Too fast, if Azzi was honest with herself. Their top-end pace on the straights made overtaking miserable, and their tire degradation had somehow improved overnight. Still, she’d salvaged third. Paige fourth, less than a second behind. Neither of them thrilled, but no damage done. Ferrari still led the constructors’ standings comfortably, and Paige still had a grip on the Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t a bad weekend. Just a loud one.

Now they were thirty thousand feet above the ground, somewhere over Central Asia, heading toward the relentless humidity of Singapore. And Azzi, feet tucked under her on the cream leather couch of her jet, was deeply regretting letting Luka and Mateo talk her into this.

Well, not really. She’d offered.

“You’ve never flown private?” she’d asked them after the race, eyes wide with genuine disbelief.

Luka had shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Never needed to.”

Mateo had grinned. “We’re team players. We suffer with the staff.”

Azzi had rolled her eyes, already texting her flight manager.

Now they were here. Luka was sitting backward in his chair, ankles crossed on the armrest like he owned the place. Mateo was three snacks in and holding a banana like it was a mic.

And Paige was seated across from Azzi, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, looking more relaxed than she had since Baku qualifying. At least until Luka started squinting at her.

“So,” Luka said, his voice filled with the kind of faux-innocence that immediately made Azzi want to groan. “How was New York?”

Azzi looked up from her phone slowly. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Mateo echoed, like a parrot with a PhD in sarcasm. “Totally random dinner in the same restaurant, same table, same neighborhood, at the same time.”

“Wild coincidence,” Luka added, flipping his phone around to show a photo. “This viral shot disagrees.”

It was the picture from dinner. Dimly lit but sharp enough to see how close Azzi had leaned in. How Paige’s hand had been on the back of her chair. It had hit TikTok mid-week and was still racking up edits with soft piano music and increasingly romantic captions.

“Okay,” Paige said, trying not to smile. “People eat.”

“In the same city?” Mateo asked. “On the same night?”

“We’re coworkers,” Azzi said, deadpan.

“Who fly private together,” Luka offered. “And also disappear at parties together, according to this thread.”

He flipped to another screen. Azzi caught a flash of Dirk��s smug face in one of the photos and looked away before her mood could turn.

“It’s not that deep,” Paige muttered, but the back of her neck was pink.

“No, no,” Mateo said, holding up his banana-mic. “We’re just engineers asking questions.”

Azzi cracked then, covering her face with one hand and laughing despite herself. Paige leaned back with a groan, pulling her hood over her eyes like it might protect her from the onslaught.

They weren’t mad about it. Not really. Just caught. Sort of. Not that there was anything to catch.

Sort of.

“So,” Mateo said after a beat, tossing the banana peel into the trash bin behind him. “Big weekend coming up, huh?”

Azzi nodded. “Singapore’s a good track for us. Hot. Technical. Tight corners.”

Luka tilted his head. “And after that?”

Azzi smiled, folding her hands behind her head. “Austin.”

Her mood shifted warmer at the thought. “My family’s flying in. Parents, Jon, José… even the baby cousins might show if my uncle can figure out how a plane works.”

“Serious crew,” Luka said.

Azzi nodded. “Haven’t seen them since Miami. They’re loud and sweet and will eat like twelve thousand funnel cakes.”

“You hyped?” Mateo asked.

Azzi looked at Paige, who peeked out from under her hood.

“Yeah,” Azzi said. “We both are.”

Paige nodded. “I love the U.S. GP. And I think my dad and Drew are coming to Vegas in November.”

Azzi smiled. “Tell your dad he owes me a rematch in cornhole.”

“I won’t,” Paige said. “He’s still pretending it never happened.”

Luka leaned over and stage-whispered, “So we’re going to pretend this whole flight isn’t basically a Ferrari honeymoon?”

Azzi picked up a pillow and chucked it at him.

–

Singapore was a furnace.

Not the dry, blistering heat of southern Spain or the sunbaked stretches of Silverstone. This was suffocating. Dense. Sticky. Every step outdoors felt like walking through a pot of simmering soup. Even indoors, with air conditioners on full blast, it seeped into the walls, the floorboards, the threads of your clothes.

Azzi hated it.

Or…she didn’t. The city was beautiful. Flashy. Clean in the way ultra-rich cities were. She and Paige had landed a few days early, with Ferrari’s blessing. The travel time back to Italy or the States just didn’t make sense. Too many flights, too many layovers. Too much stress on their bodies, their heads, their sleep cycles.

Better to just land and wait.

So they waited. Spent mornings at the pool and afternoons slipping between meetings and film review. Nights were quiet. Or they were supposed to be.

It was just after 2 a.m. when Azzi gave up on sleep.

The ceiling fan wasn’t helping. The hotel AC unit might as well have been wheezing its last breath. Her sheets clung to her legs like plastic wrap. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. She turned, then turned again, then flipped her pillow over like that would make a difference.

It didn’t.

And her thoughts—well, they weren’t helping either.

They never did when Paige was two floors below her.

Eventually she sat up, kicked off the sheets, and pressed her bare feet to the cool tile. She pulled on a pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Nothing crazy. Just… Singapore clothes. Weather-appropriate.

It was only when she stood in front of Paige’s hotel door, barefoot and sweaty and half sure she was about to get laughed back to bed, that she hesitated. But her knuckles knocked before her brain could stop her.

She heard movement. Then a click. The door cracked open, revealing Paige, eyes shadowed, hair messy, and very much not asleep.

She blinked at Azzi once. “What are you doing here?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Why are you awake?”

Paige leaned against the doorframe, one hand braced overhead. She was in a black racerback tank and boxers, the fabric darkening slightly with sweat along her collarbone and under her ribs. Her skin glowed, dewy from heat and maybe something else.

Azzi’s mouth went dry.

“I was watching race film,” Paige said, casual, like she wasn’t standing there looking exactly like a Nike photoshoot for trouble.

“At two in the morning?”

Paige gave a small shrug. “It’s hot. Couldn’t sleep.”

Azzi crossed her arms and shifted her weight. “Same.”

A moment passed. Not tense, exactly. But… loaded. Paige was still in the doorway, still sweaty and barefoot, and looking at Azzi like she could read every reason she’d come down here that had nothing to do with heat.

“Wanna come in?” Paige asked, stepping back.

Azzi followed, brushing past her, skin sparking at the near contact. The room was dim. Cool, by comparison. Paige had one of those portable fans humming near the bed, and the curtains were drawn to trap the dark.

Azzi flopped onto the edge of the bed like she belonged there. Paige sat back down in the chair she’d pulled up near the window. Her laptop was open, paused on a corner-speed breakdown from Baku.

“I wasn’t lying,” Paige said, tapping the spacebar and letting the screen go black. “I really was watching film.”

Azzi let her head fall back against the pillow. “I didn’t say you were lying.”

Paige stretched her arms over her head, slow and long. Her tank shifted with the movement, revealing a flash of toned stomach, the low swoop of her hip. Azzi looked away. Tried to, anyway.

“You want water or something?” Paige asked.

“Water would make it worse,” Azzi said. “I’d just sweat it out.”

Paige smirked. “True.”

Another pause. The fan whirred.

Azzi rolled to her side and studied her. “You really couldn’t sleep either?”

Paige glanced over. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

“About?”

Paige tilted her head. “Life.”

Azzi snorted. “You’re gonna get all vague now?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Paige’s mouth, but it didn’t fully land. “You ever feel like the heat makes you think too hard?”

Azzi nodded. “Too much sweat, not enough oxygen.”

“Exactly.”

She stood again, walked over, and grabbed the second pillow off the other side of the bed. Tossed it to Azzi without asking.

Azzi caught it. “I’m staying?”

Paige met her eyes. “Do you want to?”

Azzi didn’t look away. “Yes.”

Silence again.

The tension, sticky like the air, settled in again between them. Thicker now. Not new, but no longer brushed off as nothing. Not in this room. Not after New York. Not after the jet rides and the teasing and the way Paige had said her name during comms last race like it meant something more than just race craft.

Paige sat on the other side of the bed. Not touching. But close.

Too close.

Azzi exhaled. “I didn’t come down here to start anything.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

She turned her head. Paige was already looking at her. Hair sticking to her temple. A faint glow across her chest where sweat caught the moonlight.

Azzi wanted to look away.

She didn’t.

“Still hot,” Paige murmured.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Paige reached for the remote and clicked the fan up a notch. The air shifted slightly, not enough to matter.

Azzi laid back again, one arm thrown over her eyes.

“If I sleepwalk into your lap it’s because you’re cold,” she muttered.

“I’m not cold.”

Azzi peeked out from under her arm.

Paige’s eyes were still on her. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

Azzi swallowed, pulse loud in her ears.

“Well,” she said softly, “you’re cooler than me.”

Paige didn’t respond.

But she didn’t move away either.

Paige knew what Azzi was here for at 2 in the morning. Though, Azzi had been feeling it for a while at this point.

It had started hours ago, maybe even before she knocked on Paige’s door, when she sat restless in her bed, pretending it was the heat that had her peeling off layers and twisting in the sheets. Now, in the dim quiet of Paige’s hotel room, with the fan kicking up warm air and the curtains drawn tight against the city glow, Azzi could feel that low, pulsing certainty settle in her chest:

She hadn’t come here to cool off.

Paige knew it too.

She lay next to Azzi now, close but still not touching. The kind of distance that a deep breath could erase. Azzi turned her head, slowly, and found Paige already watching her. No hesitation. No teasing smile. Just that steady, quiet focus that always made Azzi feel like she was under a microscope. As if Paige was learning her in real time, one heartbeat at a time.

Paige reached out first. Just a hand, brushing soft along the edge of Azzi’s wrist. Barely a touch.

Azzi let out a slow exhale. “So much for staying cool.”

A hint of a smile tugged at Paige’s mouth. “I said I wasn’t cold.”

Her voice was lower now, sleep rough in it. Or maybe not sleep.

Azzi shifted closer, until her thigh brushed Paige’s. Her skin buzzed at the contact. Paige’s breath caught, and Azzi felt it, that tiny shift in air between them, like gravity had tilted in their direction.

They’d done this before.

But not like this.

Not with something real and fragile humming underneath. Not with a promise quietly blooming between touches.

Azzi rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “You gonna let me kiss you, or are we still pretending this is about sleep?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her mouth. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Azzi kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. There was no urgency, no scramble. Just warmth, and closeness, and the soft hum of a fan cutting through the heat. Paige’s hand found Azzi’s hip, steady and sure, and pulled her closer.

She fit there like she always had.

Azzi felt Paige’s fingers trace along her spine, slow and deliberate. Her skin prickled in response. She deepened the kiss, let herself settle into it, let herself feel everything. The softness of Paige’s lips, the low sound she made in the back of her throat when Azzi kissed her jaw, the way her hands didn’t rush but held like she meant it.

This wasn’t a secret, not here.

Azzi felt safe in this room. Hidden. Honest. She didn’t need to perform, didn’t need to hold back.

Paige rolled them gently, shifting to hover above her. Her hair fell around her face, catching bits of light. She looked down at Azzi like she was studying a map, trying to remember all the familiar landmarks.

Azzi’s chest rose and fell, slow and even.

“You good?” Paige asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi nodded. “You?”

“Of course.”

–

Azzi was not a morning person.

She could pretend, sometimes, when cameras were waiting or sponsors needed her bright-eyed and branded. But this morning (body humming and thighs still comfortably aching) she was no actress. She rolled out of Paige’s bed with a wince and a grin, the sheets warm and tangled, the air still heavy with Singapore heat and something softer. Something that lingered in the pit of her stomach like a secret.

Paige was already up, sitting at the edge of the bed with her long legs stretched out and a bottle of water tilted lazily toward her lips. She glanced over when Azzi groaned softly, twisting her torso with the ease of someone who knew exactly what she’d done last night and wasn’t sorry about any of it.

“Meeting in thirty,” Paige said, her voice dry but amused. “Fred.”

Azzi sighed. “God. Do you think he knows?”

Paige’s brow arched. “He’s French. He definitely knows.”

They arrived ten minutes late, hair still slightly damp from rushed showers, Azzi in a loose ribbed tank and oversized linen pants, Paige in a plain black tee and joggers, fresh-faced but unmistakably guilty of something. The meeting was already in motion when they slipped into the cool, air-conditioned conference room tucked into the back of the paddock hospitality suite. Fred sat at the head of the table, glasses pushed high on his nose, flanked by two PR officers and an assistant who looked entirely too caffeinated for the hour.

Fred didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at them. A long, pointed look.

Then: “Do I want to know why you’re late?”

Azzi blinked. Paige said, “Probably not.”

The younger PR rep cleared her throat. “So. As you both know, a photo surfaced earlier this week. From New York.”

Azzi fought the urge to smirk. The photo in question had gone viral within hours. Her leaning back in her chair at the candlelit restaurant, mid-laugh, Paige in a black button-down across from her, arm resting casually close, eyes on Azzi like she was the only person in the room. Which, for Paige, she probably had been.

It was a good photo. Too good.

The rumors had been relentless.

“Obviously, the speculation is getting traction,” the older PR manager added, flipping through a folder of printed tweets, headlines, and one particularly bold Instagram comment that read simply: “Hard launch when??”

Fred tapped the table. “We need a plan.”

“Plan for what, exactly?” Azzi asked, even though she already knew.

The younger rep tried to be gentle. “The public is making assumptions. And if you don’t control the narrative, they will.”

Paige leaned back in her chair. “What narrative are we supposed to offer?”

“A distraction,” the older one said. “Or a clarification. Or ideally both.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So, what—lie?”

They both looked briefly uncomfortable before the younger one said, “Well… more like shape.”

Fred finally chimed in again, steepling his fingers. “We don’t need a scandal. We need focus. You’re one and two in the championship. Ferrari is winning. We cannot afford the headlines to be about dinner dates and who is or isn’t sleeping with whom.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. She’d known this was coming. She just hated that it was happening in a cold room with fluorescent lights and lukewarm espresso cups.

“So, what’s the best option?” Paige asked. Her voice was calm, but Azzi knew her well enough to catch the flicker in her tone. She was annoyed. Bracing.

The rep didn’t miss a beat. “Option one—one of you is seen with a guy. Someone safe. Familiar. Maybe even someone we’ve used before. Dirk van der Meer’s name came up—”

“No,” Paige said, sharply.

Fred raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not doing that again.”

Azzi stayed quiet, but her lips pressed into a thin line. Dirk had been a necessary evil once. A blurry summer and a PR contract and a few half-hearted smiles for the camera. Paige hadn’t spoken to him since. Didn’t want to.

“Option two,” the older rep continued, “we release a statement. Neutral, minimal. Just something to dispel the noise without denying or confirming anything.”

“So basically saying nothing,” Azzi said.

“It lets the moment pass,” Fred said. “Without adding gasoline.”

“And if we don’t do anything?” Paige asked, even though she knew the answer.

The rep’s silence was enough.

Azzi ran a hand through her hair. The AC was too cold. Her body still ached pleasantly from the night before, but now her stomach was twisting. Not with regret. Just frustration. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither had Paige. But the world they lived in, the one with contracts and sponsors and publicists who printed Instagram comments, wanted neatness. Stories they could sell.

“I’m not fake-dating Dirk again,” Paige repeated, quieter now. Firmer. “I’d rather the rumors keep flying.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Okay.”

That surprised both of them.

“But no stunts,” he added. “No more dinners in candlelight restaurants that look like Vogue covers.”

Azzi couldn’t help the smile. “So rooftop burgers it is.”

The older rep pinched the bridge of her nose.

Fred stood. “We’ll manage it. Just keep your heads down until Singapore’s over. We’ll reassess before Austin.”

Paige was already half out the door.

Azzi lingered for a beat, then glanced back at the table.

“Just for the record,” she said, tone light but words clipped, “I’d rather be caught kissing someone I actually like than pretending to be straight for a sponsor.”

Then she left, leaving the PR team in stiff silence and Fred wearing something almost like a grin.

–

Azzi found Paige later that night where she always went when things didn’t sit right—perched on the edge of the hotel’s rooftop terrace, eyes scanning the city below like she could read the skyline for answers.

Singapore at night was golden and electric. Air thick as syrup. Every surface radiated heat even long after sunset. But Paige was still in the same black tee from the meeting, legs folded up on the lounge chair, jaw tight and unreadable.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She sat down beside her, letting the silence settle between them like steam.

“It’s not like I didn’t expect it,” Paige said finally, without looking over. “The photo, the reaction, the PR scramble… it’s all part of the game.”

“But it still sucks,” Azzi offered.

Paige glanced at her then. Her expression wasn’t hurt exactly. Just tired. “It’s just not fair, you know?”

Azzi nodded. She did know.

They both sat with it for a moment—what it meant to be watched, packaged, speculated on. What it meant to choose someone in a world that kept asking you to pretend.

Then Azzi shifted, tucking one leg underneath her. “Can I ask you something?”

Paige shrugged. “Sure.”

Azzi hesitated. She hadn’t meant to bring this up tonight, but something about Paige’s quiet stillness made the moment feel right. Like this was a story that had been waiting for a quieter hour.

“Why’d you do another year of F3?” she asked. “You had F2 offers. Everyone knew that. Hell, I got pulled up halfway through my F3 season and dumped into F2 for six months, then almost straight into F1. But you did two full seasons.”

Paige’s brows lifted, caught off guard. “That’s what you’ve been wondering?”

Azzi smiled faintly. “Well, I thought maybe you were being strategic or something. But it always felt a little off.”

Paige was quiet for a long moment. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers picking idly at the edge of the chair cushion.

“You probably already know this,” she said at last, not looking up. “But I didn’t finish the F3 season.”

Azzi blinked. “After I got moved up?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. That was… sort of the beginning of the end.”

She let out a breath, more weight than air.

“I mean, on paper, I was still on the team. Still under contract. But I didn’t race again. I had this whole… thing. A moment, I guess. Or a breakdown, depending on who you ask.”

Azzi’s heart tightened. She hadn’t known the details. Not really.

“I was seventeen,” Paige said, voice low. “And I was so burnt out. I’d been pretending like I was fine, like I could handle all of it. But then you got pulled up to F2, and it was like… suddenly the bar changed. And I was still there, still grinding in the middle of the pack while they were talking about the next season like it was already decided.”

She swallowed.

“I called my mom. Thought I was calling her to vent. But I just lost it on the phone. I was crying or whatever about contracts and performance clauses and how I didn’t even know if I wanted any of it anymore. And she… did what moms do. She took the wheel. Called my manager. Froze the talks. Told them I was out for the rest of the year.”

Azzi stayed quiet. Her chest ached.

“I was so mad,” Paige continued. “Like, really mad. Felt like I was being punished for cracking under pressure. But now?” She finally looked over. “I’m glad. That break let let me breathe. Let me figure out if I really wanted this. Not just the career. But the life.”

Azzi exhaled, slow. “I had a bit of that too,” she said. “After F2.”

Paige blinked. “You?”

Azzi nodded. “After I signed with Ferrari, I was supposed to finish the rest of the F2 season. Just keep racing until F1 pre-season started. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep driving when my brain was already somewhere else, and my body was exhausted. So I told them I needed out. Needed a breather.”

She gave a wry smile. “Everyone thought it was strategic. That I was preserving myself. But honestly? I was just spent.”

Paige tilted her head, eyes soft. “And you never told anyone that.”

Azzi shook her head. “Didn’t feel like I could.”

The heat settled around them again, humid and heavy, but this time it wasn’t so uncomfortable. It was grounding. Real.

“I think that’s why I kept watching you,” Azzi said quietly. “Back then. Even after I got moved up. You weren’t trying to force it. You were just… doing it your way.”

Paige looked over, surprised. “I thought you were always too focused to notice me.”

Azzi laughed, low. “I noticed everything, P.”

Paige’s expression shifted then—somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Azzi reached over, took her hand. Their fingers curled together without resistance.

They stayed like that, side by side under the stars, traffic humming far below, the world too far away to interrupt.

“I like doing this with you,” Azzi said, barely above a whisper.

Paige squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

–

Azzi couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t the heat, not this time. The AC in her room had finally won its battle against the Singapore humidity. Her sheets were cool, her body relaxed, but her brain was wide awake, lit up like the track on race night.

She lay on her back, one hand resting across her stomach, the other loosely curled near her head. Paige’s voice echoed softly in her ears, not in any exact sentence, but in that quiet, open way she had spoken earlier. Honest. Unfiltered. Trusting.

Azzi rolled over and checked the time—nearly midnight. Singapore time anyway. That made it late morning in D.C.

She reached for her phone and tapped on the contact saved as Mom before she could talk herself out of it.

Katie picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” came her warm voice, and just like that, Azzi’s chest loosened.

“Hi,” she said, sinking into the sound like it was home. “You busy?”

“Never too busy for you. What’s up?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She let the silence hold for a moment, then pressed the side of her face into her pillow.

“I just wanted to talk,” she murmured.

Katie waited, sensing something underneath.

Azzi let the words come slowly. “Paige is like… sort of my girlfriend now.”

There was no dramatic pause on the other end. No gasp. Just a quiet hum, like Katie had already guessed and was smiling softly to herself.

“Sort of?” Katie asked gently.

Azzi huffed out a small laugh. “We didn’t do the whole label thing. I think we’re both too stubborn for that. But… yeah. She’s mine. I’m hers. That kind of thing.”

Katie didn’t need more than that.

“Well, I’m happy if you’re happy,” she said simply.

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I am.”

She meant it. Even with the media storm building outside their hotel rooms, even with PR teams drafting fake-boyfriend talking points, even with everything still uncertain—she was happy.

“But it’s complicated,” she added. “With the photo, and the fans, and the… speculation. Fred called us in this morning. They’re all trying to figure out what to do. And it’s exhausting. Like, just pretending everything’s fine.”

There was a pause.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Katie said softly.

“I know,” Azzi whispered. “That’s why I called.”

Katie didn’t fill the silence with advice. She waited, patient as ever.

Azzi sat up in bed, legs crossed under her, phone pressed to her ear. “I miss you guys,” she said quietly. “You and Dad. And the boys. I’ve been thinking about Austin every day.”

“We can’t wait to see you.”

Azzi smiled. “I promised I’d win for you.”

“We’re already proud of you, Az.”

Azzi let her eyes close for a moment, imagining the way her mom might be sitting right now—curled up on the family room couch, tea in hand, wearing one of her oversized sweaters. Her voice always sounded like calm.

“And I was thinking,” Azzi went on, her voice picking up a little, “maybe… maybe Paige and I should post about mental health. Like, in a real way. Not some sponsored one-liner. We’ve both been through stuff. We could make it honest. Not for damage control. Just… because it’s important.”

There was a smile in Katie’s voice now. “That sounds like a really good idea.”

Azzi’s heart swelled a little.

“I think it would help people,” she added. “And maybe it would help us too. To not feel like we’re hiding everything. Plus it’s great for PR…”

Another pause.

Then, lighter, Azzi said, “Also… I’m running a pink helmet this weekend.”

“Your bright pink?”

“The brightest,” Azzi said proudly. “Almost neon. I wanted something that felt like me again.”

Katie laughed gently. “I love that.”

Azzi leaned back against her headboard, smiling into the phone. “Paige’s helmet is lilac this weekend. Or lavender. Whatever you call it. It’s so pretty. I think it’s her favorite color.”

“Is it your favorite color too now?” Katie teased.

Azzi giggled, cheeks warming. “No. But it’s… her. It looks like her. All soft and shiny and—” She stopped. “She’s really pretty.”

Katie didn’t say anything for a second.

“You really like her,” she said.

Azzi’s smile faded into something quieter. “I do.”

They sat in that for a while—just breathing together across the distance.

Eventually, Katie said, “You should get some sleep, baby. You’ve got a race to win.”

Azzi nodded, even though her mom couldn’t see it. “I will. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Azzi ended the call and set the phone down on her nightstand. The room felt softer somehow. Less heavy.

She slid down under the covers, one hand resting on her stomach again, the other still tingling from holding the phone.

Sleep came easier after that.

–

The lights above the Marina Bay Street Circuit burned like white fire against the inky Singapore night, and even at 9 p.m., the air hung heavy and wet around them like a wool blanket soaked in steam. Race day in the tropics was never pleasant, but this—this was a different beast entirely.

Azzi was drenched in sweat before the formation lap.

The second she pulled down her visor, the air inside her helmet turned into a sauna. Her race suit clung to her like a second skin, heat radiating from every panel. Even her gloves were damp. She hadn’t even put the car into gear yet.

“Let’s keep it clean. Smart start. No drama into Turn One,” came Mateo's voice over the radio.

Azzi didn’t bother answering. She was saving her energy for what promised to be a long, miserable hour and forty-five minutes.

Next to her on the front row, Paige sat stone-still in P1, her lilac helmet glinting softly under the floodlights. She was good here—really good. Fast, smooth, patient in the technical sections, aggressive in the perfect places. Singapore was where Paige had made a name for herself in F3, and now, one year into F1, she looked every bit the future world champion.

Azzi had no plans to make that easy for her.

The lights went out, and chaos reigned.

Paige got away clean. Azzi tucked in behind her. For the first twenty laps, it looked like they might cruise to a textbook 1-2 finish, as planned. No mistakes. No drama. Just the Ferrari girls slicing through the city heat like blades.

Then came Lap 22.

A midfield collision brought out a full Safety Car, and that’s when things started to unravel. McLaren pitted both drivers at once and somehow still managed to gain track position. Red Bull gambled on hard tires, and Mercedes threw soft tires on one car just to see if the world would end. Paige’s restart was flawless—but a lunge from a McLaren into Turn Eight forced Azzi wide, and she had to fight tooth and nail just to avoid contact. She dropped to fourth.

Then it started.

Yellow flags. Debris. Another Safety Car. Virtual Safety Car. One car parked sideways in the tunnel section like it forgot how to exist. Someone lost power steering. Someone else lost a wing. Azzi lost count of how many times she nearly got rear-ended by a Haas.

It was hot. So hot. Her water bottle gave up somewhere around Lap 35. Her back felt like it was melting into the seat. Her hands ached from gripping the wheel so tight.

By Lap 47, she was back in second, chasing Paige down like it was the last lap of their lives. She caught glimpses of the lilac helmet under the streetlamps—Paige was driving like a woman possessed. Clean, relentless, perfect. And sweaty as hell, probably. They both were. Azzi could feel her sports bra plastered to her ribs, and she was almost certain the pink dye from her helmet had leaked onto her neck.

But god, it looked so good.

The hot pink shimmered under the lights, bold and defiant. She might’ve been half-dead from heatstroke, but at least she looked like a flaming dream barreling through Sector 3.

The final laps were survival. Paige held the lead. Azzi kept her distance, defending against Hamilton like her life depended on it. No risks. No unnecessary moves. Just bring it home.

And when the checkered flag finally waved, and Paige crossed the line first with Azzi right behind her, both girls screamed.

Azzi barely made it out of the car before collapsing onto a pit wall stool, yanking off her helmet with trembling fingers. Her ponytail was soaked, her suit stuck to her thighs like glue, her forearms aching from every snap of countersteer she’d needed in that ridiculous, ridiculous race.

She blinked sweat out of her eyes and laughed into the open air.

“What the actual hell was that?” she croaked to nobody in particular.

No one answered. Everyone was still trying to piece together how they survived.

Paige was hoisted onto shoulders by the team before Azzi even got her gloves off. She looked delirious with heat and joy and disbelief. Azzi couldn’t stop laughing. Or sweating.

They’d wanted a calm 1-2.

What they got was a three-act opera of disaster, heat, and brilliance—with a Ferrari double podium at the end.

Azzi leaned back against the garage wall, head tilted to the sky, lungs still burning.

She was going to need three light-years of vacation.

But at least the special helmets looked good.

–

The air was thick and loud and glittering—champagne mist floating in the heat, blinding camera flashes against dark sky, the scent of burned rubber mixing with sweat and something sweeter. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe awe.

Azzi stood on the second step of the Singapore Grand Prix podium, and she was staring. Unapologetically.

Paige was on the top step. Again.

The first time this happened, Jeddah, back in April, Azzi remembered looking at her like this too. Like the whole world had tilted slightly and Paige had ended up at the center of it, smiling, golden, the trophy in her hands an afterthought to the way she carried herself.

And now, here in Singapore, that feeling hadn’t dulled.

Paige stood in front of the massive LED screen, violet-and-orange lights bouncing off her damp skin, hair plastered to her forehead, her suit half unzipped to the waist. The way her chest rose and fell, the way the curve of her jaw caught the glint from the Rolex billboard behind her. It made Azzi dizzy, in the way you get dizzy from looking too long at something you’re not supposed to want in public.

And Azzi was staring. She knew it. So did every camera. She was going to be a slo-mo edit on TikTok in fifteen minutes.

She didn’t care.

Paige held the trophy in one hand, the neck of the champagne bottle in the other, grinning like she couldn’t believe she’d done it again. She looked down toward Azzi just once, eyes catching hers for the briefest second, soft and wild and shining.

Azzi exhaled through her nose and tried not to melt.

This girl had taken a win off her in the hardest, hottest race of the year. Sweated out a pole lap in a car that had no business being that fast through sector three. Danced through two Safety Cars, ten near-misses, and a pit stop that should’ve ruined the whole strategy. And she was standing there now like it had all been inevitable. Like it was just another Sunday.

Azzi wanted to say something. Something about how stupidly pretty she looked under the lights, or how she’d made this godforsaken night race feel like it was worth every aching muscle and ruined manicure. But her mouth stayed shut. There were microphones nearby. She remembered that much.

She was in public.

Damn.

Azzi blinked and looked away for a second too long, just to reset her thoughts. The crowd roared, drunk on chaos and confetti. The Ferrari anthem started to play. She closed her eyes, let the sweat slide down her neck, let the heat settle into her bones.

Her gaze drifted back. Just for one more second.

Paige Bueckers, victorious under a sky of light and noise, was grinning at something the third-place driver said. Probably nothing important. She turned her head slightly, and the shine on her cheekbone caught the edge of the camera flash.

Azzi felt her heart beat once, loud and low.

She was in love with a girl who looked like that under stadium lights. Who drove like that in a furnace. Who laughed like that even after forty-nine laps of hell. And the whole world could watch her look. She didn’t care.

There were worse things to be known for.

She was in love with Paige Bueckers.

[chiyoszn]

Margin Of Error

☆Pairing

Kimi Antonelli x Engineer!Reader

☆Warnings

None

The car was wrong again.

Not by much—just a tenth off here, a snap of understeer there. But in motorsport, tiny things mattered. Tiny things could decide entire weekends.

And Andrea Kimi Antonelli hated tiny things.

You leaned against the pit wall, headset still clamped to your ears, listening to the last few radio checks as the team packed up after qualifying in Barcelona. P7. Not awful, but not what you’d expected either.

Kimi emerged from the garage still in his suit, gloves off, hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His expression was unreadable.

You braced for it.

He walked past the others, straight to you.

“We should’ve nailed Sector 2,” he said, voice low.

“I know,” you replied. “We’ll go through the data tonight.”

He nodded once. But his jaw was still clenched. Tension radiated from him like heat off the tarmac. You recognized it by now—frustration, not just with the car, but with himself.

“I need to be better,” he muttered. “I’m losing time in places I shouldn’t be.”

You crossed your arms. “You need to stop carrying the whole team on your back.”

He blinked, caught off-guard.

“It’s not all on you, Kimi,” you added, softer now. “We’re a team. Let us fix what’s wrong with the car. You focus on driving.”

For a second, he just stared at you. Then, slowly, his shoulders lowered. The fire in his eyes dimmed just enough to let something else through—something quiet. Something vulnerable.

“You always know what to say,” he said. “It’s annoying.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome.”

That wasn’t the first time he’d leaned on you. But it was the first time he noticed it.

Over the next few races, things got more subtle. He’d wait for you after debriefs instead of heading to the sim right away. He started asking how you were doing, even when he’d just come off a rough session. You caught him glancing at you in the paddock more often. Not in a distracted, flirty way—but like he was trying to figure something out and you were the puzzle.

Then came the Austria weekend.

He crashed in FP1.

It wasn’t major, but the car was damaged. The rest of the session was lost. He was furious. Not at anyone—just himself.

The garage was tense. He didn’t speak during the initial review. But as the others left, he stayed behind, sitting in the corner of the truck, helmet beside him.

You sat down next to him. Not close. Not far.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. “Maybe not. Still felt like it.”

“Kimi.”

That got him. His head tilted toward you, eyes dark and tired.

“I’m here because I believe in you. All of us are. But you’ve gotta start believing in yourself too. Not just when you’re on the podium.”

For a moment, all he did was watch you.

Then: “You always say the right thing.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s just… dangerous.”

Your breath caught. “Why?”

He leaned back against the wall. “Because I’m starting to care too much about what you think. About how you look at me after a session. About whether you’re in my corner.”

You said nothing. Your heart said everything.

“I know we’re not supposed to go there,” he added quickly. “And I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure. But I feel it. I know you do too.”

Your fingers curled against your knee. “It’s not about rules.”

He looked over. “Then what?”

“It’s about what happens if we let this matter more than the job.”

He paused. “And what happens if we don’t?”

You didn’t answer him that night.

But something changed after that conversation.

In the paddock, nothing looked different. No one suspected a thing. But your radio check-ins had a new warmth. His glances lingered longer. You found excuses to stand closer during briefings. Neither of you said anything more—but it hung between you. Real. Constant. Unspoken.

Until Monza.

He won.

It was a hard-fought race, with tire degradation and pressure from behind in the final laps. But he held them off. Crossed the line screaming into the radio.

He found you after the podium. Not in the media pen. Not at the hospitality tent.

Behind the team trucks, still in his suit, champagne on his collar, eyes wide with something he couldn’t hide anymore.

“You never answered me,” he said.

Your heart pounded.

He stepped closer.

“What happens if we let this matter?”

You stared at him, barely able to breathe.

“Then we figure it out,” you whispered.

His smile was slow. Grateful. And a little bit reckless.

“Good,” he said. “Because I think I’m in love with you.”

And this time, you didn’t run.