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artificialqueens · 1 year

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[WIP] When She Blooms (Trixya) - Fannyatrollop

Note: A couple of years ago, I read a popular Gilmore Girls inspired Trixya fic while watching the kdrama When the Camellia Blooms... and decided to try my hand at a Camellia inspired fic. There are zero plans of including the serial killer storyline, but I do have a lot of other things swimming around, including a role for Tammie Brown. I can't promise I'll write this anytime soon, my track record for finishing what I've started isn't the best, but I have a little bit going, and wanted to show off the accomplishment. So here! Coming to theatres.... some day!

Somewhere along the Eastern coast of the United States sits a town called Bryan’s Wreck.

According to local folklore, the area would never have been infiltrated by foreign settlers if it hadn’t been for a tragedy. A ship carrying these first colonizers lost its way and dashed against some rocks that today provide a perfect spot for a romantic evening; if you’re sitting up top on the rock wall with your sweetheart, the sounds of the sea crashing against the stone, the moon looking so close it’s, like, enormous, and the cool breeze would at least get you to second base. Not so if you’re a boat careening towards them. The hapless vessel couldn’t stand a chance. Some say that if you squint, you can still see the remains sunk deep in the water.

Somehow, the wreck spat out survivors like watermelon seeds. Bereft, and probably soaked through like they always are in movies, the little group made it to shore still processing the recent traumatic events that put them there. It’s then that, for some, the bullshit meter shoots into the stratosphere. Among the drenched and dispirited survivors were the wives they’d brought along for the colonizing. These were not faint-hearted hothouse flowers; they were tough, the type that would doubtless be chopping wood and building homes rather than expired on a patch of grass because they hadn’t realized their “New World” adventure required some hard work on their part. They were prepared for the struggle, and when things got off to such a dismal start, it was the women who got up, wiped their eyes, and rallied the group to build what would eventually become the town. And everybody clapped.

Hogwash or not, it does seek to explain a couple of things about Bryan’s Wreck, the first being its rather ominous name and the second, more important thing is the fact that this small seaside town is functionally a matriarchy. Sure, many of the men have historically gone out fishing, but the town is host to many businesses, almost all run by women. These businesses tend to be restaurants, and were often where much of the fishermen’s catches would be cooked using recipes guarded more carefully than the deepest of state secrets, passed down from mothers to daughters or daughters-in-law. The less fishing actually happens off the coast, the more the town relies on its reputation as an off-the-beaten-path foodie destination for tourist dollars.

In a place like this, what’s a guy to do? It’s not a dry town, but well, every establishment where alcohol is sold is owned by their mother, or their wife, or their sister, or their mother/wife/sister’s nosy best friend. Grabbing some drinks and gathering near the water is fine, but what if it rains? And besides, doesn’t everyone like having a special place to hang out?

When Trixie Mattel arrived, she encountered a tight knit community of strong women who held a firm grip on the town’s business ecosystem. If things had worked out a certain way, she would have walked right into the embrace of a sisterhood, but these sisters don’t always take kindly to outsiders. It’s not easy for anyone new to waltz in and survive past a single summer season—not unheard of, but the Russian woman who got the town dangerously hooked on pirozhkis is an outlier and should not be counted. We’ll talk about her later.

And yet, for a little over 8 years, Trixie has managed to hang on. She’s done this by turning an abandoned warehouse into a sanctuary for the town’s poor, forgotten men. Since its founding, the Lucky Clover has answered the cries of men looking for a spot to drink a little more than usual away from the censure of the matriarchs. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement; Trixie keeps the drinks flowing, and even feeds them sometimes. In return, the men hand over an annoying portion of their household income to her and, for the first year, politely ignored the baby strapped to their fair hostess’ back.

The womenfolk have never adhered to this rule.

“It’s just crass,” one would grumble. “Serving alcohol to all those men with a baby right there on her back? Where it can see? How’s it going to grow up now?”

Svetlana Zamolodchikova, the aforementioned Pirozhki Lady, would tsk and shake her head.

“When I was young, I give the same men vodka with my Katya on my back,” she’d say with a smirk. “You must have hated me back then.”

That would cow them somewhat, but only for a little while. Still, the years passed, and the Lucky has stayed right where it is, with the same woman at its center serving meals and drinks to the forsaken men of the Wreck. The talk never seems to bother her.

There’s no need to ignore the baby these days, though. It’s impossible to do that when he’s old enough to walk and threaten to cut off a patron’s snack supply if they look at his mom funny.

Katya Zamolodchikova was mostly away while all of this happened, busy living the glamorous life of a professional athlete. For someone raised in the Wreck her whole life, she’s a bit of a strange case, too; she’s her mother’s only daughter and yet there’s no question of her carrying on the family business. Katya has always been told not to worry if it dies once she’s well and truly on her feet. It’s an unusual situation, but her mother, though not like the other entrepreneurial moms in town in many ways, is very much like them in her jealous guarding of her right to have the final say in everything to do with her restaurant. Katya would never begrudge her that.

Still, every year the place continues to stand she’s glad it’s kept chugging along, though. Especially now that she’s come home to reevaluate her life.

#rpdr fanfiction #wip wednesday #trixya #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #lesbian au #unrealistic small town au #single mom au #fannyatrollop

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pichitinha · 6 years

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Searching, Waiting, Looking ~ Chapter 06 (on AO3)

We'll miss a dime to grab a nickel (5,755 words)

Katya hugs her as if they hadn't seen each other in months. It's tight and it lasts and her hands squeeze at Trixie's sides before she breaks apart. She smiles at her brightly and Trixie can't look away from her face. They didn't see each other for less than two weeks, it's nothing, but somehow Trixie feels so relieved to finally be with Katya in person again, especially now that they've resumed their regular texting and are good.

~~~~~

Of course Trixie will be the decorator to Shea’s wedding - with years of experience in her bag there’s no way she’ll leave her best friend hanging. Sure, she never intended for that to become practically a full-time job as the wedding planner alongside Sasha’s crazy best friend Katya, but hey, everything for your friends, right?

#trixya #trixya fanfiction #my fanfic #swl #girl au #they're lesbians harold #romance #romcom #cliche #longfic #my trixya fic #i'm very very nervous i hope you guys like this #pls let me know either way!!!#also i'm excited ch7 is like 1/3 done #natalia writing regularly? it's more likely than you think #i'm excited to finish this!!! it'll happen eventually once i figure out how to actually separate my chapters whoops

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diana-prince-s · 2 years

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i’m thinking about how rosé would react to denalis husband getting her pregnant and denali being completely terrified and also really upset, it’s not what she wants (having her own bio kids) and maybe even feeling some kind of relief at having a miscarriage. i get the impression that it’s a completely new way of seeing the world to rosé that denalis priority isnt her husband and having kids and that it’s so distressing to denali

hi anon, hope this gets to you--

I know this ask is a little old because I've been working on leave before you love me and I was going to save this one to use when I post more Spartan Marriage AU updates. And when I first got this, I was like "oh bitch, why didn't I think of doing a miscarriage, this is a great idea." Because I did a miscarriage story in my Trixya fic and the idea of having a miscarriage when you don't want the kid in the first place is so complex to me and I think the way I handled it in that story is totally different from how I'd handle it in this story. That being said-- I don't think it's the natural conclusion that the Spartan Marriage AU needs, and here's why:

It's no secret at this point that I'm killing off the husbands so that Rosé and Denali can live happily ever after together and so they can have a good reason to shack up as widows. I know very little about remarriage in Sparta, but since I've built this whole thing about "you need to have Spartan sons and then you can do whatever the fuck you want," I'm assuming that the result of a woman's husband dying before having a child with her would be that the woman is remarried so she can try again for a son. We don't want Denali to have to marry another man.

Also, part of why this story centers around pregnancy and motherhood is because I seem to be more and more fascinated with it at my current stage of life, where I feel like I'm ready to settle down with someone (and while we're looking at at least ten years before we have kids, the idea of building a life with someone requires that you think about these things). And motherhood and pregnancy specifically has been so completely foreign to me, I don't understand it, and in some ways pregnancy feels violent to me. Violent and intimate. In the Spartan Marriage AU, it is both physically and emotionally violent -- for Rosé physically, because it's changed her body (though I only talk about that subtly because post-pregnancy bodies are *chef's kiss* and she is literally a MILF), and emotionally and physically for Denali because the act of getting pregnant is something that she hates, and because she doesn't want to be a mother. But it's intimate, to me, because it's a violent process that is understood (at least at this time) only by women. Pregnancy and motherhood are a bond shared between women. They all know how it happened and what it's like and what it does to you. That's why pregnancy is so important in matrilineal stories.

And since Rosé is a literal mother in the story, and she's also a motherly/mentor figure to Denali (because Denali and I have mommy issues), the shared aspect of pregnancy and motherhood between Denali and Rosé is really important to me because it adds another layer of intimacy between them, and it eventually equalizes Rosé and Denali both in society and in their relationship. And Denali has to go through the stages of pregnancy to do that. If miscarriage were a thing in later stages of pregnancy, I absolutely would do a miscarriage story because I think it would be so so so dramatic and so interesting and dynamic. But I also think Denali should be pregnant for a period of time so Rosé can comfort her through it and so she can see what it's like for someone who does not want to be a mother.

And I'm deciding between two plots, then: Denali having a child that is raised by both her and Rosé but much more by Rosé, or Denali's child being stillborn.

#spartan marriage au

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lulufeca · 4 years

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Hi! I’ve seen you know allot of Trixya fics so I thought I’d ask you. I’m looking for a Trixya f/f Carie AU. Trixie is Carie and Katya is a different girl (jody maybe I can’t remember) katya was in on the prank on Trixie but then stops it and they become friends. Eventually they run away and change their names to Trixie and Katya. They trie to sleep together but when they do Trixie can’t control her powers and sents shit flying so they have to lock cupboards ect.

HI! I remember that Carrie AU, I love Carrie and Stephen King. I went to look for it on AO3 and my email notifications on my comments for that fic. I think the author deleted it... Couldnt find it... Maybe someone downloaded?

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writethehousedown · 4 years

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mittens. [Ninex] - meggie

A/N: Remember that teachers AU I was going to write and then didn’t? I’m visiting it in Ficmas. In a few different ways. (Trixya, Witney, Branjie, Shalaska, and Crameron are coming eventually.)

This is the first, a stupidly sweet Ninex piece that involves car duty, knitting, and pining. So my life. (Meggie inserting herself into Nina West to write out some feelings? It can’t be so.) Enjoy.

Thank you, Mia (my sun and stars), for making me (and my writing) better than I am every single day. And for everything else. I love you most of all.

It’s the first really cold day they’ve had all year.

The wind is blowing ice pellets around the dry ground and whipping the tree limbs back and forth as Nina takes her place in the circle drive pick up line.

She doesn’t mind the cold, not really, prefers it to the sweltering heat of August and September. Would rather lose feeling in her toes and fingers than have rivers of sweat running down her back for the next hour.

But she’s lost her mittens. Somewhere in the shuffle of moving to her new (much bigger, much nicer) history room after the ancient tenured department head had retired at the end of last year, Nina’s thick woolen mittens with the hole at the wrist had disappeared.

And of course she’s only just now noticing it when it’s subarctic outside and her hands have gone instantly numb.

Still, there’s no time to fret about it now. She waves the cars into place with as brave a face as she can muster, watches as Brooke directs traffic in the two pick up lines, smiles at Vanjie trying to pretend she isn’t distracted by the students when she’s supposed to be calling names and reminding them to stay off the ramp, Timothy! It’s covered in ice!

But there’s Monét, who’s controlling the traffic in the front line, standing just beside Brooke. She’s wearing a puzzled expression and keeps glancing over at Nina.

Nina tries not to let it bother her. She and Monét have struck up a friendship (their rooms are right across the hall from each other), and she’s sure Monet’s puzzlement has nothing to do with her.

Theirs is a good duty team. Everyone says so. Brooke is quick and efficient. The kids adore Vanessa, so they listen to her. Monét is friendly, but imposing, and Nina’s been doing this for so long she thinks she could do it in her sleep. They have the fastest times out of anyone in the school (not that Nina keeps track of that sort of thing with a little sense of pride), and they work well together. So the last thing Nina wants to do is ask Monét uncomfortable questions and throw off that balance. They just gel. Just click. It just works.

When the last car pulls away for the day, Monét holds the back door open for all of them. Brooke and Vanessa go in first, Brooke chuckling at a joke meant just for her. Nina rolls her eyes. It’s so obvious to everyone but them.

“Where are your gloves, Nina West?” Monét asks incredulously as Nina ducks under her outstretched arm and steps into the warmth of the building.

Nina shivers as she sheds her ice-covered coat. Her fingers are shriveled and pink, numb and stiff.

“Lost them in the move,” she says with a shrug. “Have to pick up a new pair the next time I’m out.”

Monét strips off her own mittens (which look thick and woolen and extremely cozy, Nina notes), grabs Nina’s hands in her own, and rubs them between hers.

The purpose, she knows, is to warm Nina’s hands, which it does, but it also lights a fire in her chest, speeds up her heart, just all kinds of inappropriate things to be happening at school of all places.

She’s known there were feelings for her coworker simmering slowly under the surface. She’s known. But she’s done her best to stay professional, to stay secretive. She doesn’t even know if Monét likes women or not, and besides, there are enough couples at the school already without adding one more to the list.

Which is why she hasn’t said a word to anyone—not even Brooke—about this tiny, little, fledgling crush she has on Monét.

But here they are, standing in the middle of the back hallway, practically holding hands in front of god and everyone, and Nina’s heart is racing and her knees are weak, and she could just tiptoe up and lean forward and—

She’s definitely been watching too many Hallmark movies. Cool it, girl.

Monét rubs her hands until she’s satisfied with their appearance (and feeling, Nina guesses), then turns them loose.

“Good as new. Can’t have our history teacher with no hands.” She winks. “That would be a tragedy.“

Nina swallows thickly. “Right. Thanks.” She immediately wants to die. Because that wink? Was that flirting? Was that just Monét being Monét? Either way, she’s gone and fucked it up by being awkward (what else is new).

They walk back to their classrooms in awkward silence and Nina slumps at her desk to finish grading the stack of quizzes she needs to enter before she can leave for the day. She’d put it off until Monday, but it’s not like she has anyone waiting for her at home.

Monét pokes her head in around five o’clock. “You staying all night?”

Nina shrugs. “Just until I finish these.” She motions to the stack of quizzes. She guesses she’s about halfway through; it’s maybe another thirty minutes of work if she had to guess. “You’re here late.”

“Essays,” Monét says with a roll of her eyes and she sashays across Nina’s room and perches herself right there on the corner of Nina’s desk. Like she’s comfortable there. Like she belongs. “I said I’d mark one class per day. I finished first period, so now I’m going home to have some wine and takeout and maybe a hot soak in my tub.”

Nina’s breath catches in her throat at the idea of Monét’s long body spread out in a bathtub, so she coughs softly. “That sounds lovely.”

“Don’t stay too long,” Monét says, pushing herself off the edge of Nina’s desk. “It’s Friday. Have some wine. Take a bath. Do something that makes you happy.”

Nina leaves half the quizzes ungraded on her desk (she’ll finish them Monday), grabs some pasta and a salad from her favorite Italian place, and opens a bottle of wine she’s been saving for a special occasion.

She draws herself the hottest, bubbliest bath she can stand, lights every candle she owns and places them around her bathroom, drinks the entire bottle of wine, and touches herself until she comes with Monét’s name on her lips.

The package is tied up in mint green tissue paper and secured with a purple ribbon. It’s sitting in Nina’s mailbox when she goes into the lounge to deposit her lunch and check her mail on Monday morning.

Brooke is with her, sipping her coffee and complaining about her students’ test scores from the week before, and she barely notices the incredulous look on Nina’s face when she removes the gift from her box.

“What’s that?” Brooke asks.

Nina shrugs. “I don’t… I’m not sure. Probably not meant for me.”

Brooke turns over the tag attached to the top of the ribbon. “Nope. Nina West. Says so right there. No sender name, though.”

Nina just stares at it in her hand. It’s not heavy at all, it doesn’t rattle or shake. And no one’s ever put a gift in her mailbox before.

Brooke rolls her eyes. “Are you going to open it?”

“No one knows that mint and eggplant are my two favorite colors. No one but you.”

“Don’t look at me,” Brooke counters, holding up her hands. “I didn’t put it in your mailbox. I’d just hand it to you. And I sure as hell wouldn’t wrap it. I’m not that thoughtful.”

Nina smiles, but the joke does little to assuage the anxiety she has over this gift. It’s a prank. A joke. Has to be. She’ll ignore it.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

But there’s the matter of Brooke standing right there. Brooke, who’ll never let her live this down. Who’ll never let her just pretend like it didn’t happen. The blonde’s green eyes are wide and expectant as Nina pulls the ribbon from its perfect bow.

“It’s too early for shit like this,” she mumbles as she unties the ribbon, fully expecting to see gift-wrapped cotton swabs or gauze pads or tampons (Why is she like this? No one’s picked on her in years. She’s well-liked at school, by the students and faculty. Old wounds cut deep.)

She takes in a deep breath. There, sitting in the mint green tissue paper, is the most gorgeous set of mittens she’s ever seen. They’re cream-colored, thick, and woolen, and there’s a tiny hand-sewn tag on the inside of the left cuff that reads, “hand knit with love for you.”

“Whoa.” Brooke’s jaw drops. “Looks like someone’s got it bad for Miss West.”

Nina shakes her head. “No, it’s not… Come on.”

“Hand-knit mittens?” Brooke tsks. “Sounds a lot like love. But you already have some. I’ll take these.” She grabs for them playfully, probably just to gauge Nina’s reaction, and damn it all to hell, Nina pulls them to her shoulder protectively.

“I lost mine,” Nina explains, “when I moved rooms this summer, but no one knows that except—“

Monét.

Monét knows that she lost her mittens in her move.

And suddenly the moment between them in the hallway, Nina’s frozen hands clasped between Monét’s warm ones, the thick cobalt blue gloves she’d pulled off before taking Nina’s fingers in her own. The wink. It’s all - just - a lot for her to deal with.

“I have to go,” Nina says quietly, folding the tissue paper back over the mittens and clasping them tightly in her hand.

Nina ignores Brooke’s raised eyebrows and wry grin as she leaves the lounge. No time to deal with her today.

Nina marches down the hallway (she thinks she’s marching; she’s probably stumbling, to be honest, tripping over her own love-sick feet) and stops at Monét’s door.

The woman is bent over her laptop, reading glasses on, blonde finger waves perfectly styled, and red lips painted on precisely just like every morning. Like every day that Nina’s seen her and fallen just a little harder.

“Ms. Change,” she chokes out through her thick mouth, clinging to the door frame for support. “Monét…” She tries again, a little softer, and it’s that one that gets the English teacher’s attention.

Monét looks up, spots the mittens in Nina’s hand, and her cheeks darken under her blush. “Uhh. You found it. How did you—”

“You’re the only one who knew I lost mine,” Nina says simply.

Monét stands and they meet in the middle of the room and it feels like the world is spinning spinning spinning—

“Thank you. They’re gorgeous.”

Monét shrugs. “Can’t have a hands-less history teacher. Especially not one that I…” She chuckles, tugs on the pearl earring in her lobe. “Well, one that I’d very much like to take to dinner on Friday night. If you’re willing?”

There’s a pause in Nina’s heartbeat. Monét’s usually confident exterior falters for a moment, but her brown eyes are so wide and bright that Nina can’t look away.

“I’d love that,” she rasps out. And they smile together, and Monét reaches out and grasps Nina’s wrist, and Nina bites her lip and wants so badly for Monét to kiss her.

“Friday,” Monét says, like they won’t see each other every day until then, like they haven’t been building this up since August when Monét came to lunch on that first day of professional development and sat across the table from Nina and stole her breath away.

Nina nods. “Can’t wait.”

Monét squeezes Nina’s wrist, brings it tentatively to her lips and presses a feather-light kiss to the pulse point there. Nina feels like she might just faint if it weren’t for Monét anchoring her to the ground. Then she lets go, drops her hand just as the first period bell sounds. Nina cradles it to her chest.

“Take care of those hands, Miss West,” Monét says with a wink. “I have plans for them.”

And sure, she might mean holding or romantic palm line tracing, but Nina hopes (wishes) that it’s a little more brazen than that.

If Monét can warm her hands up that quickly with friction, she’s excited to see what Monét can do with the rest of her.

#rpdr fanfiction #ninex #nina west #monet x change #meggie #teachers au #lesbian au #ficmas #day 14: mittens #submission

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swanboulet · 6 years

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middle of the winter with so far to go | trixya | 5.4k, 1/?, (M)

He hasn’t skated in days. A week, perhaps. Katya may or may not have lost track of time two time changes and three cities ago. But he’s here, boots laced tight and blades freshly sharpened, looking out into a rink he’s never stepped on before and ready to go. As ready as he’ll ever be. or: the male figure skating AU no one ever asked for, in which skating away from your emotions is way easier than dealing with them

read it here on AO3 and yell at me there. it might be on AQ eventually but AO3 is your safest bet.

#trixya #trixie/katya #writing tag

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mock-star-aq · 5 years

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Sugar Rush: A Trixya fic.

As some of you may know, I participated in the @rpdrficexchange this year, and I drew ….......

Dymphna from @tropicaldepressionkatya !!!!! Happy Holidays darling! I’m not a huge huge fan of Trixya, but I tried and hopefully did them justice!.This is a cute little moment during a snowy day when one must make their own fun.The opinions and preferences reflected in this fic are made up for the purposes of this fic and do not reflect the opinions and preferences of the writer and may not reflect the opinions and preferences of the subjects.

One snowy day in late December, Trixie and Katya were snowed in their apartment. Attempts to go outside were foiled by bitter cold and raging snow. So they watched Netflix and cuddled and “chilled” and joked and played games and scrolled through social media, but they were getting bored.

“I think I’m going to make some hot chocolate, do you want some?” Katya asked, untangling herself from the blankets on the couch and walking to the kitchen, desperate for something to do.

“Eh, why not?” Trixie said, getting up herself. “I’ll get the powder and you can heat up the milk.” She walked over to the pantry and dug out their many containers of hot chocolate mix as Katya turned on the throther with a maniacal laugh, making fancy milk that would make for fancy hot chocolate.

“Dark Chocolate or Double Chocolate?” Trixie called, holding out both containers of mix.

“Both of them!” Katya said, and Trixie could see the beginnings of a sugar rush and eventual crash, but Katya did usually make tasty decisions about sweets, so she relented, grabbing mugs and splitting one pack of each between them. Katya walked over and poured milk into the cups with peppermint stirrers in her hands, she stirred the hot chocolate with them, and Trixie’s stomach hurt just looking at it, but she figured she could just take Pepto Bismol later. Katya grabbed a bag of marshmallows and dumped a handful on one of the cups before handing the bag to Trixie and adding a generous dollop of whipped creme on to it. Trixie set the bag down and held her hand out for the whipped creme, which Katya gave to her.

“No marshmallows?” Katya asked, sprinkling chocolate shavings all over the top of her whipped creme.

“No thank you, I don’t like marshmallows.” Trixie answered, shaking the can. She almost dropped it when Katya let out a loud yell.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T LIKE MARSHMALLOWS?!” Katya screeched, “MARSHMALLOWS ARE FLUFFY GIFTS FROM GOD!!!”

“Marshmallows are sticky, flavorless blobs of gelatin. I’ve tried them before Kat, I’ve just never liked them. Not even the flavored ones.” Trixie said, topping her hot chocolate with whipped creme.

“So you don’t like Smores? Or Rice Krispy Treats? Or Lucky Charms? Or Peeps?”

“Oh god no. Definitely not Peeps, those are the work of the devil. Rice Krispy Treats are OK sometimes, especially if they’re covered in chocolate or sprinkles or they’re Mickey shaped. But no, I’ve never been a fan of Smores or Lucky Charms.”

“Well that’s something, you at least like Rice Krispy Treats.” Katya said, popping some mini marshmallows into her mouth.

“If Marshmallows are an ingredient in something, then that’s different, I just don’t like them on their own or as a topping. They have to be fully integrated.”

“I guess that’s fair. More for me then!”

“More for you, I will stick with whipped cream on my hot chocolate, thank you very much.” She opened her mouth and squirted some whipped creme inside. She smiled at Katya through her mouthful as Katya squirted some whipped creme inside her own mouth.

“I will take some of these chocolate shavings though.” She said, reaching for the container as Katya added sprinkles to her hot chocolate, and Trixie’s teeth hurt just looking at her creation.

“That looks overly sweet, are you trying to give yourself diabetes?”

“What can I say, I prefer drinking my calories, both good and bad.” Katya said, finally taking a sip out of her mug, getting whipped creme on her nose. “Yummmm, those marshmallows really hit the spot.” She declared as Trixie rolled her eyes and tried her own hot chocolate. It tasted really good, if a bit too sweet.

“Lets go and sit down with these.” She suggested, and Katya nodded, adding more whipped creme to the top. “And you are drinking water next! Good god, you’re going to have a stomach ache later!”

“Worth it!” Katya sung as they walked back into the living room. “I don’t intend on living forever anyway!”

Trixie rolled her eyes and sat down next to Katya as they nursed their drinks. Sure enough, once the sugar rush hit, Katya was bouncing off the walls like a maniac, unfortunate when they were snowed in. All Trixie could do was wait for Katya to hit a wall, which came just as suddenly as the rush did, and she curled up on the couch and rested her head on Trixie’s lap, falling asleep quickly. Trixie just rolled her eyes and counted it up to another one of Katya’s antics. When she woke up, she would swear off that much sugar again, until a few weeks or months later when she got a craving, then she’d indulge and the cycle would start again. It happened more times than Trixie could count. Katya could be a crazy weirdo sometimes. But she was HER crazy weirdo. And they were stuck with each other, much like those godforsaken marshmallows in the dredges of Katya’s cup. Which would probably harden before they got a chance to wash it. And then they would have to soak it, and Trixie would make Katya scrape out the cup. Because she’s the one who likes marshmallows. Not Trixie.

Katya suddenly snored loudly, adjusting as she snuggled closer to Trixie. When she was awake, she wouldn’t even think about showing vulnerability like this, but when she was asleep, she would become super clingy, to the point of being suffocating. It was annoying when Trixie was trying to sleep, but right now, it was actually kinda cute, the fact that she was quiet was a bonus. Trixie sipped on the last little bit of her hot chocolate as the sun set behind them. The snow hadn’t let up at all, so they would be stuck again tomorrow. Trixie briefly wondered what antics tomorrow would bring. With Katya, one never knew. Life wasn’t boring when you loved Kayta, and Trixie liked it that way.

#rpdrficexchange #trixya #fic exchange #fluff #christmas fic

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mamazamo · 6 years

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Hi everyone! We probably all have our standby favorite Trixya fics, but there’s nothing quite like subscribing to in-progress fics & yelping with excitement when you get the new chapter has been posted email. In case y’all love that feeling as much as I do, I thought I’d rec a few in-progress Trixya fics that have been giving me life lately!

(If anyone has Tumblr links to anyone I couldn’t find, let me know!)

“Banana Bread” by gayswampwitch — I’m mildly obsessed with this fic, I’m gonna be real with y’all. Trixie works at a record store; Katya works at the Apple Store, & her main hobby seems to be pestering Trixie for her own amusement. Trixie absolutely can’t stand Katya until… she can. Hilariously stupid & in-character Katya, exasperated & confused Trixie, & a cast of characters including Hot Topic DeLa, & lemonade stand clerk Violet round out this universe. The dialogue here has made me legitimately laugh out loud multiple times!

“Hold Me Tightly, Break My Bones” by gambinoisgrown — Anxious, high-strung ER doctor Katya messes around on Tinder & ends up having her life changed— or so it seems— by a much younger recent college grad Trixie. The connection between them is quick & intense, & woooooo, lemme tell you, the smut matches that intensity. Has a fic ever made you want to spring for a toy on your own wishlist? This one will.

“(You Drive Me) Crazy” by trixiespixies — Katya is the star quarterback on her college football team; Trixie is a dancer. The ideological tension between them boils over to pure old fashioned sexual tension— two useless lesbians who are also both huge smart asses & huge flirts battling with each other for dominance.

“Wish I’d Known You Then” by mattepinkallshades — Katya, dealing with the fallout of relationship drama, escapes to a country summer house. She stumbles across a horse ranch operated by a bunch of women— particularly queer women— & spearheaded by one particular stubborn, controlling blonde (& owned by Tammie Brown!). Trying to break through Trixie’s icy, hard to read exterior, Katya has to grapple with not only her own past relationship, but Trixie’s strange relationship history, as well.

“No Witnesses” by SayYouDontKnow — Katya’s struggling not only with her past & her faith, but with the fact that she’s found herself homeless. Upon setting foot in a random church, she meets uber-Christian “good girl” Trixie, who works there. She takes it upon herself to try & help Katya with her circumstances, & their friendship slowly builds to both of them questioning what they want from God, as well as from each other.

“All the Things She Said” by HeartHarps — Katya is a sportswriter at a Buzzfeed-like digital news company; Trixie is a music writer. When Katya has relationship trouble with her boyfriend, her co-worker is there to lend an ear. Eventually, Trixie starts to flex her networking muscles to find excuses to get closer to Katya, who’s just now realizing she might be falling for her. They’re struggling to read one another’s signals, & the angst is high!

“But With a Whimper” by thesemovingparts — This post-apocalyptic story has just started, but I’m intrigued! Ex-real estate agent Katya’s been living off the grid in a remote cabin with minimal resources when ex-teacher Trixie stumbles across the cabin in the middle of a snowstorm. Will we find out what happened to the world? How many others survived? Is there a way for Trixie & Katya to thrive in this depleted realm, or are they doomed?

“The Contest” by pinktrixie — This fic is based off of the Seinfeld episode “The Contest.” Platonic best friends Trixie & Katya engage in a bet to see who can go the longest without getting themselves off— the stakes being who has to do the other’s laundry. Everyone around them seems to realize they’re into one another… except the two of them. The idea of each other’s sex lives being constantly at the forefront of their minds stirs up angst, jealousy, & arousal in both Trixie & Katya.

& I’m gonna shamelessly rec my two in-progress fics because hey, maybe you’ll like them, too!

“Domestic Dame, Shaken or Stirred” by mamazamo — Katya is a stressed out art gallery owner & single mom to a six-year-old daughter; Trixie is her daughter’s dance teacher. When the two of them find themselves drawn to one another, together, they deal with Trixie’s anxiety about her sexuality & both of their traumatic pasts, as well as the sometimes-comedic struggles of dating with a kid in the mix. Things are getting serious (& seriously dirty!) between the two of ‘em at this point.

“No Flowers” by mamazamo — Trixie is 24 & struggling to pay her bills, thanks to a dead-end job; Katya is 39 & has more money than she knows what to do with. When Katya needs a fake girlfriend to get her family off her back, the two become business partners (in Katya’s words) in order to help one another out. I’ve just started it, but be on the lookout for sugar mama/sugar baby dynamics, fake girlfriends, cute skiing babes, & all the smut you can handle!

#trixya #fanfiction #fanfic #rec list #ao3

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katyahzamo · 6 years

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Whoever gets the full video of the Trixya panel eventually will you please hook the girl up? Thank you

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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How Far I'll Go - Chapter 1 (Nina West/Monet X Change) - Meggie, Mia Ugly

A/N: Nina West gets the redemptive musical love story he deserves.

Chapter 1 - chase anything that glitters

The finale is over, and Nina West is drinking alone.

Well not - alone alone. Clearly. He’s in a bar that’s packed to standing room only with queens from all the seasons, as well as the World of Wonder and VH1 employees that managed to get tickets. The after-party and the after-after-party have been going strong for hours, and Nina has been bubbly and humble and as charming as he possibly can be after spending this long in a corset. (He has a bit of a meltdown when he meets Latrice but that was a long time coming. Like ten literal years in the making.)

But eventually the day catches up with him, and the constant smile starts to crack like a windshield, and Nina finds himself sitting at the bar alone. Which is okay. He’s exhausted, and the arches of his feet ache, and if he has to answer one more question about Branjie he might clench his teeth so hard he cracks a molar.

So he may not be alone alone, but he’s alone in a way he can feel (in his hands, his ribs, his heart).

Even then, he’s not alone for long.

“Hey there, Miss Congeniality.” Monet X Change slides up to him at the bar, looking like he was dipped in honey. “Werk. Congratulations girl.”

“Thank you.” Nina would ordinarily be beyond intimidated to meet the latest AllStars winner, a dream of his ever since Monet was crowned. But tonight, after the finale and the hours of making small-talk, Nina’s feeling so much that there’s no room beneath his skin for anything else. His whole body is vibrating. “You look fantastic.”

“You too. Giving me paper doll realness, honey. And I am living for this colour.” Monet’s smile is a bit soft around the edges, and there’s a glass of champagne in his hand. He sings a line from that Janelle Monae song Nina loves: “Pink like the holes in your heart… So how you feeling?”

“Good,” Nina says, even though that word does not come close to the truth of it. “Great. It’s been such an honour -”

“Listen to you, all congenial. Miss me with those sound-bites, girl. How you really feeling?”

“Nina - we’re taking off,” A’Keria interrupts before Nina can answer, hand resting gently on Nina’s shoulder. Slightly behind him stands Vanjie, arms crossed protectively around himself. He’s smiling at Nina, but it doesn’t quite match his eyes.

“Gotta get my beauty sleep,” Vanjie mutters. “Plus I ain’t see no trade in here - present company excepted, course.”

He comes forward to kiss Nina on both cheeks. “Tell your girl not to go home with no serial killers.”

Vanjie nods toward the far corner of of the crowded bar, and he and A’Keria walk off to where Silky is waiting for them by the doors. When Nina follows the direction of Vanjie’s nod, he sees Brooke with a cocktail in his hand, close-talking with a lumberjack-looking hipster that Nina doesn’t recognize.

Shit. Poor Vanjie.

It’s one thing to be cool with each other, to be friends. It’s another thing entirely to watch Brooke move on.

Nina winces out a smile. His heart aches for Vanessa. His heart aches for absolutely no other reason.

When Nina turns back to Monet, the other queen is watching him closely, eyebrow raised.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“What? Oh! Them? Yeah, too bad it didn’t work out. They were basically adorable and the fans -”

“Nah, nah, not that.” Monet finishes his champagne. “What’s your deal with, uh - tall, blonde and emotionally constipated over there? You and Brooke weren’t ever -”

“God, no. No. Not like - that.” People that look like me don’t end up with people that look like him, he hears a voice in the back of his mind whisper. He hates that voice, paper soft and sinister. He’s heard it before, thought he’d kicked it to the curb and left it behind after his college days, but it followed along in his shadow. (Sometimes Nina feels like no matter how far he’s come, there are stories that travel with him.) “We like - once.”

“Once? Once what? I fucking knew it by the way.”

“Just kissed. Messed around. It was nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Monet snags two new glasses of champagne from a passing server. He puts one down in front of Nina, and drains half of the other in one swallow. “I see you, girl. You might be pretty in pink but those shoulders don’t lie. All slumped over.”

Deny, deny, deny. That was Nina’s first rule. The whole Brooke thing was years ago, anyway, and that particular wound has long scarred over. Maybe there was a moment on that first day of Drag Race where Nina thought that this was some sort of sign (he does that sometimes, forgets that this is real life and not a romantic comedy or Disney film) but - it’s in the past.

“We’re friends,” Nina says simply.

“Great,” Monet says in a tone that clearly states he doesn’t believe a word Nina is saying. “Well then. Tequila?”

They end up shutting down the bar. That’s not something Nina does often - or, like, ever. When he’s at the club he is at work, he is fundraising, or shaking hands and making connections, or getting petitions signed, forcing all the trendy apolitical gays to give a damn about something.

He is not sitting with queens in sunshine-yellow dresses, ignoring the rest of the world while getting slowly wasted on tequila and laughing so hard his makeup runs.

Monet is fucking funny. Nina knew he was funny, loved him on both seasons, but it’s different up close. When Monet starts reading the queens in the room Maya Angelou-style, Nina almost falls off his stool.

At some point Brooke and whoever he’s going home with come to say goodbye (Brooke wraps his arms around Nina, says “I love you, love you, love you,” three times against his jaw). Nina can smell the cigarette smoke on his breath, the whisky on his mouth.

“Love you too,” Nina says, only a little bit worried.

As Brooke drags his skinny lumberjack away, Nina hears him slur something that sounds like “gotta find Vanjie before we leave.” That’s going to be a long and fruitless search, but Nina leaves him to it. He watches the pair go (pretends that he isn’t).

It may be an old scar, but old scars still ache from time to time. This one does. Smarts. Worms its way into Nina’s heart like tendrils, squeezes tight, compresses. He knows it’s platonic love he and Brooke share, but there was a time, before Vanjie but during Drag Race when maybe for a minute he thought— Stop.

If Vanessa Vanjie Matteo wasn’t good enough for Brooke, then the rest of the world hasn’t got a hope in hell.

“What are you doing after this, Nina West?”

All thoughts of Brooke aside (still rolling just under the surface), Nina likes the way Monet says his first and last name together. He likes that kitty-cat wig with the finger waves that Monet is wearing, looking like Clara Bow in some black and white film. He likes a lot of things right now, but unlike Brooke, Nina is drunk.

“What am I doing? Back to Columbus for a bit. Hosting a finale party and then… and then. Then the tour! Yes, that.”

“Did you just forget about your own tour?” Monet laughs, low and delighted. “Girl, you’re in trouble.”

“So much trouble,” Nina confides, reaching out to put a hand on Monet’s arm. “Just - scads of it.”

“‘Scads?’” Monet laughs again, “You age one-hundred years every time you drink?”

“Every time!”

Monet shakes his head, rolling his eyes a bit (but not in a mean way. In kind of a charming way. Nina likes a lot of things right now.)

“I didn’t mean after the show is over. I meant - like tonight. What are you doing after this?”

“Oh.” Nina blinks. This can’t be - “Oh.”

“You want to get out of here?” Monet is watching him with dark-lidded eyes, no laughter on his face any more. His lips part, and Nina stares at his purple lipstick and thinks yes and then a beat later please. Because he is a gentleman.

“I’m drunk,” Nina says in the spirit of full disclosure.

“You think I’ve got some miracle liver? Me too. I’m fine with it if you are.”

“Okay.” If they’re both drunk it’s fine. As long as they - talk about it first. It’s fine. “Um. Okay.” Nina realizes he hasn’t moved his hand off of Monet’s arm. Now that he notices, it’s all he can think about.

How does someone do this? Should they leave at the same time? Separate times? The lights in the bar are coming on, and the last few stragglers are starting to go. Most of the girls from Season 11 have already left, God knows how long ago. Nina didn’t even notice.

“I’m in room 1518,” Monet thankfully interrupts Nina’s panic. “You should come by.” He moves his arm out from underneath Nina’s fingertips, and Nina instantly misses the warmth of his skin. Monet grabs his clutch, weaves out of the bar without a backwards glance, and Nina takes a few moments to jump headfirst back into that panic spiral.

He hasn’t done something like this in - a very long time. He isn’t really a casual sex kind of person. He won’t say no to it, obviously, but - it’s been awhile.

He’s been busy.

Come on, girl, he tells himself, just act like people proposition you in bars everyday. Just act like this is a totally normal thing that you do, because you are a normal person.

Nina waits and panics for another ten minutes, before he gets up from his stool like a normal person would. He casually, elegantly (not at all unsteady on his heels) leaves the bar. Normally. He takes the elevator alone, in silence, to the fifteenth floor.

His knock on room 1518 is so hesitant that it’s basically inaudible. No one hears it and he’s forced to knock again. He waits in the brightly lit hallway, feeling like a football player in pink, until the door opens.

Monet’s holding a makeup wipe, and his face is shining, paint off. He’s changed out of his dress, taken off his padding. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and Nina immediately feels like an idiot.

“Oh,” Monet says, “You’re still in - all that.”

Shit. Fuck. “I - yes. Sorry. I should have -”

“No, I -” Monet takes a step closer. “Told you I was living for that colour.”

Then he puts his hands on either side of Nina’s face and kisses him.

It’s a good kiss. Warm and tasting a bit like mint (Monet must have brushed his teeth). Monet’s lips are soft and gentle, grasping Nina’s own as if he doesn’t mind the taste of tequila and anxiety. He doesn’t make any attempt to deepen things - keeps the kiss sweet, keeps his hands on Nina’s face. His hands are warm too.

“You wanna come in?” Monet asks when he pulls back, and Nina has forgotten how to make words happen. So he just nods. Lets Monet pull him forward gently, close the door behind him.

They start kissing again right away, just standing there in the middle of the room. Nina loses himself a bit in it, closes his eyes and lets the tequila do the thinking for him. He sucks Monet’s tongue into his mouth and Monet lets out a soft gasp that - yeah, that’ll work. Now that tongues are involved, the kissing gets harder, nothing tentative about it. Teeth pull on Nina’s lower lip, the edge of his jaw, tease their way down his neck. It’s good. It feels good, and he has to bite his mouth shut to stop himself from saying as much out loud.

Monet pulls away suddenly, and Nina just stares at him. He wobbles slightly, and steps out of his heels before he falls down.

“You’re probably still all - strapped in, hey?” Monet’s eyes are a bit unfocused, moving over Nina’s face. “Do you want to change? Take your paint off? I should have asked.”

Nina feels like an idiot again. Why the hell didn’t he go to his room first?

“Thanks. I’ll just -” He gestures to the bathroom, and Monet gives him a look.

“I’ve seen it all, girl. Let me get your zipper for you.”

Nina’s lips sting and his heart is racing. Getting out of drag in front of someone kind of kills the mystery. Not that Nina feels his body is any great piece of artwork to be slowly revealed but it’s not really a sexy process. Maybe it’s different when you look like Aquaria or Yvie or something but - Nina’s album is called “Drag is Magic” for a reason.

Despite all of this (blame the tequila just - always, for everything) he turns around.

Moves his wig to the side so that Monet can slide the zipper of his dress down his spine. It makes goosebumps break out all over Nina’s arms, and the dress falls to the floor. When Nina turns back around to pick it up, Monet is still standing there, a bit closer than before. They look at each other. Monet reaches forward to take off each of Nina’s massive crystal earrings, putting them carefully on the nightstand.

Nina just - stands there. Stands there as Monet unhooks his cincher, rolls his hip-pads down his legs, takes his tights along with them. Stands there as Monet drops to his knees in front of Nina, gently pulling down his underwear.

The dress was loose enough the Nina didn’t need to tape anything or do much of a tuck, and he’s fucking grateful for that. Still, as he glances down at himself, he sees a body covered with angry red lines, places where shapewear dug into his skin, all the illusion of his silhouette stripped away.

“You’re so hot,” Monet murmurs and Nina cannot hear that sort of thing right now, is totally not ready for it.

“Thanks?” he says and Monet breathes a laugh against his thigh before dragging his tongue across Nina’s hip.

“This okay?”

Nina nods, can’t speak. He’s harder than he thought he could be after the amount he had to drink, and Monet’s hands (tracing up his thighs, moving between his legs) are so warm, and strong, and soft. When Monet bends forward and sucks him into his mouth, Nina gasps, back arching as he tries not to come immediately. Everything is impossibly tight and wet, and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to remain upright. He puts an unsteady hand on Monet’s shoulder, and Monet reaches up, moves Nina’s hand to the back of his head. There’s stubble under Nina’s fingertips, and the soft sounds of Monet swallowing around him fill the room (along with Nina’s own frantic breathing).

“You taste fucking amazing,” Monet murmurs, dragging his tongue up the length of him and moaning. “Christ, I - bed, the bed, please -”

Nina stumbles backwards, falling onto the scratchy hotel comforter in a graceless sprawl. Monet is pulling off his shirt one-handed and then quickly climbing on top of him. His hand is on Nina’s cock and he’s grinding his hips into Nina’s thigh, and he’s kissing him again, hard and deep, like he’s starving. Nina can’t remember being with anyone who wanted to kiss him this much. It’s intoxicating, makes him feel something - he can’t put a label to it but it takes up too much room inside his chest.

“Can you just -” Monet bites out against Nina’s lips, and Nina pushes his hand past the waistband of Monet’s sweats, finds his cock hard and wet against his palm. Monet makes such a delicious noise at the first stroke of Nina’s hand that Nina can’t be blamed for the sounds he makes in response.

It goes like this for awhile, the two of them fucking each other’s fists and breathing into each other’s mouths. It’s quiet in the room except for cut-off moans and huffs of breath, and Nina lets his body take the lead in this, lets himself move and feel without thinking about it (tequila is a godsend).

When Monet comes it is nearly silent, just a stutter in his breath and a few sharp jerks of his hips and Nina’s hand is suddenly wet and trembling. It’s the hottest thing that’s happened to him in - in a long time - and he buries his face in Monet’s neck, goes somewhere else for an orgasm (“okay - okay - Oh fuck -”) that lasts longer than he expects it to, almost on the edge of too much.

Breathe.

In. Out.

“Fuck me up, Nina West,” Monet says against his neck, with a low gorgeous sigh. Nina lies back against the pillows, and realizes that Monet’s mouth is smeared with pink lipstick. It makes him huff out a tipsy laugh, which makes Monet smile with his eyes closed.

“Did you know you’re still in your wig?”

Oh my fucking God.

Nina is - still IN HIS WIG. His fucking bubblegum pink wig. He doesn’t know how to react to this knowledge, so he makes a mortifying sound that might be a laugh and might be a cough and might be someone choking.

It’s okay (he thinks) because Monet laughs too, covering his face with his hands, hiding that gorgeous smile. When Monet’s recovered himself, he leans over and starts to take the pins out of Nina’s hair, and Nina blushes for God knows what reason. As the wig slides off his head, Monet kisses him right above the pulse point in his jaw.

Things get foggy after that. The room is spinning slightly, and Nina isn’t sure whether that’s exhaustion or alcohol or the absolutely boneless and beautiful feeling that follows excellent sex. He thinks he hears fireworks going off outside, but when he cranes his head towards the window, expecting a shower of fiery glitter, the sky is dark.

Nina closes his eyes for a moment, thirty seconds tops. When he opens them again the sky has gone from black to misty blue, and Monet’s mouth is between his legs.

“Oh my God, you’re -”

Nina stays awake just long enough to come down Monet’s throat and then suck the taste off Monet’s tongue as they make out messily afterwards. At some point Monet loses the rest of his clothing, and the silk of his skin against Nina’s is utterly unfair - how could anyone possibly live through this? How do people ever get out of bed if Monet is in bed with them? The pressure of Monet’s mouth is something criminal; Nina feels like he could kiss him for hours. Maybe he already has been; time is all messed up in this hotel room, unravelled like bad knitting (just ask Nina’s gran, she’ll tell you about it).

He falls back asleep with Monet’s face pressed against his collarbone, murmuring nonsense to his skin. Nina tells himself in five minutes he’ll get up, gather his clothing, and go. It’s not dawn yet, five minutes won’t hurt.

“Yousmellnice.” Monet’s words are slurred together and soft, mouth damp on Nina’s skin, and Nina only closes his eyes for five minutes.

He wakes with a pounding headache and a sense of regret that he’s pretty sure is caused by more than just the copious amounts of tequila he drank last night. And this bed… Is not his own, he’s pretty sure, at least not the hotel bed he’s been in for the last two nights while they got ready for the finale and the reunion and-

Oh.

An arm wraps around his waist, tightens around his midsection, pulls him close. Beside him, Monet sighs.

Monet.

Shit. Fuck. Jesus. God.

The night returns to him in flashes: Monet’s hands soft on his stomach, back, and thighs; Monet’s lips ghosting over his own, teeth against his lip and hip and-

Nina squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up in his own bed, in his own room, even back in Columbus surrounded by dogs and not a man would be preferable at this exact moment because this cannot have happened.

Casual sex with random trade in bars is okay. It’s - different - like he said before, and it’s been awhile. But he feels things too deeply, gets too attached - for it to be the norm. One kiss and he’s ready to tattoo their names on his goddamn wrist. (Hyperbolically speaking. Mostly. Except for that one time. But it was college and he was much younger, and thank God it had just been Sharpie.)

But this is… This is less than good. Monet is a Ru girl. A winner. A fellow Miss Congeniality, and one of Nina’s favorites and this… This is bad. (Potentially.) Probably. He’s almost sure. So he was feeling some kind of way about Brooke because of something that happened a gazillion years ago (and wasn’t going to turn into anything anyway, Nina, Jesus) and Monet had been there, golden yellow and luscious in those finger waves and that slit so high it should have been against the law, and he’d… Taken advantage of the situation. Too much tequila, not enough common sense. Isn’t that how every bad decision starts?

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose and expels it in a long, measured stream through his pursed lips because his heart is speeding up, and it won’t be long before he starts spiraling again.

And another. In. Out.

Another. In. Out.

“Hey.”

Nina’s breath catches in his throat at the sound of Monet’s voice and he coughs a little. Very cool. Very how you want your Drag Race-winning hook up to see you first thing in the morning. He prays he had the sense to take all his makeup off before… Whatever.

“Hello,” Nina says cautiously, like the situation isn’t real, ceases to exist if they just don’t acknowledge it. He grips the sheet tightly to his chest.

Monet chuckles, low and deep, sends rumbles through the mattress. Then he turns over and presses his glasses to his face, peering at the clock on the nightstand.

“Shit, girl,” he mutters, sliding the spectacles over his nose. “It’s noon. We already missed breakfast.”

Then Monet is out of bed, perfect ass on full display in front of Nina - and even bleary-eyed and hungover he can appreciate that - but he closes his eyes tightly. (He still sneaks two or five more peeks while Monet gets dressed, if he’s being honest.) It’s not going to happen again - can’t happen again - and he wants to remember it. Only so he can fully regret it later. He went to Catholic school after all. He’s very used to metaphorical self-flagellation. Yeah. It’s very that.

Monet steps into the bathroom, and Nina takes the opportunity to fully assess his clothing situation. He’d come in drag, which meant he has to leave in drag, which is not… Ideal. Because a hotel at noon on a Tuesday afternoon is going to be far more bustling than a hotel at five on a Tuesday morning, and he looks a lot different as Andrew in a dress than he does as Nina in full drag.

He drags a hand across his face and his palm comes away streaked with black. Fantastic. All this and he’d managed to sleep in his makeup.

So. He figures this is the bed he’s made and now he has to lie in it. If his room weren’t all the way down on the fifth floor, he’d just take the stairs. He’s far more likely to run into people on the elevator than on the stairs.

“You wanna grab lunch?” Monet asks him, toothbrush in hand, working back and forth across his impeccable teeth, white foam at the corner of his perfect mouth.

Everything about Monet is perfect. Which is half of why Nina can’t figure out (or believe) last night. It just doesn’t - work that way for him.

People like Monet (and Brooke, that nasty little voice in the back of his head reminds him) can have anyone they want. So why did Monet choose you, Nina West? Why Nina West? Fifth-runner up, pushing 40, pudgy, soft-spoken. He could have left with anyone last night and yet here you are. When does the other shoe drop?

“Look, I don’t know where you went just now,” Monet says after rinsing his mouth. “But no pressure. I just figure we both gotta eat and I know a place.” He shrugs.

If this had been - something other than what it had been - Nina would think this was a date. But it wasn’t. Because it was… Whatever it had been. He’s still not really sure of that. The tequila’s still making everything a little fuzzy. It’s not a date. Monet’s tone is too casual, too easy.

And people like him don’t date people like you.

“Um, sure,” he says before he can stop himself. Because he meant to say no. He was going to say no. Why didn’t he say no? Because he wanted to say yes, damn it. “But I should probably…” He gestures between the pile of pink on the floor and his face.

“Right!” Monet laughs, and Nina thinks he almost hears a hint of nerves in it. Like maybe this is awkward for him too. “Yeah, probably not the best idea to go out in day drag and last night’s makeup. Not the most comfortable…” Monet runs a hand over his bald head and sighs.

Oh, it’s awkward. Lovely. “Well.” Nina’s sitting up, still clutching the sheet to his chest, waiting, but for what he isn’t sure. It’s not like Monet hasn’t seen him intimately, so why is he acting like a fourteen-year-old undressing in gym class for the first time?

“I think I’m going to shower.” Monet points over his shoulder to the bathroom. “What room are you in? I’ll just come down and meet you.”

Nina nods, grateful. “Five-oh-nine.”

“Great.” Monet smiles and it looks genuine. The light reaches his eyes, his shoulders relax a little. “I’ll, um… Thirty minutes?”

“Sure.”

Then Monet waves a little and disappears into the bathroom, and Nina bolts out of bed and pulls on that damn pink dress faster than he thought possible. He grabs his wig in one hand and his heels in the other and takes off out the door. The whole thing probably takes less than a minute, and his dress isn’t zipped; but honestly he couldn’t care less. All he wants to do is get in the shower and scrub his body raw of the regret and shame and scent of tequila coming from his pores.

Monet’s room isn’t too far from the elevator - thankfully - and Nina jabs the button approximately eight times, even though he knows it won’t help anything. It makes him feel better.

The doors finally slide open and Nina wants to die. Prays for a chasm to open where the tiny slit between elevator and wall is so he can just step into it and bid his painful existence farewell. Because lined up along the back of the elevator, is the entire cast of the Dream Girls: Vanjie, A’Keria and Silky. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Vanjie’s texting frantically on his phone but his mouth gapes open as Nina steps into the elevator. The doors slide closed with a soft whoosh and Nina faces forward instantly, does his best impression of someone that doesn’t exist.

“Hello there, Miss Nina!” Silky is much too loud, and much too cheerful for the throbbing in Nina’s head. “Ain’t you looking well-rested this morning?”

Nina gives him a small, awkward salute over his shoulder, but can’t make himself turn around. Maybe the cable will snap, that would be okay. Death, at this point, would be a welcome distraction from the heat in Nina’s cheeks and embarrassment roiling in his stomach. Or maybe that’s the tequila again. Yeah, that’s the motto. Blame the tequila - for everything.

“We were going to lunch,” Vanjie says gently, “if you want to come.”

“You can shower first, we’ll wait,” Silky continues, “Gotta get that stank off you. We’ve all been there, walking back down to the room after getting some trade in the hotel—”

“Silk,” Vanjie hisses under his breath.

Nina just shakes his head and tries to focus on the numbers ticking by. “No, thanks,” he says as the numbers land on five and the doors slide open. “I think I’ll just order in.”

He’s out of the doors and feeling like he’s over the worst of it, when Silky’s parting comment hits him right between the shoulder blades.

“You walking funny, Miss Nina?” Silky whistles after him. “Must have got that good D.”

And that’s when Nina decides that he absolutely, positively cannot go to lunch with Monet. It can’t be done. Can’t happen. Cannot continue.

Whatever happened between them last night was fueled by alcohol and angst and they have to leave it there in the hotel. He makes his mind up definitively as he scrubs at his face under the shower spray.

If they’re going to work together (which Nina very much hopes they will because Monet is amazing - might be one of the funniest people Nina’s ever met, actually, as well as a brilliant musician and - and anyway that’s enough) they have to forget about last night.

So he will. And that starts with not going to lunch.

When Monet knocks on his door and calls his name, Nina doesn’t answer. It isn’t the most mature way to handle the situation, but he isn’t feeling incredibly mature in that moment. So he remains silent for the entire five minutes that Monet stands at his door (heart beating like a snare drum in his throat, shame burning across his cheekbones.)

Later, when he steps out in the hall to collect his room service (because he does have to eat, Monet wasn’t wrong), Nina finds his jewelry atop his neatly folded shape wear just outside his door. Monet’s phone number is printed neatly on a square of hotel stationery, speared through one of his earrings so it can’t get lost.

And maybe, Nina thinks later as he enters the digits into his phone illustrated with the yellow-heart emoji (so what if he’s sentimental?), he wishes he had been just a little more mature.

Or a little more brave.

He blames the tequila.

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wewouldbeheroes · 6 years

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I’m drunk nd u know I am!!!!!! But I love your fic s o much. Trixya are soup mates. They’ll find each other when they need to. Just bc people love other people doesn’t mean they won’t love each other eventually. I trust on the writing. I love that ur readers argue over that. You got the readers that you deserve. Everyone’s so active in their thoughts and I Love it it !!! Trixie and Katya forever 💝💝💝💝 ((butt I love Brianna sorry not sorry)) byeeee zxxx

God, I fucking love your dumb, drunk, gay ass. You’re so nice to me when you’re incoherent, sweetie! Hope you’re having a good time!

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diana-prince-s · 3 years

Text

Unfortunately for me (but fortunately for you all) I usually don’t sleep the night before I travel to school, which means that the next chapter of leave before you love me will likely be up between the hours of 1 am and 5am ET (if not definitely will be up when I’m in the car tomorrow). Until then, here’s some ~shameless plugs~ of my other fics to hold you over:

and no one likes to be alone — Denali is a bartender at De-Lux Nightclub and Rosé is a fuckboy singer who performs at the club. Denali has to remind herself repeatedly not to fuck with fuckboys (but eventually she does — cue 4,000 words of smut)

they who sing through the summer must dance in the winter — Pro skater Denali Foxx and snowboarder Rosé McCorkell find themselves drawn to each other at the Winter Olympics despite Denali’s insistence that she doesn’t want to be distracted

if you’re into Trixya, a dream is a soft place to land — y’all this fic is my baby and I’m so mad I haven’t finished it yet (one day). Trixie Mattel is twenty and pregnant; she’s on her own in LA, struggling to make ends meet, when she sees a casting call for the musical Waitress. Katya Zamolodchikova is about to give up on the LA theater scene and head to Broadway when she takes a chance on the desperate but intriguing young girl who shows up to audition for Waitress.

Okay thanks byeeeee

#drag race #rosenali #rosé #denali foxx #rosénali #rosenali fic #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #trixya fic #sorry if this was annoying

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avadaniels · 6 years

Text

notes: all the things she said

Table of Contents

Inspiration & Overview

Things this fic includes

Chapter Summaries

‘I thought this was about Buzzfeed!’

Anxiety

The Bold Type

“All the Things She Said”

“Moving Parts” and One Stone

Socialist Flower Power: Soviet Hippie Culture

Fashion References

Anxiety (spoilers)

“Moving Parts” (spoilers)

Read all the things she said here!

Inspiration & Overview

My philosophy about media and art and comedy is that everything is a product of everything that came before it, so I could literally list every Trixya fic I've read as inspiration for this. I do subconsciously pull elements from other people's stories, but I think everyone does. Consciously and unconsciously, this combined a whole bunch of things: wanting Katya to be the one with a dude who doesn’t know she’s gay, wanting Katya to be a nerd about Russian gymnasts, listening to One Stone on repeat, The Bold Type, my own struggles with anxiety and sexuality. I also sort of see this as a love letter to myself about listening to your body, connecting with the people around you, and not settling.

I’m just going to say it: this is not that good. I don’t know anything about L.A.. But it has a beginning (which I love) a middle and an end, three (3) whole smut scenes, jokes, gay shit, the works. If I was writing a novel to be published, I would make the themes and structure so much more consistent and yada yada yada… I love writing and a lot of this was hard to write but it’s also been very rewarding. So thank you for reading it!

Things this fic includes

(some elements of real life & some fun fanfic things)

Digital news outlet Everything.com (because i am what? creative)

Bob the music column editor

Alyssa Edwards and Blair St. Clair

Brianna Cracker liking baseball

Minimal Violet Chachki and Pearl, mentions of them together

Mentions of Kim Chi the beauty vlogger

Editor in chief RuPaul

Mentions of Ross Matthews the sports writer

'honey' unironically being Trixie's go-to pet name

Gratuitous explanations of things that aren't that important to the plot, just because I write like I'm transcribing a movie and I'm obsessed with operations & how things work

Katya's love for Russian gymnasts and studying video in college

Trixie's music, country music, current music likes, hippie fashion sense

Thorough depictions of anxiety and panic attacks

Throwaway original characters

Chapter Summaries

I wanted the chapter titles to be a line of dialogue that Trixie says when the chapter is written from Katya’s POV, and vice versa, to reflect the idea of “all the things she said,” but I couldn’t get some of them short enough to make sense. So I gave up and stuck them in the chapter summaries.

‘I thought this was about Buzzfeed!’

I did describe this as a 'Buzzfeed AU' occasionally without thinking too much about how people would interpret that. They're all writers for a digital news site—think less ‘Unsolved’ and more The Bold Type. If you want Trixie and Katya goofing off on camera UNHhhh style, there might be something in the works. The mores kudos and comments you leave, the more I write :) And that’s not a challenge! Just psychology!

Anxiety

The only other thing i’ll say about anxiety here is that it manifests in a way that people perhaps don’t usually associate with anxiety, but it makes sense to me, and I’ve tried to show how it works.

This section is continued with more detail below, but it does contain spoilers for the plot.

The Bold Type

I love this show! It’s about people who work at magazines and digital news outlets, so I took a lot of the operations of Everything.com from that.

“All the Things She Said”

“Ya Soshla S Uma” (or “All the Things She Said” in English) is a song by Russian pop duo t.A.T.u. about a gay awakening. The music video features the two women of the duo, who have never been in a relationship together and are not gay, dressed in schoolgirl uniforms and making out. The song has been released in Russian and English. You can see Katya recreate the video here and lipsync to it solo here (both with the Russian lyrics). Here is the English lyric video (that I used to jam to in 2012).

When I wanted to write Katya not knowing she was gay, I liked the idea of her obsessing over things that friendly neighbourhood lesbian Trixie Mattel said to her. All the things [Trixie] said, running through [Katya’s] head, as the song says. I ran with it.

“Moving Parts” and One Stone

I absolutely love “Moving Parts” and the idea behind it. Trixie presents it in a karmic way, that good and bad things literally move in and out of our lives. I think there are many real-life experiences that could be explained by this idea. I also believe it in more of a psychological sense that has to do with perception. I think we will always perceive good and bad, no matter how good our lives gets. We will always find something to complain about.

This section is continued with more detail below, but it does contain spoilers for the plot.

“Soldier”: I love this song. While writing the later chapters, I had to skip this song when it came on shuffle because I kept getting distracted by my emotions. This song is used in this fic, in exactly the way you would expect it to be used.

“Red Side of the Moon”: I love this song, and how similar the lyrics are to “Soldier” 👀 Anyways, I talk about Dolly Parton and Judy Ogle in the fic, only because I listened to this song and wanted to know what it was about.

Socialist Flower Power: Soviet Hippie Culture

This is a real exhibit at a real museum in LA right now. I described it as true to the real thing as I could. I think it works.

Fashion References

You probably know the outfits I’m referring to, but here they are anyways, in order of appearance. I literally spent two hours just looking at Trixie’s instagram for fun, and then another two hours trying to find these links for no reason at all, and I regret all of that equally. It was also so worth it.

Katya’s hair (atomic bland / this)

long-sleeved jumpsuit in a purple 70s print, with a matching strip of fabric

red dress, a knee-length corduroy thing with long sleeves (not exactly what I dreamed up in my mind, but close)

short, yellow and pink paisley print dress with poofy sleeves that gathered in elastics at her wrists

four large pink flowers crowned her brow

white shirt wrinkled underneath sleek black dress...thick-soled combat boots

short, silk dress with long sleeves and peplums in a soft blush (my absolute favourite trixie look now) (it’s actually a shirt that she wears the pink pencil skirt under but my dream is that it’s a slim dress with like 4 peplums)

flowy blouse and pencil skirt

short dress in a busy red flower print

short-sleeved white cotton “dress”: i literally can’t find what I mean but you know how trixie wears just nightgowns all the time

NYE Party: Katya Alyssa Brianna (1) (2) Bob RuPaul Trixie (below, just easier to upload this one) (there are spoilers below this picture!)

Anxiety (spoilers)

I am going to try and warn you against romanticizing the role of anxiety in this story. I put a similar warning on my other fic ‘Soldier’ and people still missed the point, but here goes nothing. This is NOT a story about how a declaration of love cures someone's anxiety, and I did my best to depict that. This is a story about a romance, and how one person's journey with an anxiety disorder affects and is affected by that romance. The romance ultimately sees a happy ending because Katya eventually treats and manages her anxiety, made possible through medication, psychiatrists, immense personal effort on Katya's part, and ongoing support from Katya's friends and loved ones, including Trixie, her parents, her work friends, etc.

“Moving Parts” (spoilers)

I absolutely love “Moving Parts” and the idea behind it. Trixie presents it in a karmic way, that good and bad things literally move in and out of our lives. I have deliberately employed this in a very literal sense in this story. When Katya realizes she’s falling in love with Trixie and attempts to pursue a relationship with her, her anxiety begins to negatively and drastically affect her everyday life. This is a major part of the plot because I want story to explicitly reflect the song, NOT because I want to conflate suffering with being bisexual/being gay/falling in love with a woman. On that note, I have personally experienced a lot of anxiety trying to figure out and navigate my sexuality and gender.

#notes

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