(edited 6/9/26) greetings, my name is angel! or you could call me gigi if you’d like. anyone the age of 18+ that would interact, be mutuals, or just a conversation — just keep it friendly. or even family friendly if you can! I truly am a energetic person to be around and I can switch sides and also match your energy. I mostly dont know what/when i’ll be posting … awkwardly shifts around. It’ll be unexpected posts HAHA, @kaizsche mi dj ej love you 👀🌼
also to add on: anything WEIRD in general, proshippers, darkshippers, pdos, etc. can stop there and turn around. if you are ANY of those kindly don’t interact.
I mostly write, draw, watch movies, shows, anything that really entertains me when I have free time on my hands. and also look at my bio to see if requests are open or not! I’ll be posting every once in a while when I have time to write stories! I usually dont write chapters.. but I’ll try to do some since I usually find it draining to do. nonetheless y’know, writing is fun anyway! hit me up if you wanna talk anytime! I’d love to talk.
Information about requests .
- basic, if you want the story, you have to give me time to write it for you. sorry if I dont know the fandom.. if I don’t, you can give me any information, any lore, anything that I should know. and just to be clear, no you dont have to pay if you are requesting! all free!
- you can request anything, but if it’s too explicit for me and for readers, I might not write it, though if you’d like me to, you can request to change your idea that you have for your story!
- talking about for your story .. NO I don’t do chapters for people. gulp!
- if im quite busy the day you request, I could see if we can talk about what day I could start writing if im free. :D
- sorry but I will not write anything that is considered as taboo, weird, any of that kind. just to keep it straight and clear!
Pairing: Russ Holliday x Assistant!Reader
Warnings: Mutual toxicity, mention of drugs, drinking, implied su*ci*al ideation, lots of f-bombs, nickname ("Bee"--welcome to the Bee-verse, Russell!)
Description: He's unbearable when he's drunk...
a/n: I love toxic, depressed assholes who kinda sorta want to be better.
En·mi·ty (n.): the state or feeling of being actively opposed or hostile to someone or something.
“Do you hate me?”
Your fingers stilled on the keyboard at the strained question. In the midst of drafting a letter of apology for the newest scandal to hit TMZ, you’d forgotten that he was still in the room with you. Lit only by a few candles and low lamps, his dimly lit living room somehow felt colder. He leered silently from the couch at a muted screen displaying his college football highlights, occasionally taking a deep swig from an unlabeled clear bottle. You could see the flashing lights from the video reflected on his chiseled, unreadable face, which remained still aside from the occasional swallow or clench of the jaw. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as if in deep introspection.
It was the quietest he’d been in days.
Gentle rainfall bounced against the windowpane and punctuated the silence of the evening with just the two of you. Which was a rarity, as there was often a myriad of vaguely familiar people hanging around the apartment for free coke and booze. Free to them, anyway. Russ always seemed to owe someone, somewhere, something. The debt and bills were piling up. And you could see the ceiling inching closer with each unnecessary card swipe or trip to the strip club.
“You’re taking a pretty damn long time to answer the question,” he said, taking another swig and still avoiding eye contact as you sat behind the desk only a few feet away, “which is probably the answer. So thanks for that.”
“I mean, look, you don't really pay me to like you,” you responded with the most courteous professionalism you could muster, considering the circumstances of today’s visit. “But you are fine sometimes. A bit impulsive. And egotistical. And a bit entitled. Like, I’ve got this letter I have to draft apologizing to Dairy Queen for your TikTok Live antics.” You let out a deep sigh and tightly shut your eyes. “Trashing the place because the Blizzard fell out of the cup when you turned it upside down was really childish, by the way.”
You almost expected him to laugh or toss a sarcastic, semi-charming comment your way in response. Instead, he just continued to sit, sardonically watching his nineteen-year-old self celebrate a touchdown in the end zone. The much younger, blonder version of Russ took his helmet off and pointed to the crowd in victory before flexing his muscles in the face of one of the opposing team members.
“What an obnoxious little fuck.” He muttered to himself, loud enough for you to hear though you’re unsure if he intended you to. He pressed the bottle to his bottom lip and slurred, “No wonder your life ends up going to shit. You deserve every minute of your misery.”
Your eyes flickered from the tipsy man on the couch, back to the screen, and you shut the laptop on the desk in record speed.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” he scoffed. “Everything is…fucking peaches.”
Taking a moment to collect your thoughts, you furrowed your brows in response. You could feel the anxiety rising in your chest, because you knew the question you wanted to ask, but had no idea whether the response would be a nonchalant shrug of the shoulder or a table flipped. His eyes locked onto you for the first time that evening as you approached the couch and sat beside him, gently taking the bottle from his bruised fist. Before he could open his mouth to speak, you softly rested a hand on his arm.
“Talk to me,” you whispered to him.
“Oh for FUCKS sake, this again?” He threw his hands in the air and leaned back into the couch cushions, laughing humorlessly, “I don’t know how many times I’ve gotta say that I’m Gucci. I got that sponsorship coming down the pipeline with Liquid Death--”
“That was just a free shirt.”
“I got that deal with…uh…fuckin’…” He snapped, trying to remember, “That fuckin’ TikTok dude. The one selling the Labubus.”
“Russ--”
“My DMs are flooded with brand deals! I was on People’s Sexiest Men Alive last year. Or was it the year before? Whatever. I’m on fire. Don’t do that. Don’t you look at me like that, I swear to Christ.”
He rose from the couch and paced in front of you. Back and forth. Back and forth. His smug teenage grin remained frozen on the screen behind him basking in the radiant green glow of Oregon University’s stadium lights, blissfully unaware of what the next decade would bring. You could feel the frown pulling at the corners of your mouth.
“There you go again,” he crossed his arms, then decided to drop them to his sides, then finally tangled one of his hands in his messy darkening hair now that the artificial blond was beginning to fade, “Stop looking at me like I’m a fucking charity case. Or a hasbeen. Like you pity me. I’m Russell Fucking Holliday. Nobody pities me.”
“I wasn’t pitying you.” You replied softly.
“I see it written all over your face.” He gestured in your direction, “‘Poor fuckin’ Russ, ruined his career because he can’t control himself’.”
“I don’t think that about you.”
“I don’t need pity.”
You sighed, “I’m worried about you.”
He suddenly snorted, the cocky veneer returning with a vengeance, “There’s nothing to be worried about, you’re just being dramatic.”
At this, you eyed him incredulously, “Then why did you ask me if I hated you?”
Russ paused his pacing to stare at you, his expression perfectly still. As if he’d forgotten how this conversation began in the first place. He coolly shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, feigning nonchalance. But the facade crumbled almost immediately when he met your gaze.
“Dude…I don’t fucking…I don’t know.” He crossed his arms over his chest again, defensively.
Brief flashes appeared in your mind’s eye. Scattered pills. Empty whiskey bottles. Smudged lines of white and a running engine in a closed garage. You could almost hear your own screaming as firefighters broke the garage door down and pulled his pale, unconscious body from his car.
You stared at each other as his response hung in the air between you. Because he very well knew the answer to your question.
“Russell.”
A smug smirk graced his face. “Bee.”
“Don’t call me that.” You countered, pensively folding your hands together in your lap. “Is it getting bad again?”
Simmering silence.
His brows furrowed, and you saw the mask of cool indifference--perhaps muted fear-- creeping up again, “Can you just…stop? You don’t have to do all of this shit. I know you’re only here because I pay you. If I didn’t, you’d be somewhere else. Doing whatever meaningless thing you do.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the couch cushions, “Classic Holliday. Deflect, attack, repeat. Maybe try being honest for once. Or, I don’t know, try a fuckin’ therapist. And no, Russell, Svedka and Tito’s don’t count as therapists.”
A spectrum of emotions crossed his face. “You are so…you’re fucking annoying.” He sneered through gritted teeth, “You’re always just fucking obnoxious. And then you wonder why--” he cut himself off and took a deep breath, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling.
“Why what?” You asked. You could feel the corners of your mouth twitch, knowing exactly what he wanted to say, “Why? What? Russell?”
“I’m not gonna say it, because then I’ll be the bad guy again. Like I always am in your world.”
“Oh!” You nearly bellowed, mirth laced in your tone, “Another thing to cross off the Russell Holliday checklist. ‘I’m not a dickhead, everyone else is just too sensitive to my blunt honesty’. Great job.”
In the blink of an eye he was next to you on the couch with a shit-eating grin, leaning close enough for you to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Maybe if more people were blunt with you, you would stop getting ghosted by every person you talk to. How did that last thing go with… what’s his name? Did he stick around long enough to tell you, or did he just immediately block you?”
Your eye twitched. “Fuck you, Russell. Fuck you.” Your voice wavered with anger, which only made you more upset because he loved getting a reaction out of you. The daggers in your gaze made the grin slip from his face.
“That was low, my bad.”
“Yeah, your bad, you stupid drunk asshole.”
The tension in the room was palpable, all because you had the audacity to care about his mental state. He looked apologetic and deeply uncomfortable as you mentally toyed with the idea of kicking him off the couch. After all the years you’d known him, you would think you would be used to all this. But you weren’t twenty-two anymore.
“You’re the only one who cares,” he sighed, “other than, you know, my old man. And even he seems sick of my shit, not that I blame him. God no. I’m just… God, Bee, I’m so fuckin’ tired. I’m sick of this shit. I want to unzip all of this and disappear. Just wipe all this off.” He gestured to his face and arms, every distinctive feature he had. “I wanna go somewhere no one knows me and just fade away.”
Some of the anger dissipated as he leaned into the cushions beside you, both of you staring at his younger visage on the massive television.
“Why did you ask me if I hated you?” You asked.
He silently flexed his fingers and ran a hand over the tattoo on his inner forearm. You assumed he was deciding whether to tell the truth or evade it again.
“I just need a reason to disappear.” His voice cracked slightly. “You hating me would make it easier. And I wish you did.”
His emotion felt like a vice around your heart. You still avoided eye contact, unsure you could do so without crying.
“Don’t stay here in LA for me. Not if that’s not what you want.”
He let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “You piss me the fuck off maybe 75% of the time, but for some strange reason, I can’t let you go.”
You couldn’t really tell if he was talking about you, or the city you both grew disillusioned with. But you finally chanced a glance at him and found him staring with an unreadable expression. Longing? Sadness?
“Is it getting bad again, Russ?”
“Jesus,” he said, “No. It’s not, Bee. I’m good. I’m fine. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your chin and turned your head to face him, “Look at me. I’m good.”
All you could see were the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sallow skin, the sheen of unwashed hair. He wasn’t doing well.
“Will you tell me if it gets bad again?” you whispered, gently grabbing his wrist. He followed the motion with his eyes, something flickering across his features before he pulled his hand away.
“It won’t.”
“Russ, promise me.”
“I promise.” He gave you a small smile, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Your eyes roamed his face, searching for any indication he might finally admit what you already knew.
Nothing.
“And for the record,” you said, as you began to rise from the couch, “I don’t do this because you pay me. Because you barely pay me enough.”
He snorted, some of the lightness returning to his demeanor.
“You could have any part-time gig in the industry and you’re sticking with me. Seems like a shit deal.”
You stretched your arms over your head and you could hear your joints crack. You chose to open the balcony for fresh air. The rain finally stopped, with the sole evidence of it being the sound of cars passing below his balcony on the wet pavement. Crickets chirped, the moon brightened the sky, and you took a deep breath of the cool, early fall air.
“We did love each other once,” you said over your shoulder, “So it’s not so shitty.”
Summary: After a call with his dad ends in disappointment, Russ Holliday reaches out to the one person he shouldn’t: the woman he left behind who's raising the son who doesn’t even know his name. What starts as a halfhearted apology ends with a screen full of the life that moved on without him.
Warnings: Emotional angst. Mentions of absent fatherhood. Strained family relationships. Regret/guilt themes.
Word Count: 1,347
Author's Note: This was inspired by the scene at the end of Episode 2 after Russ is on the phone with his dad. I’ve had it done for a few weeks but was going back and forth on if I wanted to post it or not. Hope you guys enjoy it!
Russ Holliday sat in his Cybertruck with the engine running in the woods outside of the Hudson property. His father’s words were still echoing through the cab. The sting of disappointment laced through his father’s tone lingered in the air.
There was no real goodbye. No “I love you, son.” Just silence, and the weight of failure pressing in on him.
Russ leaned forward, elbows on the wheel, staring through the windshield. His reflection stared back, tired and looking older than he remembered. The lines around his eyes had settled in, and his jaw looked tighter somehow.
He rubbed both hands over his face, muttered a curse, and reached for the phone again. His thumb hovered over contacts he hadn’t scrolled through in years: old teammates, agents, names that no longer picked up. And then it stopped on one.
Yours.
His chest tightened. He hadn’t said your name out loud in months. Maybe even years.
He told himself not to do it. That nothing good ever came from opening old doors. But his thumb hit the call button anyway.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then you picked up. “Russ?”
Your voice was soft but wary, like you already regretted answering.
“Hey,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he meant. “Didn’t mean to call so late. Just…wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.”
That should’ve been the end of it. But he couldn’t stop.
“How’s he?”
A small pause. He could hear you shifting the phone from one ear to the other. You let out a sigh then answered. “He’s good. Busy. Second grade’s a handful.”
“Second grade,” Russ repeated quietly, leaning back in the seat. “Yeah. That’s… wow.”
“You’d know if you were around.”
The words weren’t cruel. They were just honest.
“Look, I’m–”
“No.” You said, calm but firm. “You don’t get to call after months of silence and pretend we’re just catching up. I can’t do that anymore. You had your chance to stay in touch. When I was pregnant. When he was born. When he turned one and you said you’d ‘get it together.’ I believed you. For a long time.” Your voice cracked there, just a little, before you caught it and continued. “I wanted to believe you’d come back around. But then the drinking started, and the parties, and the excuses. I had to make a choice, Russ. I wasn’t gonna raise a baby in the middle of your spiral.”
He let out a slow breath, staring at the faint smear of his fingerprints on the glass. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you do know that,” you said softly, “and that’s what makes it worse.”
He wanted to argue. To tell you that he wasn’t that guy anymore, that he’d been working on himself, that things were changing. But he didn’t even believe it, not really.
Instead, he said, “I just want to see him. Maybe this weekend? I could come by—”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No. I mean it, Russ. I’m not going to confuse him with a dad who only calls when the guilt gets loud.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded with everything you’d never fixed. He thought about the early days. You showing up to his place when everyone else in his life had stopped calling. You’d stayed through the headlines, through the late nights, and the press vultures, and the looks people gave you when you said you were with him.
And he’d repaid you with promises he never kept.
He opened his mouth, searching for something that might matter, but before he could find it, a soft voice came through the speaker.
“Mom? Who’s that?”
Russ froze. Your tone changed instantly. He heard that instinctive gentleness he remembered so well. “It’s just an old friend, bud. Go finish brushing your teeth.”
There was a shuffle of footsteps then a door closing.
“Russ,” you said quietly. “Please don’t call again.”
He swallowed hard. “Just…tell him I said hey, okay?”
You didn’t answer, just sighed and then the line clicked. The screen went dark. Russ stared at it until it timed out, until the glow faded and left him in the quiet hum of the truck’s cabin. Then he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, leaning back, trying to breathe around the lump in his throat.
He shouldn’t have called. He knew that. But the silence now felt worse than the rejection.
He stared out at the night for a while. The world had kept moving, whether he wanted it to or not.
Eventually, he picked up the phone again. His thumb drifted to Instagram. He scrolled until he found your name. He hesitated, then opened the profile. The most recent post stopped him cold.
It was a photo of you sitting on the front steps of a little brick house. Your hair was longer, pulled into a loose pony tail. Beside you sat a boy with a missing front tooth and a football in his lap.
His boy.
Russ zoomed in without meaning to. The boy’s grin was pure joys with eyes squinting, nose scrunched, and deep dimples. His dimples. He swiped to the next photo. The kid mid throw, tongue poking out, knees scuffed, a blue Little League jersey hanging loose on his frame. The caption read: "Fall ball’s off to a strong start.”
The next slide was a video. The camera wobbled for a second before steadying on the boy running across a yard, bare feet kicking up dust. Someone off-camera threw the football, a perfect spiral, and the kid caught it clean, tumbling but laughing the whole way down.
“That’s my guy!” Your voice cheered from behind the camera.
Russ froze.
He watched the clip again. Then again.
Each replay carved deeper. The laugh. The voice. The way the kid planted his feet before the throw, muscle memory he’d never been taught but somehow inherited.
“That’s my guy.”
Russ pressed his thumb against the screen until it dimmed. The video kept looping in his head, the sound echoing long after he’d stopped it.
He leaned back, eyes burning but dry, a pressure building behind them that wouldn’t quite break. The hum of the truck filled the space where his thoughts should’ve been.
He hadn’t been there for first steps or first words or first catches. Hadn’t even sent a birthday card since the year the checks stopped clearing.
He could’ve been. If he’d tried.
He turned the phone over so the screen faced down. The silence felt heavier now.
He ran a hand over his face, over the stubble that had started to grow in uneven patches, and laughed softly in a tired, humorless sound.
“Second grade,” he murmured to no one. “Shit.”
The laugh caught somewhere in his throat.
For a moment, he let himself imagine the other version of his life. The one where he’d gotten his act together sooner, where you hadn’t packed your bags, and where that kid ran into his arms after practice.
He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat again, where it landed beside an unopened can of Red Bull and an old playbook he hadn’t touched in years. The word Progressions was still scrawled across the cover in faded Sharpie.
Russ reached for it, thumb tracing the letters, then stopped halfway.
He let his hand fall back to his leg and stared out the windshield instead. The streetlight along the road flickered, buzzed, then steadied.
The world outside the glass was quiet, and for the first time in a long while, so was he.
He didn’t cry. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe deeply. Just sat there, feeling every beat of the silence.
When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
“He’s got my eyes.”
The words hung there for a second before disappearing into the hum of the engine.
Russ leaned his head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the empty night.
The video still played behind his eyelids. His son catching that ball and laughing. He let it loop until the image started to fade.
Caught up with QB Russ Holliday before tonight's kickoff. The first two episodes of Chad Powers stream TONIGHT at 9pm PT/12 am ET on @/hulu
CHAD POWERS via TIKTOK
Before I go on a rant, heres a drawing of Monica,Glen, and Miles!! Monica was my absolute favorite to draw but I like all of them! I just think they all look slightly different ?
It was hard to do the shadows without putting to much details and making it look realistic. MILES WAS A PAIN THOUGH O H MY GOSH. I kinda wanted to make him look more blurry since it looked like he was moving when the photo was taken but I didnt want to make it look weird. If you have any criticism do tell me ! <3
