#BUT FOR REAL EVERYONE ELSE JUST FOUND OUT

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you both always find your way back to each other

warning : sexual content included - minors dni

You didn’t want to be here.

You didn’t want to be wearing four inches of makeup, a dress someone else picked out, smiling for endless cameras, forced to network with people you barely knew. You’d much rather be in your Barcelona kit, cleats on your feet, running drills at training.

But tonight wasn’t about what you wanted — it was about being a face for Nike, about showing up at one of their biggest global athlete events, standing next to gold medals and championship rings and MVP trophies. You adjusted the neckline of your dress and took another sip of champagne, counting the hours until you could go back to your hotel room.

And that’s when your manager nudged you, murmuring in your ear, “There's someone you should meet.”

You blinked the exhaustion away and turned — and for the first time that night, you actually woke up.

Standing there, in a clean-cut navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, hands tucked coolly into her pockets, was Paige Bueckers.

You knew who she was immediately. Everyone did.

Paige Bueckers, WNBA’s next superstar, the heart of the Dallas Wings. Ice in her veins, clutch under pressure. America's sweetheart with a killer crossover. She was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered in a way cameras didn’t quite capture. She wasn’t smiling. She was just... looking at you. Like she knew you too.

You smoothed your dress automatically and offered your hand. “Hi,” you said, and hated that your voice came out a little breathless.

Paige’s lips curved into a smirk as she shook your hand — firm, a little rough, calloused fingers from years of handling a basketball.

“I know who you are," she said, voice low and casual. "Big fan.”

You laughed under your breath, a little shy, and teased, “Guess I’m a fan too. You’re kinda hard to miss.”

Her grin widened, and for the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about escaping. You were thinking about staying.

The conversation flowed easily.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been standing there until you felt a tap on your shoulder — someone from Nike needing you for a photo. You apologized, promising Paige you'd be right back.

Five minutes later, you found her again. She was standing by the bar, scrolling her phone, a drink in her free hand. As if she was waiting for you.

You slipped into the empty space next to her and nudged her arm lightly. “Miss me?” you teased.

She didn’t answer right away, just looked at you from under her lashes with a grin that made your stomach flip. “Maybe.”

The whole night was like that.

You’d get pulled away — to talk to a sponsor, to take a picture with a fan, to do a quick interview — and every time, somehow, you found your way back to Paige. And every time you did, it felt easier. Like slipping into a conversation you didn’t want to leave.

You found out she hated dressing up just as much as you did. That she loved watching football, especially Barça matches. That she hated flying but did it almost every week now. That she missed snow sometimes — real Minnesota snow — but loved the Texas sun more than she ever thought she would.

She asked you about Barcelona. About your favorite stadiums to play in, about the nerves before a Champions League final, about what it felt like to wear your country’s badge. And you asked her about Dallas. About the pressure, about the critics, about what it was like carrying so much on her shoulders and still making it look easy.

“It’s not easy,” she admitted quietly once, when you caught her off guard between topics. You nodded, understanding more than you could say.

There was something about her — something solid. Unshakable.

Even when she was teasing you, even when she was pretending not to be shy (but you could tell she was, a little), there was a strength to her that made you feel like you could lean against it.

And when she looked at you — really looked at you — it felt like you were the only two people in the room.

Eventually, late into the night, you ended up outside on the terrace together. The city buzzed around you — flashing lights, car horns, the dull throb of a DJ's bass line from inside — but you barely noticed. Paige had taken off her jacket and slung it over your shoulders without thinking when she noticed you shivering. The scent of her cologne clung to the fabric, something sharp and clean and a little addictive.

You glanced at her from the corner of your eye.

She was leaning against the railing, hands braced behind her, looking relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen all night. The moonlight cut across her jawline, catching the chain she wore under her shirt.

God, she was beautiful.

“So,” she said, without looking at you, “you think I’m hard to miss, huh?”

You laughed, ducking your head, cheeks burning. "I said what I said."

Paige chuckled lowly and finally turned to face you fully. And for a second — just a second — the air changed.

The way she was looking at you... it made your heart skip.

Like she was thinking about saying something.

Like she wanted to step closer.

Like maybe she wanted to kiss you.

You opened your mouth — to say what, you didn’t know — but the terrace door swung open behind you, a flood of people spilling out, breaking the spell. Paige straightened up, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. You blinked, trying to catch your breath.

She jerked her chin toward the door. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your heart leapt into your throat.

You smiled — soft, genuine, sure.

“Lead the way.”

The car ride was quiet but thick—every glance, every slight shift of her body brushing against yours making your skin hum.

By the time you reached her hotel, your palms were damp.

She didn’t lead you by the hand, didn't rush. Just walked a step ahead, glancing back once to make sure you were following.

You were.

God, you were.

The hotel was nice, of course—Nike athletes didn’t exactly get thrown into cheap motels—but you barely registered anything except her.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Paige moved.

No hesitation now.

She was on you in two long strides, backing you up against the wall, her mouth crashing into yours.

You gasped, the suddenness of it knocking the air from your lungs—but you clutched at her blazer, pulling her closer, needing her just as badly.

Her hands were rougher than you expected—not careless, but desperate—skimming down your sides, gripping your hips so tightly you whimpered into her mouth.

“Been thinking about this all night,” she muttered against your lips, her voice low, hoarse.

You barely had time to nod before she kissed you again, deeper this time. Her hands slid under the hem of your dress, bunching the soft fabric up around your waist.

You were already aching for her, shifting on your toes to get closer. Paige caught your movement, growling softly in the back of her throat as she pulled back just enough to look at you.

Her pupils were blown wide, jaw tight.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” she rasped, almost like it hurt to say.

You flushed under the intensity of her gaze, hips rolling toward her without thinking.

“Paige—” you breathed, but it came out more like a plea than anything else.

“I got you,” she promised, her hands skimming your thighs before lifting you up like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around her waist instinctively, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of her neck.

She carried you to the bed and dropped you onto the mattress with a soft bounce, standing over you for a second to just look.

You watched her shed her blazer and toss it to the floor, leaving her in a plain white tank top tucked into those fitted slacks. Her arms flexed as she leaned down, bracing herself on either side of your body.

"You don’t even know," she murmured, nuzzling along your jawline, her voice sending shivers down your spine. "How bad I wanna take my time with you.”

You whimpered, tugging at her tank top, needing more, needing everything.

She kissed you again—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth like she owned you. And maybe she did, in that moment.

Her hands dragged your dress up higher, fingers hooking into your underwear, pulling them down slow enough to make you squirm.

When she finally touched you—fingers running through your folds with a reverent kind of hunger—you gasped, hips arching off the bed.

“So wet for me already,” Paige whispered, pressing her forehead against yours like she needed the contact just as badly as you did. “Fuck.”

You could barely respond, too overwhelmed by the way her fingers circled your clit with maddening, precise pressure.

“You’re mine tonight,” she said, more to herself than you. “Say it.”

You whined, clutching at her shoulders. “Yours. Paige, I’m yours.”

The growl she let out was low and rough, and then she was sinking two fingers into you, stretching you deliciously, setting a rhythm that had you panting almost immediately.

It wasn’t hard exactly—but there was a roughness to it. A need she couldn't hide.

Every thrust of her fingers was firm, deliberate.

Every brush of her thumb against your clit was savoring, like she didn’t want to miss a single sound you made.

You clung to her, nails digging into her arms, thighs trembling.

“That’s it,” she murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You couldn’t have held back if you tried.

Every moan, every gasp—you gave it all to her.

When your orgasm finally broke over you, it was devastating, ripping through you so hard you sobbed her name against her throat.

Paige didn’t stop. She slowed, sure, coaxing you through it, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead. Her free hand cradled your head like something precious.

You realized then, even through the roughness, even through the hunger—

She was savoring you.

Holding you like you were the best thing she'd ever touched.

When you finally blinked your eyes open, she was looking down at you, chest heaving, blonde hair sticking to her forehead.

“You’re unreal,” she whispered, like she still couldn’t believe you were real.

You pulled her down to you, slotting your mouth over hers in a messy, desperate kiss.

“Stay,” you whispered against her lips.

Her answer was a low, broken sound as she kicked off her shoes and climbed fully into the bed with you, wrapping you in her arms like she had no plans of letting go anytime soon.

And God—you didn’t want her to.

The first thing you felt was warmth.

Not the filtered sunlight pooling through the hotel curtains, not the heavy comforter tangled around your legs — but Paige.

Her arm was slung low over your waist, her face tucked into the crook of your neck, her steady breaths brushing your skin in a way that made you shiver even though you weren’t cold.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wake her, but her grip only tightened.

“Mmm, don't move,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse with sleep.

You smiled, the curve of it hidden against the pillow. “Sorry,” you whispered back, not sorry at all.

You let yourself relax into her, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns across the bare skin of her forearm. She was all long limbs and quiet strength, wrapped around you like you belonged there. Like you always had.

For a few minutes, you just stayed like that, breathing in the scent of her—a mix of clean soap, her cologne, and something purely Paige.

Eventually, Paige stirred, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to your shoulder. “Morning,” she rasped.

You hummed, turning your head slightly to look at her.

Her blonde hair was a mess, sticking out at odd angles, and there was a faint imprint of the pillowcase across her cheek.

She was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.

“Morning,” you whispered back, unable to stop the way your hand reached up to smooth her hair down.

She caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before nuzzling your hand. The gesture made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

Neither of you moved to get up.

There was no rush, no pressure.

Just the slow, steady unfurling of something that felt a lot like home.

After a while, Paige stretched, groaning low in her throat. "I'm starving."

You laughed softly. “Big athlete like you? No way.”

She opened one eye to glare at you playfully, then buried her face in your neck again. “Gimme five more minutes to be a clingy loser, then I'll order us something.”

Your heart squeezed.

You tilted your head, letting her have more access to your skin, feeling her grin against you.

True to her word, a few minutes later she finally reached over, fumbling for the room phone. You stayed curled against her side, tracing the line of her hipbone under the sheets.

She ordered with a raspy, just-woke-up voice that made you smile into the mattress.

“Yeah, can we get... pancakes, eggs, bacon... orange juice... coffee—lots of coffee…” She glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. "Anything you want?"

You shook your head, too content to even think about food.

"Make it double,” she said into the phone before hanging up and tossing it back onto the nightstand.

She turned back to you, resting her chin on your shoulder. “How you feeling?” she asked, her voice low and careful now, like she didn’t want to scare you off.

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “Like I don't wanna move.”

Paige chuckled, her fingers skimming your side under the sheets. “Good.”

For a while, you just talked.

About anything.

Everything.

Football. Basketball. Travel.

How you missed your mom's cooking. How she missed Minnesota/Connecticut winters even though she’d never admit it.

“You think you’ll like Dallas?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Paige shrugged, playing with a loose thread on the pillowcase. “It’s different. But... I dunno. It feels like a start, y’know?”

You nodded, understanding more than she probably realized. “Yeah. A new chapter.”

She met your eyes then, something unreadable flickering across her face.

“I wish we had more time,” she said quietly.

You reached up, cupping her cheek. “We have this.” You let your thumb brush the soft skin under her eye. “And we have phones. Planes. Barcelona’s just a plane ride away. Same with Texas”

Paige smiled, a little sad but mostly soft.

“I’m not good at this kinda thing,” she admitted. “Relationships. Feelings.”

You kissed the corner of her mouth, lingering there. “You’re doing fine.”

Her arms tightened around you, like she needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

When room service finally knocked, Paige groaned dramatically, burying her face in your neck again. “Don't wanna get up.”

You laughed, shoving at her gently. “Go. I'm not about to starve just because you turned into a koala.”

She grumbled under her breath but finally rolled out of bed, grabbing a robe and tossing you a sheepish grin before disappearing toward the door.

You watched her go, heart full and aching all at once.

You both knew this bubble would have to pop soon.

She had Dallas.

You had Barcelona.

Different continents. Different time zones.

But right now— right now, she was laughing in the doorway, balancing two trays of food like a clumsy waiter, and you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

You spent the morning tangled up in bed, eating pancakes with sticky fingers, passing bites back and forth, sipping coffee from the same cup.

You learned Paige liked her bacon extra crispy. She learned you had a weird obsession with mixing your syrup with butter first.

You talked about bucket lists.

Dreams.

What you were scared of.

She kissed you between bites, lazy and unhurried, like she was memorizing the taste of you.

And when it was finally time to get dressed, to face the real world again, Paige stood in front of you, holding your hands in hers, her thumbs tracing slow circles over your knuckles.

“No matter where we are,” she said, voice steady, “I’m gonna make this work.”

You believed her.

Because looking into her eyes, you realized something.

The world could pull you to opposite sides of it—but somehow, somehow, you would always find your way back.

Just like you had at the party.

Just like you would again.

You were back in Barcelona now.

Back to the grind—training, media, travel, matches—your calendar packed so tightly that your head spun most days.

But somehow, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter how many time zones separated you and Paige, you always made time.

Even if it was stupidly early for you.

And it was painfully late for her.

Even if it meant falling asleep with your phone still clutched in your hand because neither of you wanted to hang up first.

Tonight—or technically, this morning for you—you were curled up under your blanket, hair messy, voice thick with sleep as you blinked at your phone screen.

Paige’s face filled it.

Her hair was damp from a shower, loose over her shoulders, and she was sprawled on her bed in Dallas, wearing a baggy Wings hoodie that swallowed her whole.

It was just after 10PM for her.

It was 7AM for you.

Sunlight already spilled into your room, birds chirping outside your window.

And still—you stayed in bed just to have these few stolen moments.

“You look so cozy,” Paige teased, smiling softly.

You yawned, hiding it behind your hand. “I am. Or... I was. Before someone FaceTimed me at the crack of dawn.”

Her smirk widened. “Miss me that much, huh?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “You're the one who called me, Bueckers.”

“Details,” she said, waving her hand lazily. “Minor details.”

You laughed, pulling your blanket tighter around you, letting yourself just look at her.

God, you missed her.

Missed the weight of her body pressed against yours.

Missed the way she smelled, the way she mumbled half-asleep, the way she kissed you like you were air.

“You have no idea how many times I almost booked a flight this week,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Paige’s smile faltered, softening into something achingly tender.

“I thought about it too,” she said. “Like... what if I just showed up at your match? Sat in the front row like a stalker.”

You laughed, your chest tightening painfully. “I’d probably cry.”

Paige shifted, propping her chin on her hand. “You’d cry?”

You nodded, cheeks heating. “Yeah. And then I’d probably kiss you in front of thousands of people and destroy both of our PR teams.”

Paige chuckled, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “Worth it.”

Silence stretched for a moment—not awkward, but heavy.

You bit your lip. “I miss you.”

Her face crumpled just a little, like she was trying not to let it show. “I miss you too.”

You both sat with it.

Letting it sink in.

Letting yourselves feel it.

After a long moment, Paige spoke again, her voice low and rough:

"Maybe we can figure something out.”

You blinked, heart hammering. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then shrugged, pretending to be casual even though her eyes betrayed her.

"I mean... it's not like we can't visit. Off days, breaks, whatever. I can fly to you. You can fly to me.”

You swallowed hard.

“You're serious?”

Paige smiled crookedly. “I’m serious about you.”

You couldn’t speak for a second, throat tight.

Instead, you reached toward the camera, fingertips brushing the screen like you could touch her through it.

“Me too,” you whispered.

Paige shifted again, leaning closer to the camera until all you could see was her face—so open, so unguarded.

"I don’t want this to be just some... one-time thing,” she said, almost fiercely. "You’re not just a night in New York to me.”

You blinked rapidly, willing the sudden sting in your eyes to go away.

You weren’t about to cry on FaceTime.

You sniffed once, laughing shakily. “Good. Because you're stuck with me now.”

Paige grinned, triumphant. “Damn right I am.”

You ended up talking for another hour—Paige lying sideways on her bed, you curled up with your pillow.

Making stupid plans.

Dreaming about meeting halfway in places like Miami or London.

Imagining what it would be like when one of you finally showed up unannounced.

When your eyes finally started to flutter shut, Paige noticed.

“Go back to sleep, pretty girl,” she whispered.

You mumbled something incoherent, already half gone.

"I'll text you when you wake up," she promised.

And you knew she would.

Because distance didn’t feel so scary when it was her.

Because somehow, despite everything, you could feel it in your bones.

This was only the beginning.

It’s been a few weeks.

Paige leaned her head against the plane window, watching the sunrise stretch itself lazily across the horizon, bleeding gold and pink over the Atlantic. She barely slept the whole flight. The anticipation made it impossible.

Barcelona.

God, she couldn’t believe she was actually doing this.

It was crazy, it was impulsive—but it felt right.

She missed you more than she even wanted to admit.

FaceTime was good. Hearing your voice, seeing your sleepy smile. It was enough to keep her breathing when the distance pressed down too hard.

But it wasn’t the same.

It wasn't even close.

And when she saw that Barcelona was playing Real Madrid—El Clásico—at home, she couldn’t stop herself.

She bought the ticket before she even texted her manager to clear the days off.

She hadn’t told you she was coming.

If she was being honest with herself, she needed to see you in your element.

On your pitch.

Where you were fearless, untouchable.

She wanted to be there. For you.

The stadium was massive.

Even pulling up in the taxi, Paige could hear the roar of the fans—Barcelona chants, drums pounding, scarves waving out of car windows.

She pulled the hoodie of her Wings sweatshirt up over her head, tugging a hat low over her eyes. Not exactly subtle, but she wasn’t trying to be seen.

A few people double-taked as she made her way through the crowd—some even pointed—but most were too focused on the match energy to recognize her. She got inside, climbed the steep stairs to her seat, and settled into the electric buzz of it all.

And then— there you were.

Down on the field, in that beautiful crimson-and-blue kit, jogging across the pitch like you owned it.

Paige’s heart damn near stopped.

You were warming up with your teammates, tying your hair back into a messy ponytail, a grin flashing across your face when one of the other players bumped your shoulder.

You looked radiant.

Alive.

She couldn’t take her eyes off you.

The anthem blared, the crowd roared, and the game started with an intensity that made her sit up straight immediately.

This wasn’t just a match.

It was a battle.

And you were right in the middle of it—sharp, ruthless, brilliant.

Every touch you took was confident.

Every sprint, every pass, every challenge—you played like you had something to prove.

Paige caught it—the extra fire in your movement.

Like maybe, just maybe, you could feel her there, even if you hadn’t seen her yet.

You didn’t score, not at first.

You spent the first half orchestrating play, bossing the midfield, weaving around defenders like they were standing still.

When halftime hit, Paige found herself breathless, her hands gripping her knees, adrenaline racing through her like she was the one on the pitch.

She grinned to herself.

God, she was so damn proud of you.

Second half.

The tension ratcheted higher. Madrid pressed harder. Barcelona pushed back.

And then—it happened.

A long ball over the top.

You sprinted onto it, faster than anyone else, body cutting through defenders like a blade.

One touch.

Two.

You faked the goalkeeper, shifted the ball to your weaker foot, and buried it into the far corner.

The stadium erupted.

Paige shot to her feet before she even realized it, cheering, clapping her hands above her head.

You wheeled away from the goal, arms outstretched, head tilted back in pure joy as your teammates mobbed you.

And for a second—just a second—you scanned the crowd.

Paige froze.

She knew you were looking. Searching.

Maybe hoping.

But with 60,000 people screaming, it was impossible.

You didn’t see her.

Still, she smiled so wide her cheeks hurt.

By the time the final whistle blew—Barcelona victorious—Paige felt like she’d lived a lifetime.

She stayed back as the crowd started to spill out, letting the chaos thin before she moved.

No one stopped her.

A few teenagers gawked, whispering excitedly, but she kept her head down, slipping into the private player’s entrance with the access pass she’d begged your manager to get her.

Her heart pounded harder now than it had during the whole damn game.

Down the hall.

Past security.

Closer.

And then, she saw you.

Turning the corner in your training jacket, hair damp from the post-match shower, cleats clutched in one hand.

You were laughing at something a teammate said—and then you saw her.

Everything in you stuttered to a halt.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth parted like you were about to say something, but no sound came out.

Paige couldn’t move either.

Couldn’t breathe.

For a heartbeat, you just stared at each other across the hallway.

Crowds milling around you.

Noise blurring into nothing.

And then—slowly, carefully—you walked toward her.

Not running.

Not rushing.

Like if you moved too fast, this would shatter.

When you finally reached her, you didn’t throw yourself into her arms.

You stood there, breathing the same air, your hand finding hers in a quiet, aching link.

You squeezed first.

She squeezed back.

“You’re here,” you whispered, like you still didn’t believe it.

Paige smiled, eyes shining. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Your thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow, reverent.

Your forehead tilted forward, bumping gently into hers.

Still no kiss.

Not yet.

Just the press of your hands.

The warmth of your bodies so close but not fully touching.

The electric hum between you.

“I played harder because of you,” you said, your voice breaking a little on the edges.

Paige’s throat tightened.

“You didn’t even know I was here,” she said softly, teasing, but her heart cracked open at the way you looked at her.

“I knew," you whispered. "I always know.”

Paige squeezed your hand again, fighting the urge to pull you into her arms in front of everyone.

Instead, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering on your cheek for just a second too long.

“Come on,” you murmured, glancing around, the corner of your mouth lifting in a secret, knowing smile. “Let’s get outta here.”

Paige nodded, letting you lead her away, down quieter corridors, away from the cameras, the fans, the noise.

The next few days felt like stolen time.

Like Paige had somehow found a loophole in the universe—a pause button, just for the two of you.

Barcelona bloomed around them, sun-drenched and endless, and Paige drank in every second like she was dying of thirst.

You took her everywhere.

La Sagrada Familia, towering and unfinished and aching toward the sky. The colorful chaos of La Boqueria Market, where you shoved a slice of fresh mango into her mouth, laughing when the juice dribbled down her chin.

The winding streets of El Born, where Paige bought you a tiny silver bracelet from a street vendor without a second thought.

“For luck,” she said, fastening it around your wrist, her fingers lingering just a second too long.

You taught her how to order tapas without butchering the pronunciation too badly.

She taught you how to shoot paper straws into a cup from across the café table.

You won… barely.

At night, you sat on your apartment balcony with cheap wine and a shared blanket, pointing out constellations neither of you really knew the names of.

You talked about everything.

And sometimes, nothing at all.

You laughed so much Paige’s ribs hurt.

You touched without thinking—hands brushing, knees knocking, shoulders bumping.

It was easy.

It was dangerous.

Because the more time Paige spent with you, the harder it became to imagine leaving.

Two nights before her flight—Paige caught you staring at her across the table at some tiny candlelit restaurant, your gaze soft and heavy.

“What?” she said, teasing, nudging your foot under the table.

You shook your head slowly, smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing. Just... you.”

Paige’s heart clenched painfully.

She didn’t know how to survive this—how to let herself have you for only a few days at a time.

She reached across the table, weaving her fingers through yours without thinking.

You squeezed back.

No cameras.

No crowds.

Just you and her.

The last day crept up on them like a thief.

The morning was hazy, the city wrapped in a golden kind of melancholy.

Paige helped you pack a bag for your away match—pretending not to notice how your hands shook a little when you zipped it closed.

She didn’t say anything about it.

Neither did you.

Because if you said it—if you named the thing clawing at your chests—it might break you.

Instead, you walked to the small café down the street one last time.

Paige ordered for both of you now, stumbling over her Spanish but grinning proudly when you laughed and kissed her cheek.

You sat in the corner, sipping coffee, trying to memorize the exact way you looked bathed in Barcelona morning light.

The exact way you smiled at her when you thought she wasn’t looking.

The exact way your thumb kept running over the bracelet she gave you.

When it was finally time to go—when her car was idling at the curb—Paige stood in your doorway, bag slung over her shoulder, heart breaking so loudly she was sure you could hear it.

You looked up at her, standing barefoot in the tiny living room, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame.

God.

She didn’t want to leave.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked to her slowly, wrapping your arms around her waist and burying your face in her chest.

Paige dropped her bag instantly, pulling you in tighter.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that, breathing each other in, memorizing the way you fit together.

Finally, you tipped your head up, blinking fast, trying to smile.

“I’m really bad at goodbyes,” you said hoarsely.

Paige cupped your jaw gently, her thumb brushing your cheek.

“Then don’t say goodbye,” she whispered. “Say ‘see you soon.’”

You laughed wetly, nodding, your forehead dropping against hers.

“See you soon,” you echoed, voice breaking.

She kissed your forehead.

Your nose.

The corner of your mouth.

Not a real kiss.

Not yet.

Because if she kissed you properly, she might not leave at all.

She stepped back slowly, hands lingering on your hips until the very last second.

You picked up her bag and shoved it into her hands with a trembling smile. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

Paige laughed, watery and wrecked.

She turned toward the door, paused.

Looked back.

You were standing there, framed by the morning light, holding onto the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I’ll call you the second I land,” she promised.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“And I’ll be back," she added. “Whenever you’ll have me.”

“Always,” you whispered.

“Always,” she echoed.

And then she was gone.

In the taxi, Paige leaned her head back against the seat, clutching her phone to her chest.

Already counting the days until she could see you again.

Already planning the next flight.

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t temporary.

It wasn’t borrowed time.

It was the start of something real.

Something worth every mile.

Every ache.

Every single second apart.

Paige wiped sweat from her forehead with the hem of her jersey, trying to catch her breath as the buzzer blared for a timeout.

Dallas was up by six, the energy in the arena electric, the fans on their feet, the court buzzing with heat and noise.

She jogged toward the huddle, grabbing a bottle of water off the scorer's table, her muscles burning, adrenaline still pumping.

The world narrowed—play calls, quick hands slapping her back, coaches barking adjustments.

Paige squeezed water into her mouth, letting it drip down her chin, tuning into the chaos around her.

Until…

A shift.

A roar of the crowd.

The sound of the fans changing—lifting—roaring for something that wasn’t happening on the court.

Confused, Paige glanced up at the Jumbotron out of instinct.

And then she saw you.

Framed perfectly on the massive screen, sitting up in one of the private suites, laughing, waving shyly as the camera zoomed in.

You were wearing one of her Wings jerseys—her jersey—the #5 stretched across your chest, your hair pulled back, cheeks pink from the attention.

Paige’s breath caught in her chest.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

The world blurred out, the timeout noise fading into static.

Just you.

God, just you.

You were here.

You were here.

The biggest, stupidest grin split across Paige’s face before she could stop it—pure, wide-open joy.

Next to her, Dijonai Carrington leaned in, bumping her shoulder playfully.

"Yo, Bueckers," she teased, laughing. "Why you cheesin’ like that, huh?"

Paige ducked her head, biting back a bigger smile, shaking her head like it was nothing.

But her heart was thundering.

Her hands were shaking.

She took another quick sip of water to hide her face, stealing another glance up at the screen where you were still sitting, waving shyly, mouthing something only she could understand.

“Proud of you.”

Paige felt like she could float out of her sneakers.

She played the rest of the quarter wired—lighter on her feet, sharper, hungrier.

Every bucket, every steal, every assist—it all crackled with the knowledge that you were somewhere up there, watching her.

For her.

And when the final buzzer sounded, sealing the win, Paige barely heard the crowd.

She barely felt the high fives, the backslaps, the chaos around her.

All she could think about was getting to you.

She threw on her warmups, tucked her hair into a low messy bun, and all but sprinted down the tunnel.

She weaved through the media scrum, ignoring the questions and the flashing cameras, heart hammering so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.

And then—at the end of the hallway—you.

Waiting.

Leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, your grin tugging at the corners of your mouth the second you spotted her.

Paige slowed to a stop in front of you, chest heaving, pulse rattling in her ears.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The tension stretched, taut and humming.

You dropped your arms, stepping forward.

Paige grabbed your face in her hands, pulling you down into her with a soft, breathless laugh.

And finally, she kissed you.

Full.

Fierce.

Desperate.

All the missed days and FaceTimes and whispered "I miss you’s" crashing into that kiss, spilling out between your mouths like something too big to hold back anymore.

You kissed her back just as hard, hands fisting in the front of her hoodie, anchoring yourself to her like you might float away otherwise.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, gasping slightly, Paige let out a shaky laugh.

“You’re actually here,” she whispered, thumb brushing your jaw.

You smiled, eyes bright. “I told you I was bad at goodbyes.”

Paige kissed you again—softer this time, lingering.

“I’m not letting you leave next time,” she murmured against your lips.

You smiled against her mouth. “Then don’t.”

And even though the world waited outside—cameras, fans, teammates—Paige didn’t care.

She had you.

And she wasn't about to let you go.

Not now.

Not ever.

[kalikalahansa]

Someone I follow on Twitter made an observation I thought was interesting a while back, which was that the internet seemed to be making the worst parts of mental illnesses into reality.

She said that one of her family members had a mental illness which caused her to believe she was being gangstalked. According to her, when her mother first started having that belief, actual gangstalking was impossible; there was no widespread public internet access, and you just couldn't organise people like that in those kind of numbers, nor was there the same amount of information on the internet, and you couldn't get access to it as easily.

These days, gangstalking — in the form that particular delusion historically took — is one hundred percent possible and real. This doesn't mean that people don't still have deluded beliefs that they're being gangstalked, but it does make it significantly harder work to identify those beliefs as delusional.

OCD can make you believe that you did something bad and that your OCD things are the only way to try to control the damage, or that if you don't do your OCD things you will do something bad, and that, either way, your misdeeds or your inescapable basic tendency to be harmful are obvious to everyone else and you will be found out and you will be judged and punished.

I think that the observation that the internet has put us in a panopticon is true, without even necessarily passing judgment on that fact. People can see, communicate with, and publicly criticise others in a way they never could before. I think this is bad in many ways that aren't necessarily in the realm of social justice: for example, parasociality can become worse (e.g., parasocial relationships can become more demanding and toxic) in a context where communication with public figures is through real-time social media, rather than through a letter that you have to be aware that they might not read. I also think that in terms of social justice it is good and perhaps revolutionary in many ways; even though we haven't successfully pushed back fascism yet, I think that the ability to call fascists losers to their faces and then write heavily sourced 30 tweet threads explaining why that's the case is helpful in creating the cultural change which will eventually enable resistance.

Either way, the fact that we now do live in a world where you can be examined by people with many diverse lenses, you can be judged, and you can be punished en masse, very easily, is absolutely petrifying to people who are unshakably convinced that they've either done or will do something terrible. The question of whether they've actually done something terrible doesn't matter in this case. The question of how these people can adapt to this new world remains open.

tumblr: constantly be aware of your own privilege. constantly be aware of your capacity of be evil. hey i know you really like that new piece of media but make sure you're aware of all of the problematic elements all the time. hey i noticed you reblogged a post from a designated Bad Person so please make sure you do a thorough background check on everyone you reblog from to make sure they're not bad, otherwise people might get the wrong idea about you. always be aware of everything bad that's happening in the world all the time because silence is violence. i see you not reblogging this post btw. activist burnout is a privilege so be aware of that. xyz people are required to reblog this post. if you're not constantly fighting against designated Bad People you are inherently complicit and therefore a Bad Person.

people with ocd:

[aceecee]

Insatiable - Extra #8

The original idea I had for Insatiable, actually I didn't have a title for it back then. It was meant to be a Sylus fic, I have no idea how it turned out to what it's become.

I might write this in the future.

Masterlist

The man is silent as he enters your apartment. 

The air is heavy with regret…guilt.

You know why he’s here. You can feel your heart breaking at the realisation but you hide it all. Nothing on you gives away any feeling. It’s not fair to the man, he’d been honest to you from the start that nothing real would ever form between you two. He told you all about the woman he truly loved, the one he was waiting for. You don’t feel any malice for her, from the way he had described her, she was an astonishing person, someone who deserved a man like him by her side.

“I’m guessing you found her,” your smile is soft because even though it hurts, his happiness wins over your desires. 

“Yes.”

“Okay,” you know what’s coming. The two of you had discussed this. “I guess that's it,” you follow up. 

“This is goodbye then, Sylus.”

“Goodbye.”

Sylus doesn’t know what to feel as he walks away from you.

He shouldn’t be this conflicted. It was never meant to be difficult. 

He was never meant to get attached.

Whatever the two of you had was always transactional. He had sought you out - a hacker with excellent capabilities - you had a reputation around the N109 zone. At first the both of you kept a clear distance, your help made his operations a lot easier. As time progressed so did whatever it was between the both of you. He made sure to keep his intentions clear, it wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

It was just sex, he told himself as he held you in his arms.

It was just sex, he told himself as he kissed you.

It was just sex, he told himself as he caressed you.

He repeats those same words now as he walks away.

Six months pass and not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of you.

Things with Miss Hunter never take off. Her heart now belongs with someone else and Sylus doesn’t even care. He’s the only one who remembers their past together, there’s no need to burden her with the memories. Instead, the two become fast friends. 

One night, he finds himself telling her about you. She offers no kind words as she berates him for leaving you. 

“You idiot! You’re clearly in love with her. What are you still doing here?”

He’s back at your apartment. He found himself here a lot these last months, simply standing outside but never knocking. For he had left you, what right does he have to come back in your life?

He knocks this time.

No response.

���[Name]?”

Nothing. 

Sylus has been in the game for a long time, one thing he’s learnt is to never avoid his instincts. They had helped him with never making deals with the wrong people, and helped him with finding the right person to trust.

And right now, those instincts were screaming that something was wrong.

He easily bypasses the electric lock on your door. What greets him inside is nothing. All the walls are devoid of any decorations, the photos you had up of your deceased family and current friends are gone. There’s no furniture anywhere. The entire place has been swept clean, not a speck of dirt left behind.

If someone figured out how to leave the N109 zone, it would be you.

Five years and six more months have gone by. Not a single trace of you has been found, you haven’t made it easy with your capabilities. None of your friends know where you are. You’ve left everyone behind.

He still hasn’t given up, no matter how long it takes, he will find you. Mephisto misses you. The twins miss you. 

Sylus misses you.

The little girl stares back at him.

“Are you Stylus? Mummy said to give this to you,” she pronounces his name wrong. With red eyes and white hair, it doesn’t take a genius to know who this kid is. She hands him a letter. 

“It’s Sylus,” he explains. The kid blinks at him, clearly not expecting such a deep voice. As he rips the letter open, the kid repeats his name over and over again.

Sylus,

If it is you reading this letter then I suppose you’ve met Ruby.

He looks back into those red eyes that mirror his. His daughter’s name is Ruby…how fitting.

“What is your favourite gem?” he asked as the both of you perused the collection.

He watches as you pick you out a gem and hold it next to his eye. “Perfect match,” you grin at him. 

“Right now it’s rubies.”

He brings the kid inside, get’s her situated while he reads the rest.

I would have told you but I only figured out I was pregnant when I had already left. I tried to get in touch but the number you gave me no longer worked and I was not going into that area while pregnant or with a child in my arms.

I’ll admit a part of me didn’t want to, I was afraid you wouldn’t accept our child. That I would ruin your future with your hunter.

I know deep down that you’re not that kind of man but even I get insecure sometimes.

I don’t know how but some shady organisation discovered she’s your child. I have a theory that one of them must have met you and if you’ve seen Ruby, then it’s obvious. I did some digging on this organisation and it’s not good. At first I thought they were some small fry but I’ve discovered transactions that go deep, they have a lot of rich people in their pockets which means they’re very powerful. What they have against you, I have no idea. They’re good at covering their tracks.

It’s why I sent Ruby to you, you’ll be able to protect her. 

I made them think that I was running away with her while I sent her alone to you. I led them away so she could get to you.

Don’t come looking for me. If I’m successful in tricking them then I’ll come to you and we can finally have the conversation we should have had years ago. If I don’t come back, then I’m dead. I offer no leverage to these people so they’ll kill me.

I’ve attached a hard drive containing all the information I have on them, with your resources it should be easy to end them.

Take care of Ruby for me, okay? She’s all I have. Tell her I love her so much.

P.S. she’s allergic to nuts, her bag has epipens but make sure to keep many around the house! She also needs a story every night or she’s not going to sleep. She has a lot of energy (I blame you for that) so make sure to burn it out of her every day. She has a sweet tooth but don’t give in! She’ll flash you puppy eyes but you have to stay strong, she’s a menace and she knows it.

You don’t sign it with your name but you don’t have to. It’s clear the letter is from you.

The familiar sensation of regret wraps its arms around him. You had been pregnant when he left you. All this time, you had dealt with it all on your own. You might die on your own too.

He can’t have that happen.

A small hand tugs at his pants. 

“Are you my dad? You look like me,” Ruby asks.

He leans down and pokes her cheek. “You look like me, I’m older,” he says softly. 

It’s the confirmation the girl needs, her walls crumble around her father. Tears gather in her eyes. “Will mummy be okay? I want her back.”

Without thinking, he cradles the girl into his arms. His shirt becomes wet with her tears. 

He’s already failed you twice. There won’t be a third time.

“I’ll bring her back.”

Tag list: Tag List: @serenity-loves-red @crimsonmarabou @reni502 @r0ckb1n @queenkymmie @plzdonutpercieveme @perqbeth @mephisto-with-a-knife @tumblingdevils @angelwhizpers

[animeficsworld]

For You, Always

Umemiya Hajime x Reader

Summary: When your favourite ring goes missing, you storm Furin to get it back from your very chaotic boyfriend.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

The clink of heavy boots echoed sharply through Furin’s halls.

You didn’t smile. You never smiled.

Not at strangers, not at friends, not even at the wide-eyed first-years who practically flung themselves out of your path like you were a hurricane dressed in black.

You walked, head high, eyes colder than steel, shoving open doors and pushing past groups of stunned students without a single word. The only thing you cared about was finding him.

Because he had your favourite ring, the little silver band you never took off, the one he’d stolen half-jokingly yesterday and promised to return today.

And you weren’t exactly patient.

"Sh-she’s here-" a first-year whispered frantically, nudging his friend.

"That’s her?" someone else breathed, voice cracking.

The second and third years didn’t need to ask. They knew you.

You were Umemiya Hajime’s girl.

The one person their wild, sunshine, chaos-loving leader doted on like you were the only thing in the world worth anything.

You were the black cat to his golden retriever. The storm cloud to his blazing summer day.

And seeing you in person, marching through Furin, wearing your scowl like a crown, only made the rumours feel so much more real.

Finally, you found him, lounging against a wall near the training grounds, laughing with a few second-years.

His laugh cut off the second he saw you.

"My Love!" he practically shouted, shoving off the wall and jogging toward you with that big, dopey grin you secretly loved.

Your arms stayed crossed. Your glare sharpened.

"You have my ring," you said flatly.

Umemiya laughed, half-nervous, half-lovestruck. "Yeah, yeah, I was just about to bring it back! I was keepin’ it safe for ya, promise."

You didn’t move as he dug into his pocket, producing the tiny silver band with almost ridiculous care like it was priceless.

He slid it onto your finger, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

"There," he said, softer now. "Right where it belongs."

You stared up at him, unimpressed.

"You’re an idiot," you muttered.

He beamed. "Your idiot."

Behind you, you could feel the stunned silence of everyone else watching, mouths open, eyes wide.

Hajime didn’t care.

He hooked an arm around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"Missed you," he said, almost sheepish.

"I saw you yesterday."

"Still missed you."

You grumbled under your breath but didn’t pull away. Of course, you didn’t.

He was the only one you let close.

The only one who could see past the frost and sharp words and grumpy glares.

And maybe, but just maybe, you missed him too.

"Oi!" Hajime shouted suddenly, looking back at the boys still frozen in shock. "Whatcha lookin’ at?! Ain’t she the cutest thing you've ever seen?!"

You whacked his chest lightly with the back of your hand, mortified.

"Shut up, Hajime."

He laughed, full and bright, holding you closer like you were something precious he was never letting go.

"Can’t. Love you too much."

You rolled your eyes. But your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his jacket, holding on. Just for a little longer.

Maybe forever.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

[readerihardlyknowher]

In Every Universe | Pt. 7

Fanfic-ception?

Spencer Agnew x Reader Warnings: None WC: 2,116 Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6, Pt. 7

“Oh, hello all and welcome back to Smosh Pit Theater!” Angela announces as the narrator this time, “Now, we’re gonna be doing another one of our favorites – and your guys’ too – fanfictions, and let me tell you guys before we start, I heard the crew snickering while reading some of them over, so this should be good.”

She takes out the first script and holds it up to read. You try to glance over her shoulder to see who’s in the fic, but her hands are too shaky to see properly.

“Okay, first story! It’s called ‘Five Nights at Smosh’ by Smoshbadussy. I think I’ll have Chanse playing Tommy–”

“–Wow, Angela, making me play the only other gay one here.”

“Shut up! Courtney will play me, Shayne will play Amanda, and Y/n will play… Freddy Fazbear. Spencer, you and I can watch and narrate. Okay! Now let the scene begin!”

You take your script from Angela, briefly glancing over the first line to see who’s in the scene starting off, seeing that you (or well, Arasha) aren’t in the scene yet, so you step beside the curtain, not taking center stage and adjusting your black turtleneck which you haven’t worn since the last Smosh Pit Theater episode. It is late summer in LA after all, and you were thanking god for AC at this moment. As the scene begins, however, you watch as Chanse and Courtney stand next to each other, acting out the scene which you read.

“Man,” Courtney begins, “that was a great crying session! Glad we’ve got the crying bathroom here.”

“Totally!” Chanse’s voice replies. “I don’t even know how long we were in there for!”

Angela narrates the scene as Shayne (as Amanda) steps into the scene and gasps.

“There you two are!” Shayne does a terrible Amanda impression as he speaks. “I had to stay behind to try and find you! Everyone else left! We’re locked in!”

You and the rest of the cast do dramatic gasps. Deciding to read ahead, you see that Freddy doesn’t show up for a while, just doing sounds in the background for most of the beginning. You try to keep your eyes on the three of your castmates, but your eyes wander as they always do, and where do they land again? Spencer fucking Agnew. You don’t even notice that you’re staring until his eyes meet yours. Neither of you move, not looking away, not until he shoots you a cute wink and looking back at the performing cast. This causes you to look away as well, trying to remember that you’re on camera. Though, as the crew is very nice, they’ll likely just edit it so that you’re out of frame for that, which you already mostly are.

The time comes for you to enter in the scene, so you do as the script reads, sneaking up behind the three of them all huddled together. After about a beat, you jump up and “attack” Courtney before you get pushed off and stand to the side. You look down to see your line, only to stutter out a laugh as you read it.

“Roh roh roh roh roh.” The rest of the cast found the line just as amusing as you did, and you all take a moment for a confused laugh, before Shayne speaks as Amanda.

“Uh, guys, I think that’s Freddy Fuzzbear.”

“It’s not Fuzzbear, Amanda!” Chanse yells. All three pretend to run, and you pretend to chase, before you get to center stage and continue the stupidly dramatic scene. Eventually, it ends with you as Freddy killing Angela while the other two escape, which makes the real Angela upset, of course. The scene ends finally and you head back to the chairs you were at before, turning your head to smile over at Spencer.

“Did I do good?” Your still giggly voice asks. His lips part into that iconic smile of his.

“Absolutely perfect,” he replies. Your eyes are drawn to Shayne, who has now taken the next set of scripts and will be doing the casting. You watch from behind and to the side as his face lights up with shock.

“Okay. This one is called ‘April 2nd’ and it’s by Y/s/n-luvr.” You and Spencer shoot each other a familiar, yet not unpleasant expression. “Let’s have Y/n playing herself, and Spencer playing himself, Chanse will play Damien, Courtney as Amanda, and then Angela will play the priest in this story.”

You and Spencer now look confused. A priest? April 2nd? What could that mean? Your eyes narrow as you walk on stage, all of you standing in a half-circle, facing towards the camera. The scene is that you’re on Smosh Games playing together. Looking down at your script you read your line.

“Damn it, Spence, you’re wiping the floor with us! At least give me a chance to win!”

“Yeah,” Chanse says, making his voice deeper to mimic Damien. “Who knew you’d be this good at the game of life?” It’s silent as we wait for Shayne to read his next line.

“Spencer’s eyes darted around, purposefully avoiding Y/n’s.”

Spencer does as the script says, playing up the nervousness a little, before looking down at his script and reading.

“Guys, I told you I’m a gamer. Anyways, Y/n, it’s your turn.”

“Y/n’s hand reaches the spinner on the table, flicking it, moving her car forward, before pulling the card on top of the pile. Once she sees what it says, her face shrivels up in confusion.”

You perform the actions with a perfect amount of stage exaggeration, pretending to pull the card before reading your script.

“‘Will you marry me?’ I didn’t know that was a card in here.”

“Spencer steps out from behind the table, before kneeling down in front of it on one knee.”

“It isn’t, babe. I uh… I wanted to propose to you doing something we both love, playing games together.”

Your face heats up in embarrassment. Someone wrote a whole fanfic about Spencer proposing to you. And now he’s in front of you, acting it out, with all of your friends/coworkers watching with glee.

“So,” his voice cuts through your thoughts. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, Spence! I never thought you’d ask!”

“Y/n jumps into Spencer’s arms in a warm and firm embrace, Damien and Amanda cheering, especially Amanda.”

You look over at Spencer, wondering how you should approach the hug. You’re certainly not going to be jumping into his arms as the script says, even if his cutely red face makes you want to do so. So instead you go for the classic side hug, perfect for on-camera romance. You figure the scene must be over now, so become confused once Shayne calls for everyone to get in place for the next positions. Shayne’s booming voice announces that today’s the day of the wedding, and you two are holding it with the Smosh cast and crew.

You gulp down the excitement/anxiety in your throat and wait to the side as the script indicates that you’re not in the scene yet again. You watch from the side as Spencer stands, waiting for you, and Shayne reads out how he’s patiently watching as you begin to walk down the aisle. Rolling your eyes, you do as the script says, rolling yours up to pretend it’s a bouquet. You try to avoid Spencer’s eyes, but fail as you see him wiping a fake teat, which makes you let out a chuckle.

As you finish your walk down the “aisle”, you stand in front of Spencer, holding your hands out as he takes them in his warm, soft ones. You say, “this feels familiar” off-script, which gets a few laughs. A soft smile is present on his face, he waits for a moment, seeming to forget about the whole idea that you’re acting out a scene, before he scrambles to pull out his script.

“Y/n, ever since I first saw you in your interview here at Smosh, I knew you were the one for me. Your laugh brightens my day, your eyes light up every room you’re in. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife. I’m so happy to officially get to call you that. I can’t wait to play videogames and watch movies with you for the rest of my life.”

You place your hand on your heart as he reads, genuinely touched by 1. The fact that someone wrote something so sweet, and 2. The fact that Spencer’s reading it out loud to you so sweetly. The look he gives you shows that while those aren’t his original words, he does mean all the kind things he’s saying, and it only adds to the tightness you’ve been feeling in your chest. Pulling in a deep breath, you look at your part of the script.

“Spencer, you’re my best friend, the love of my life, and now my actual husband–” you see the next line so you turn to look at the camera with a serious expression on your face. “Guys, don’t clip this.” Turning back to the script, you take a deep breath, before pushing the words out far too seriously than you’ve ever said the words before. “And I love you.”

“Woo!”

You shoot a glare to Chanse, before resuming your line.

“And I’ll be happy to listen to you yap about old Nintendo games until the day I die.”

“Now,” Angela’s voice softens the blow after what you said, making you feel a little less awkward having read all that out loud. “Charles Spencer Agnew, do you take Y/n (M/n) L/n to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The silly, relaxed smile spreads even wider across his face, the sight making your own body relax.

“I do.”

“And Y/n (M/n) L/n, do you take Charles Spencer Agnew to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your own smile broadens as you don’t even need to glance down at your script.

“I do.”

“Then I hereby pronounce you as man and wife. You may now kiss.”

Shoot, you had forgotten about this, but one look at Spencer’s mischievous smile says all that you need. As the cast and crew around you clap at the scene, you both ever so slowly lean into one another, eyes closing, and just when you know people will wonder if you’ll actually do it, you pull back, pointing to the camera with a smile plastered on your face.

“Got your asses! No more ship material for you! You've had enough!”

Both Chanse and Courtney groan at the psych-out, before you all come back to the chairs and sit together for the recap of everyone’s thoughts. Shayne turns to Spencer to speak first.

“So Spencer, would you ever propose to someone on Smosh games?”

Spencer shakes his head, somehow looking all too calm at this moment. You’re certain the comments later will be noticing how you look a little too nervous from all that.

“I wouldn’t do half of the things in this story, especially not a public proposal. Keep that shit private.” Everyone, including him, chuckles at this statement, before he speaks again. “Also, I definitely wouldn’t invite you guys to our wedding.”

Our wedding.

No one seems to notice the phrasing as they all laugh, and you join in as well as to not stand out on camera. You decide to chime in a little so as to not seem too quiet.

“Also, we didn’t meet during my interview, we met officially like two weeks later. We were both a little nervous to talk to new people at first since it was such a new job and we didn’t want to screw it up.” Spencer nods and puts his finger up to make a point while looking over at you.

“While that is true, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t see you before that and fall absolutely head over heels at first glance, which is something I'd clearly do.”

You roll your eyes at his statement. You know he’s just trying to stir the pot some more and banter with you, but at this moment, you’re still a little overwhelmed with the whole getting married in character as just the two of you. But you’re glad to know that the next fanfiction is getting pulled up and neither you, nor you as a character, are in it, so you’re happy to just sit back and watch, seeing your friends do a silly little scene that someone wrote about you guys. Even if yours and Spencer’s eyes meet a few times throughout in a way which makes you strangely nervous, you feel happy, and even happier when the video finally ends.

Tag list: @lisiliely, aliceblxck, burrowedinnature77, 65percentleg

[yanderelovebites]

Adding on: Barbara finds out and what leads to them coming back to Gotham

Barbara would be the one to find them. She’d be shocked and be like “WE THOUGHT YOU DIED OR SOMETHING?!” Sibling would be like “Almost did. Was shot. Three time, Miss Gordon. But I’m here. Meet my partner (insert partner). Now if you’ll excuse us we like dealing with the no bat zone, thank you very much. (Insert hero) isn’t nearly as annoying or hurtful.”

That would set it off for Barbara. “You’re telling me you’re hiding from them? Your family?” “Yes, yes I am. Not like they’d care, for fucks sake I got shot because dad didn’t. Anyway, what brings you to (city name)?”

Like she’d be so overwhelmed that ANOTHER ONE OF THEM WERE ASSUMED DEAD AND NO THEY’RE NOT! “This is like Jason all over again.” They’d say “Nah, he actually died first. Harley Quinn found me in time to take care of me before she crawled back to Joker.” That was the real punch to the gut. “You accepted the help of **her**?!”! They’d nod and say “best two months in my life in Gotham, really. Anyway and why is that a problem?” They don’t see this as substantial since Barbara knows what’s going on in the manor. They’d say “look I’m happy here, plus I’ve gone to therapy. I’m healing and this is home to me. Now me and partner need to get going.”

Barbara would be so confused and look into them herself because yeah. I feel like the biological version of sibling would be some type of doctor, usually a surgeon and not because Thomas Wayne was one, simply because deep down they do want to save lives. They just aren’t a hero.

An adopted sibling scenerio I’d envision more of a more passionate career. They’re either in business with a passionate love for their product or my personal favorite, a dog trainer. Specifically they train service dogs.

Barbara would tell the batfam when she gets back and they’re all, except the trio as they’re post sibling’s kidnapping, surprised. They’re alive?

Bruce obviously is relieved they’re safe, but then upset they never came home. I feel like he’d find Harley in jail and speak to her, pretending he’s asking in favor of Bruce Wayne, but she’d be like “Aw that poor kid? Yeah, I remember them. I was runnin’ from some people angry at Mr. J while we were on break. I hid and there the poor sugar was, three bullet wound. The guys must have been amateurs ‘cause not one hit any vitals. Bandaged them up and told me about their home life, didn’t blame ‘em for not wanting to go home. Why? Whatcha need about that sweetheart?” She laughs and says “Sounds to me they’re doin’ just fine on their own. Lemme guess, their family worried bout em?” Batman said they thought they were dead and she laughs again, “I didn’t hear anything about that. The amount of criminals here? Yeah, if they were to know that they’d fight over who hands em over. All for money.” He then says, “So you knew they’re a Wayne?” Harley nods, “Of course, I did!”

Dick is one of the worser to hear about all this. How could they prefer HARLEY QUINN over them? Or leaving Gotham than going back home?

Dick doesn’t understand it at all and is quite upset.

Jason isn’t as upset as everyone else. Jason isn’t anywhere near as yandere or obsessed because he’s been where she’s been sorta. His was way more traumatic, but he understands not wanting to come home. He also understands making herself something that isn’t Wayne, he’s actually kinda proud she could just move on. Yes this does make the rest of the family annoyed.

Tim? EXTREMELY annoyed that this is how they find out. He looks into it and there they are with their lover. He’ll be concerned if they’re a villain kid. He’ll look through everything and feel a pang in his heart. They wanted to help people. And they have.

The worst person is DAMIEN. Damien has been HAUNTED by images of her death and Alfred’s. He needed this, more than anything. He’s the worst one. He won’t settle for her ‘being happy’. For some time the others would attempt to keep him away from doing something irrational, especially Jason because again he gets **why** they didn’t come home.

The longest time it’s how it is. Bruce doesn’t want to compromise what appears to be a happy life for them. Especially when the hero in her current city says she’s doing okay, thinking he’s trying to help ‘Bruce Wayne’ feel okay about the child who went missing. Jason holds Damien back with the help from our three post-batsibling kids. Then it happens. Joker gets involved in the city because he being the dick he is, somehow knows the Bat’s identity (like in SOME iterations of Joker) and Joker decided to target batsibling. Batman is called via league and while helping the hero, Harley does turn on Joker once she realizes exactly what he was planning to do. Does joker question it? A little because it’s out of character for her to turn on him like that.

While they’re trying to save them by dealing with Joker, their partner would have found their way up. It’s even better if this is a villain kid because they probably hijacked their parent’s stuff to do this. Just when they think they’re safe they hear a gun go off and it got the partner.

Imagine bat sibling balling their eyes out, holding their lover’s corpse, while the heroes and Harley try to apprehend Joker. Then he goes for another shot which was in line to hit Batsibling, only for Harley to take the hit. This would be the last shot Joker could get.

Now if it’s a non-villain kid, it’s because Batman pinned him down, if it is a villain kid, the parent showed up and shot the gun out of Joker’s hand with one of their weapons and started to beat the crap out of him (didn’t kill him because that’s too good for him)

Villain would have been held back by their hero finally and once they’re calm (and joker is in custody lol) they’d tell the hero to let go. They’d have a whole ‘why so you can actually kill him’ and Bat sibling through choked sobs would say “He’s their son, (hero) please.”

That’s when Batman’s attention would solely look back at them. They’re no longer a child… a grown adult and they just witnessed what Bruce could only assume was their first love get murdered in front of them, trying to save them. He felt choked. “(Hero), let them go to them.”

The villain parent would rush by their dead child’s side and cradle them close. Their own child was gone FOREVER. Sibling would try saying sorry, that if they hadn’t come to save them, but villain wouldn’t hear it.

After the body is taken away, after everything… Bruce does talk to Sibling because while clearly he made his mistakes, if there was a time to be the father he’s supposed to be, it was then. At first sibling doesn’t want to hear it but Bruce ends up hugging them and saying what he could say. That he understands they just watch someone they really care about get shot and there was nothing they could have done to stop it from happening.

Sure the situation was different from when his parents died, but the emotional trauma was the same variety.

Bruce would also take full advantage of it and suggest they come back home, telling them about three new siblings she never got to meet and holding the info about Alfred, since they just lost their partner. Them, knowing they couldn’t afford to live in the apartment without their partner and knowing this city would just torment them with the past, agreed to after they put in for a transfer and go to their partner’s funeral. Bruce stays in a luxury hotel in the city, texting Tim who’d handle this the best in his mind, what was going on.

But this isn’t some tragedy you walk away from for family and magically heal over night. Nor can they really heal in the bat mansion, especially not without Alfred.

Add more about when she comes back in another reblog.

You know I’d love a batfam neglects batsis/batbro that starts not when they’re brought into the family… but show it as nightmares, flashbacks, etc. warning dead Alfred.

Have batsis/batbro move on in another hero’s city as to avoid them. Have them live happy in whatever profession of their dreams after finding themselves. Not the version behind Wayne manor, truly them. Fall in love with someone (maybe a hero kid or something. Hell secret villain kid) and every time they feel good they hear news of justice league, of bat man. Some nightmares… flashbacks…

Have each unfold the story slowly until you get to the climax, what TRULY happened. They didn’t come to this city under the best circumstances no. The reality was they were kidnapped for a hostage situation and Bruce never paid, forgot them and thought it was a fake. A scam. They survived by mere luck. They shot them and left them to rot, but much to their surprise Harley Quinn found them and helped them—it was one of her ‘redemption’ periods before going back to the Joker but she still saved them. A villain saved their life when their own family wouldn’t. That’s when they left, when she went back. They had no reason to stay and built a life away from them all. Have them confess to their lover about what happened….

Then switch to the bat family currently.

Cassandra, Steph, and Duke never knew them. They look at the few portraits of them in the manor and wonder what they were like, they don’t have the full story. The others had other varying reactions when they’re brought up. They had so many questions but since Alfred’s death, there was no one willing to tell them.

Tim still kept an eye through his skills and connections hoping to find them. He had figured out first after he noticed their lack of presence about the call Bruce had awhile back that he had a hostage situation. Bruce had been second to hear the conclusion that Tim had, that it was no scam because they had batsis/batbro. He knew they were likely dead but he couldn’t rest until a body is found… or they come back.

Damian gets quickly irritated, but he has nightmares at night that he’d never admit to or tell anyone about. He was younger, but they weren’t strong. Normally that would make him disregard them or just insult them when mentioned… but he can’t. Not anymore. At first, he’d just remember how he treated them, not these horrific nightmares, but then Alfred died. The nightmares came, repeating how Alfred died… then images of all the things that could have happened to batsis/batbro. In some, he saw a demon-like version of himself killing them… it shouldn’t bother him… but it does.

With Dick, he would wander close to their room when he was in the manor. He’d go in and look at their school achievements and the photos they had with coaches and instructors… with Alfred. He didn’t get nightmares, he barely slept since they told him what probably happened. So, so many unkept promises he’d probably never get to make up for. One picture had disappeared from the room, he never knew who had it.

Jason felt pissed every time he remembers anything about them. He avoided the manor more than ever. He blamed Bruce, but he knew deep down they all had a contribution. He was horrible to them in life and he fully believes they’re dead. He doesn’t see how they wouldn’t have come home if they were.

Then there’s poor Bruce. He lives in denial. That they’re somehow still alive. That missing picture? He took it out the frame and kept it with him. It was one of their birthdays, they had baked their own cake with Alfred and Alfred took a picture of the two of them after. He remembers he never made it home to wish them happy birthday. He made so many mistakes, let his vigilante work consume him so he forgot he had more in his life besides it. And it’s likely he lost that for good.

All means they’re obsessed about finding the truth, finding them. But when will they realize they aren’t in their city?

[pittsick]

LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

part one.

summary: The first murder on the Stanford campus makes everyone on edge — and so does the second one. Your roommate, Tashi; and her boys, Art and Patrick (your somewhat friends), are all acting weird after murders keeps going on. They wouldn’t happen to have something to do with this, right? Well, maybe.

cw: 1.6k words. apt scream!au. graphic violence, psychological manipulation, stalking, home invasion, murder/death, toxic/abusive relationships, fear of being watched (paranoia), mental distress, weapon violence, gaslighting, threats.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist .ᐟ @bluestrd, @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @bloodofswans, @jclolz22 (to be added)

You always hated how quiet Stanford got at night.

Even when you pressed your ear to the window, the world was too still—no footsteps on the pavement, no music from the dorms, not even the chirp of a late-night skater down Palm Drive. Just silence, thick and tense, like the breath before a scream.

The first body turned up on a Wednesday.

A sophomore named Harper, found gutted behind the humanities building. Her blood pooled beneath a vending machine, her phone still clutched in one limp hand, a glittery pink case smeared with red. The news spread across campus like wildfire, and for the first time since arriving at Stanford, you didn’t feel safe walking home after dark.

You weren’t alone. People started traveling in groups, locking doors that had always been left open, whispering theories behind cupped hands. Serial killer. Cult. Copycat. Ghostface.

You didn’t want to believe it. Not here. Not in your perfect little bubble of textbooks, tennis courts, and latte art. But then a second body showed up. And a third.

That’s when things got strange between you and Tashi.

She started staying out late—later than usual. You’d wake up in your dorm room, her bed still perfectly made. She wouldn’t answer your texts until morning, blaming late-night study groups or “hookups I didn’t want to talk about.” She never brought anyone back with her, though.

She looked... different too. A little more wired, her eyes brighter. More intense. She’d always been competitive, but now there was a fever in her—like she was playing a game no one else knew about.

You didn’t ask questions.

Because it was Tashi Duncan. Charismatic, brilliant, Stanford tennis royalty. Your best friend. Your roommate. The person who dragged you out of freshman depression with tequila shots and comfort movies. You didn’t ask questions because you didn’t want to hear the answers.

But then she introduced you to Art and Patrick.

And everything started to fall apart.

They were golden, the kind of boys who could ruin your life with a smile. Art Donaldson: all sunshine and soft sweaters, warm hands and eager eyes. Patrick Zweig: elegant, icy, unreadable—the kind of guy who made you feel like prey every time he looked at you.

They weren’t just tennis stars. They were Tashi’s boys.

She pulled them into your orbit like a planet flexing its gravity. And for a while, you thought you were safe there—surrounded by beautiful people who knew how to keep the real world at bay. They flirted with you, sure, but it felt innocent. Maybe even sweet.

Until one night, when Patrick leaned a little too close and whispered, “Do you trust her?” You blinked. “What?”

“Tashi,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Do you trust her?” The way he said it made your blood turn to ice. His tone was playful, but something behind it was sharp. Watching. Waiting.

“Of course I do,” you said too quickly. His smile widened. “Interesting.”

Two more students died the next week.

You didn’t know them personally—just recognized them from lecture halls or parties. One was found in the library bathroom, the other stuffed in a frat house freezer. Both were stabbed. Both had their phone screens shattered, as if they’d tried to call for help.

That night, Art brought you soup.

You opened your door and found him standing there with a thermos and a boyish grin. “You didn’t come to class. Tashi said you weren’t feeling well.” You didn’t remember telling her that.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the thermos down and pulling you into a hug that lasted just a second too long. His warmth lingered on your skin like static.

“Gotta stay strong,” he murmured into your hair. “You never know what’s out there.” You laughed awkwardly. “That’s comforting.” He pulled back and looked at you—really looked at you. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

It should’ve been reassuring. But something in his eyes was wrong.

The first threatening message came a day later. A voicemail. A voice you didn’t recognize—distorted, mechanical.

“You scream real pretty. Wonder if you bleed prettier.”

You dropped your phone, hands shaking. Called campus security. They told you it was probably a prank. They always say that. Tashi didn’t believe it either—until she listened to the voicemail. Her expression went cold. She took your phone and locked it in her drawer. “You don’t need to hear this again.”

“But—”

“No. Let me handle it.” Her voice cracked steel. “I will handle it.”

You should’ve felt grateful. Instead, you felt like a child being tucked away before something bad happened.

You started noticing little things after that.

Your dorm door open when you swore you’d locked it. Your notes rearranged. Shadows under the door at night. One time, you found your toothbrush wet even though you hadn’t touched it that morning.

And through it all, Art and Patrick hovered like twin ghosts—always around, always watching. Art would bring you tea, rub your shoulders, call you “sunshine” in that dumb soft voice. Patrick would corner you in the library and stroke your cheek like you were something precious he hadn’t decided whether to break or protect.

Tashi kept saying, “They’re just trying to help. Let them.”

You tried. God, you tried. But you didn’t know who to trust anymore.

It all came undone at the Halloween party.

The university tried to cancel it, but students are stupid. Invincible. They threw a rager in one of the old lecture halls. Everyone wore masks. Everyone drank too much. It was chaos. You didn’t want to go.

Tashi made you. Said you needed to be “seen” so people knew you weren’t afraid. She dressed you in black lace and blood-red lipstick. Painted a little knife under your eye and called you “Final Girl Chic.”

“Stay close to me,” she whispered. “Promise?” You nodded. You lost her ten minutes in.

The lights were strobing. Music pounding. People grinding on each other like the world wasn’t unraveling outside. You fought your way through the crowd, looking for her, for Art, for Patrick—for anyone. But all you found was the bathroom.

You ducked inside. And that’s when you saw it. Written across the mirror in blood-red lipstick: “You’re next.”

You ran.

You didn’t think, didn’t stop, didn’t breathe. You pushed past bodies and spilled drinks and Halloween screams. You made it outside, lungs burning, heart hammering.

Then someone grabbed your arm. You screamed, but the grip was gentle. “Hey, hey—it’s just me.” Art. Of course it was Art. Always there, like a shadow in the corner of your eye. “I saw you run,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“There was—there’s something in the bathroom,” you gasped. “Someone left a message—” His hand slid to your waist, grounding. “Hey. Look at me.” You did. He smiled. But this time, it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Later that night, someone was murdered again.

In the parking lot. Stabbed thirteen times. Blood pooled under their Ghostface mask like a red halo. You recognized the jacket. It was the guy who danced with Tashi earlier. You confronted her the next day.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore—the paranoia, the fear, the questions. You told her about the lipstick message. The mask. The call. Everything. She listened silently. Then she laughed.

“You think I’m the killer?” she said, tone mocking. “Jesus, you really don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” you whispered. She stepped closer, her face cold. “Maybe you’re just paranoid. Maybe you want to think I’m capable of that because it’s easier than accepting how fucked up the world is.” You stared at her.

And for a second—just a second—you believed her.

Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss.

You almost dropped out.

Packed your things. Wrote an email to your academic advisor. Told yourself you’d leave before Thanksgiving. But the night before you were supposed to go, you found something under your pillow.

A Ghostface mask. Still warm. You didn’t sleep.

The final body broke the campus.

A professor. Strangled. Gutted. Mask shoved down her throat. That was the moment the university shut everything down. Classes canceled. Dorms half-emptied. A curfew no one followed. But you stayed. Because you had to know. Who was doing this? Who had turned your life into a horror movie?

The next attack happened in your dorm.

You came back from the dining hall and found the door open, lights off. You called for Tashi. No answer. Then the closet creaked open. And Ghostface stepped out.

You screamed. Fought. Kicked. Ran.

He chased you down the hall, knife flashing silver. You ducked into the stairwell, took them two at a time, blood thundering in your ears. You burst out into the courtyard—and slammed into Patrick. “Whoa—hey—what’s going on?” He asked; hint of knowledge behind his eyes.

“He’s—he’s upstairs—he tried to kill me!” Patrick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your hand. “Come with me.”

He dragged you into the athletic building lockers, locked the door behind you and smiled. Tashi was already there. So was Art. Waiting. Your breath caught. “What—what is this?” The words escaped your lips like begging; like wanting this to not be real.

Art tilted his head. “Final act.” Tashi pulled something from her bag. A knife. Long. Clean. Familiar. “No,” you whispered. “No, no, no—” Patrick circled behind you. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

“We kept dropping hints,” Tashi added. “The lipstick. The mask. The voicemail. God, we practically spoon-fed it to you.” Art looked almost sad. “You were supposed to be smarter.”

“Why?” you asked, voice shaking. “Why me?” Tashi stepped closer. Her eyes were wild when she replied — she didn’t see you, she saw more. Something you couldn’t understand. Not yet.

“Because you were there. Watching. Listening. Judging. Always in my shadow. Always so fucking perfect.”

“I loved you,” Art murmured. “We all did. Still do.”

“That’s the fun part,” Patrick said. “This isn’t about hating you.” Tashi smiled. “It’s about making you famous.” You fought. You screamed. You ran. And maybe—just maybe—you lived. But that’s the thing about final girls.

They always bleed first.

[b1eedthefreak]

hey queen i love all of your works so much they make my day💕can i request season 1-2 daryl with a female reader who likes to use a baby voice to talk with him when they are cuddling? sorry if this sounds odd but ive seen this tiktok here and got obsessed😭: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBT14y8j/

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Sweet Talk

⌇daryl dixon x reader

⌇summary: you find a stray dog on the farm and start babying it, Daryl doesn’t get it. But later that night, when you use that same voice on him, he stops complaining real quick.

⌇warnings: fluff, reader uses a baby voice with daryl

word count: 2.3k

a/n STAWPP THANK YOU SO MUCH :33 YOU MADE MY DAY! (i wrote this instead of doing my math homework)

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The air had that sweet early fall stillness, all golden light and the hum of insects. It was the first time in weeks you felt warm, not just from the sun, but from the fabric on your skin. Beth had finally helped you sort through the laundry piles in the Greene household, letting you borrow a soft skirt and a little cotton tee that didn’t smell like barn or walker guts. You felt human again. Maybe even pretty.

You were humming something as you made your way through the field, a basket of random supplies hugged to your hip. Daryl was just ahead, posted up near the fence line with his crossbow over his shoulder. Probably meant to be keeping watch but the second you caught sight of the little dog nosing around the tall grass, everything else left your head.

“Ohhh my gosh!” you gasped, crouching low. “Heyyy sweet baby…”

The dog, a scruffy little mutt with floppy ears and a tail that wagged so hard it nearly knocked him over, ambled right up to you like you were already his.

“Hi handsome,” you cooed, voice going soft and syrupy. “Aren’t you just the cutest wittle man I’ve ever seen?”

Daryl turned his head, brows pinched. “The hell you talkin’ like that for?”

You barely glanced up at him, too busy ruffling behind the dog’s ears as he panted happily against your knee.

“I think someone’s jealous I’m givin’ you more attention than him,” you said sweetly to the pup, kissing his little nose with a smile. “Poor wittle Dawwy Bear feels left out.”

Daryl scoffed and shook his head, turning back toward the woods. “Ain’t no damn ‘Dawwy Bear,’” he muttered, but you didn’t miss the way he pouted.

That night, the farm had gone still.

Everyone had tucked themselves away early, tired from hauling supplies, mending fences, scraping together a half decent dinner. Your tent smelled like cedar and fresh hay, the little lantern beside your blanket casting a low, golden glow.

You were curled up, waiting. The zipper peeled open, and Daryl stepped inside.

He said nothing, just kicked off his boots, ducked his head, and crawled in beside you like muscle memory. You rolled over to face him, your hand already reaching to comb through the messy strands of his hair.

His eyes were half lidded, lashes low. He looked exhausted.

“Awww,” you whispered, voice soft and high pitched, almost a purr. “Are you tiiiired, baby?”

Daryl groaned, eyes closing. “Goddamn it. Again with the damn voice?”

You giggled and brushed his bangs back. “You looked so sleepy, baby. Just wanna take care of you.” You said dragging out every syllable.

He huffed but didn’t pull away. In fact, his hand found your hip under the blanket, grounding himself there like he needed the contact.

“You’re real weird, y’know that?” he muttered.

“Mhm,” you said, smiling.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his and pressing a kiss to his lips. He didn’t even pretend to fight it. His mouth moved slow against yours, his grip on your hip tightening just slightly.

“Poor baby’s been workin’ sooo hard,” you whispered as you kissed his jaw, his cheek, then the corner of his mouth again. “Protectin’ everybody… guardin’ the farm… bet your muscles are all sore…”

“Shit,” he murmured under his breath, eyes shut tight like he was trying not to react.

You nuzzled under his chin, your fingers petting through his hair again.

Then, just as you were about to press another kiss to his skin, you felt it, Daryl rubbing his cheek against the top of your head. Slow. Barely there. Like a shy cat.

You grinned against his throat. “Mmm… I thought you didn’t like it, hmmm?”

He exhaled, quiet and long.

“…Only when it’s you doin’ it.”

Your heart clenched.

You shifted just enough to kiss him again, sweet and slow, cradling his face with both hands as if he might vanish.

“Then I’m never gonna stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He just pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck with a quiet, content sigh.

And that night, Daryl had slept better than he had in months.

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[drivestraight]

If take responsibility won't be finished, could you tell us what was going on w the abo aspect of it (Lando specifically) bc that was what I was the most curious about

here's like. a scene. that should explain it.

Oscar flew to Qatar a day after Lando.

They usually flew to all the races together, but sometimes Lando flew with Max, and Max had an earlier flight schedule.

Then as soon as Oscar landed, as soon as he got cell service, he got a phone call from Zak.

There was an emergency meeting. As Oscar was driven to the hotel, he kept asking what was wrong, who would be at the meeting, why everyone seemed so panicked, if god forbid someone died, because that’s how everyone was acting, but no one was able to give him any answers. Oscar realized probably they knew just as much as he did.

Zak sounded uncomfortable on the phone. He looked even more uncomfortable in the conference room they secured in the hotel, sitting at the head of the table, next to Andrea. The only other people at the table were Jon, Lando’s manager Mark, and the team physician. It was strange: Lando’s immediate team was here, but Lando wasn’t.

“Where’s Lando?” were the first words out of Oscar’s mouth. 

Zak’s face twitched. Andrea and Jon looked away. Mark pressed his lips together. The team physician turned her head to look at Zak.

Then Zak took a deep breath. Disgust curled on his mouth as he told Oscar how they found Lando that morning, changed.

He sat in silence for a long time. They all did. They were looking at Oscar, gauging his response.

Oscar only swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay.”

The world was breaking open.

“Is he alright?” Oscar asked, throat tight.

He had to force himself to meet Zak’s eyes.

This time, Zak didn’t respond. Jon did. His face was pale, and he answered, “He’s still going through the changes right now. He’ll miss the race.”

“Oh,” Oscar said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He felt lightheaded with anger.

He didn’t have to ask how it happened. He knew how things like these supposedly went—but they were old wives’ tales. Crude things young alphas spout. Rumors they’d spread about alphas they didn’t like. Jokes they would sneer when they were too young to know better, too young to be scared, too young to realize what it’d mean. None of it was real.

It was different, hearing this, as an alpha. Oscar knew this. It made something crawl up the back of his neck—a feeling he couldn’t put a name to. It was worse than mere disgust; it was electric hot. Zak was the only other alpha in the room—Oscar could tell that he felt it too.

It’d have to take a number of times, a number of knots. It doesn’t happen easily. It doesn’t happen by accident. It doesn’t happen all at once.

He wondered how Lando had felt when his body was starting to change. If he had even noticed. If he had even cared.

He tried to focus: he looked at the stupid television screen mounted to the wall behind Zak. He could see his own silhouette.

Andrea explained, “We’re flying Pato in.”

Oscar chewed the inside of his cheek raw. He could feel his mouth coming apart. Iron on his tongue. He thought about Lando, changing. He bit the inside of his mouth harder. Oscar had to stop thinking about it. It was a few weeks to his rut. He couldn’t remember if he popped a scent blocker pill this morning. He slept on the plane. He was barely awake when he was being ushered into the car, and everyone had been in such a rush to get him to the hotel that he hadn’t thought to apply a patch.

If he kept thinking about it, he knew that Zak would smell it.

“Thanks for giving me a heads-up,” Oscar said, his voice strange to his own ears. He didn’t sound like himself and he didn’t feel like himself. He felt animal. He shifted in his seat, making to leave—to get out of there before he did something stupid, like punch the wall in front of his bosses.

And then Andrea cleared his throat.

“Oscar,” he said, voice calm, “that isn’t all.”

Oscar’s teeth clattered and ground together. He stayed in place.

He drew in a breath, then went on, “In a few days, probably Sunday night, early Monday, we have been advised that—Lando will likely have a heat.”

It was hard to hear. He liked it better when they were talking around it. Not putting any real terms to it. Lando and heat made him feel lightheaded, dizzy and out of control.

“Oh,” he said, and he didn’t know why they were telling him this. “Okay.”

But maybe that was a lie. Oscar knew—he just didn’t want to.

They didn’t have to say the words, but he knew, instinctively, what they wanted from him, what they were asking from him. He wasn’t an idiot.

He licked his mouth and played pretend. When his tongue swiped the corner of his mouth, he thought of Lando’s nervous tick, and started to feel sick all over again.

“He’ll have, like—” It felt weird in Oscar’s mouth to say, but he pushed forward, “A knotting aid, and stuff, right?”

He would push for that. Something like that, where Oscar wouldn’t have to be involved, where no one would have to be involved, was their best bet.

And then the team physician finally spoke up and said, “He can’t.”

Oscar’s mouth felt dry. His throat hurt. There it was again: the taste of blood. “What?” he asked, then added, “It’s just a heat—”

The shame only came later.

“It’s a first heat,” the doctor interrupted, looking Oscar coldly in the eyes: head-on.

“He’ll need an alpha. It’s too dangerous otherwise,” she continued, and intensely, Oscar felt this: that he hated her, that he wanted to rip her throat out. More than anything, he hated himself for thinking that. He couldn’t get himself into order. How could Lando be so stupid?

“Then get the one who did this to him,” Oscar said, jaw clenching.

“Oscar,” Zak interrupted, “we can’t—”

“Why not?” Oscar asked. His voice was rough and guttural. No one was answering him, so he swallowed and tried to calm himself down. He hated how angry he was getting. Then he asked, “Do you know who it is?” and he felt even worse.

Zak looked angry too, but it wasn’t directed at Oscar. “Yes,” he said, “we do.”

“Then get that alpha, not me—”

“It’s a conflict of interest, Oscar,” Andrea said, and the world slowed.

“What?”

Andrea exhaled.

We cannot risk the other teams finding out,” he said, and Oscar still didn’t understand.

“Then have them sign an NDA,” Oscar said. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Oscar,” Andrea said, and Oscar hated the sound of his name in everyone else’s mouths, like they were trying to calm him down. “It won’t work, even if he does. It’s still a conflict.”

“Why?” Oscar asked, getting the feeling that he was missing out on something. That they were all still keeping something from him.

He realized he was asking the wrong question.

“Who is it?” Oscar asked, and a sinking feeling was starting to settle in his gut.

There were rumors of course. Nasty ones. Mostly by losers online who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives. It started growing throughout the season, intensifying. They were given a narrative and they made do with it—ran with it.

But just because they said it, didn’t mean it had to be true.

“No,” Oscar said, because he knew it wasn’t true. “It’s not—”

“It is,” Mark said. “He was calling for him in the morning.”

Oscar let out a noise that was half between a laugh and a scoff. He wanted to say something stupid like maybe he meant the other one, but Oscar knew that couldn’t have been the case.

He looked down at his lap. His head was reeling. He felt sick. Had to push the nausea away.

Had to focus.

“Okay, sure,” he said, jaw going tough. He couldn’t think about it, what they were telling him. “But I won’t do it.”

He had to draw the line here. He had to draw the line somewhere.

Zak looked at him with heat, and Oscar gathered they were having something like a standoff. Zak has never liked him so much, at least not as much as he’s always liked Lando, and Oscar, in that moment, realized why: that maybe, deep down, Zak had always seen him as a threat.

“It’s your duty,” Zak said, “as his teammate.”

Oscar shook his head. His hands were in fists under the table. He knew his face was red. “It’s not in my contract to clean up after my teammate’s messes.”

It was getting tense: Oscar could see Jon and Mark and the physician go rigid, shifting away from Oscar, from Zak.

Andrea was calm, and Oscar’s eyes drifted to him when he said, with firmness, but with a different sort of decisiveness than Zak, “You have to give him your full support.”

Oscar almost laughed. That’s what I’ve been doing all year, he didn’t say.

Instead, he asked, “What happens if I don’t?”

Andrea pursed his mouth. There was a buzzing in Oscar’s ears when Andrea said, “We would like to not have to explore other avenues.”

Oscar didn’t feel like arguing anymore. He didn’t say anything more. He only asked if he could go now, and they all gave him a careful look until Zak nodded his head, decisive. Oscar rushed to his feet and stormed out of the room.

He paused once he was out in the corridor. Leaned against the wall. Shut his eyes. Didn’t think about it.

He didn’t think about it:

Lando, twisting and writhing around in bed. Lando, gasping into the sheets. Lando, sweating. Lando, in pain. Lando, the heat of his body. Lando, the hard edges softening against his nature. Lando, where he must have been coming undone, wet and open.

He didn’t think about it:

Lando, still an alpha then, taking Max’s knot, huge and swelling inside of him, the point of no return.

[omnisvirlupussicfiatdraco]

this always terrifies me a little bit because I love all fans who aren't out and out assholes.

Due to leftover bad childhood experience embarrassment however, I like to check the level of fan I'm interacting with so I can match the vibe.

I've friends who are casual fans of NuWho to people who literally knows enough about the Extended Universe that I would bet money on them in any quiz/trivia competition.

All of the people along this spectrum are valid, all of them are awesome.

The problem I found is that I dabble in a lot of the fandom and I get gremlin-finding-a-shiny excited about anything related to the show; a prop, a location, cosplay, actors or story trivia, "I've heard X audio", I've met Y companion. Genuinely I danced on the spot visiting a filming location for Classic Who when I realised where I was, in a public place hopping about like the floor was lava. And some people, just sort of don't. Which is absolutely fine!

But I've had many experiences where I do get super excited, but the people I'm with (also fans/or not) don't. It used to hurt because I thought I'd fucked up, now I'm an adult and I just don't care if I misread the vibe and get overexcited when other's don't. but the checking is still there. What Doctors do you like? Have you read the books? Checked out Big Finish blah blah.

But I found something out a few months back that genuinely made me sick.

Context; I was talking to a woman (I'm a man) my age and asked stuff like this to kind of gauge the vibe as I say.

I learn some info which directly indicates flat out that there is no damn way I'm out nerding this lady on Doctor Who. I am suitably impressed and internally go "Right, you can get full gremlin now, these peeps are safe." because they're 100% going gremlin mode with me and it's awesome.

I found out later that the tone shift from me was so distinct that it seemed like I became interested in the conversation after I found it out, because it meant who I was talking to passed some arbitrary test I'd set for being a proper fan.

And now the bit that makes me sick typing it; that's not new.

Men in the fandom gatekeeping everyone else for not being a real fan of the show particularly women.

I'll be clear, I'm not upset that this was thought of me. It's not what I'm about, fuck gatekeeping, you love the thing I love so we can love it together, but it made sense, given context.

We cleared it up when this was explained to me so it's all good but... holy fuck if it's that ubiquitous a problem being encountered that it seems like the default? What the fuck kind of nonsense is that? In a show as diversely crewed, cast and storied as Doctor Who is. With values as obvious from day one in 1963 and a runtime as long as Doctor Who has. Why the fuck is fake fan/real fan a question? Especially what the fuck are we (men) doing gatekeeping it from everyone else? Sorry this one got away from me @the-worms-in-your-bones. Please feel free tell me to get this off your post if you like.

The thing about doctor who is that there’s so much of it that you can never truly know what someone mean when they say they’re a doctor who fan, like you could meet someone who’s favorite doctor is 11 and they’ve only watched new who or you could meet someone who hasn’t watched anything with the doctor in it in a year and who’s favorite character is someone you’ve never even heard of

[eugenedebs1920]

The balance has been thrown off kilter. The representation is not equal to the constituency. The lust for power has surpassed the duty to protect the Constitution, defend democratic principles, or adhere to the wishes of the people. This has dire implications. This doesn’t just give the illusion of government reflecting the will of the people, it shows the blatant disregard for it.

I’m a liberal. My values are that of equality, that people should feel free to express themselves how they please, love who they want to love, have control of their own bodies. I believe that government is there for the benefit and betterment of society, that government is not that which restricts liberty, but that which enshrines it. I believe that no one is better than anyone else, that the working class should make a living wage, that corporations and the wealthy should pay just as high of a tax rate as a teacher, that leaving this country, and this world in better condition than how we found it, both socially and environmentally, should be a top priority, that science is real, and objective reality is that in which we live, that religion should not dictate policy, nor be forced upon anyone.

This nation hasn’t been this divided in decades. Between the rise of the right wing propaganda apparatus, the unchecked, undiagnosed racism that the Obama years pulled to the surface, the shocking victory of a polarizing, 2nd rate reality tv personality, who brought with him to the oval office not only incompetence doused in narcissism, but not so silent cries of a discriminatory dog whistle.

The absolute failure during the covid pandemic brought the attention of those who would normally not have much political engagement into plain sight. The refusal to listen to scientists and doctors. The stubborn, asinine objections to the simple suggestion of masks. The skepticism of vaccines whose efficacy and safety have been long established. The projection, scapegoating, finger pointing, and denial of objective reality trump exuded was his downfall.

The 2020 election, despite the assertions of fraud and corruption, was found to be, by trumps own cabinet, as well as an independent investigator hired by the Trump campaign, the most secure and free from interference to date. When the “right” disputes the participation numbers, comparing them with previous elections, they would assert that millions and millions more votes were cast in that election than in others. There is a simple and obvious reason for this. Access and ease of participation.

A lot of us were on lockdown in fall of 2020 (not myself, I was an “essential worker” which sounds a whole lot like expendable asset) many were working from home, or unable to work. In the midst of all this was the general election. With social distancing protocols, and suggested limited interactions between people, the public was mailed their ballots, unburdening those who had found it taxiing to engage in their civic duty of democracy. When people were allowed to fill their ballots out with leisure, in their home, then mail their decision out, the participation rate skyrocketed.

This next bit is relatively unrelated but. The 2020 election saw the highest percentage of eligible voters cast ballots, at 62.8%, since the 1968 elections, the average participation rate being between 49%-57% since (shame shame on those not civically engaging). All this voter fraud talk, and non citizen voting is complete fabrication. Even the ultra far right Heritage Foundations investigations found minuscule cases of “suspected fraud” the percentage of these suspected cases being 0.0001%. These pushes for voter integrity, or to secure our elections are simple attempts to disenfranchise voters, a campaign of legalized voter suppression, don’t be fooled.

The fact of the matter is, in this science based world, where the questions of old have been answered, society is more open minded and tolerant, those clinging to the legitimacy of their discredited, fantastical religious dogma, acting in ways in such contrast to the scripture they preach, find themselves losing relevance, and in turn, losing power. So as to retain power the tactics are to cheat and rig the system to where minorities, the working poor, urban voters, women, and the youth will find it difficult to carry out their civic responsibility of voting. This is not a denouncement of spirituality or religion overall, it is a calling out of those who use religion as a sword and a shield to carry out their highly immoral behavior.

I digress…

The pendulum swing from the Obama years, combined with the, to put it nicely, unconventional and divisive rhetoric of the 2016 Trump campaign and subsequent administration has polarized the United States to levels not experienced in many of our lifetimes.

Then there’s the lies. Lie after lie after lie. With special counsel to President, Kellyanne Conway telling a reporter that the fabrications coming from the White House weren’t lies they were “alternative facts”. Post Trump’s presidency an independent analysis counts that Trump had lied, misled, and altered the truth more than 36,000 times. Thats just the first run.

Then you have the propaganda and propagandist. Institutions like Fox News, OAN, and Newsmax, so disattached from objective reality that Fox and Newsmax were held to accountability for their deception to the tune of almost $2 billion. Many of the smaller independent right wing media and podcasters were found to have “unknowingly” taken money from Russian state television and given a list of talking points to spread on the right in order to sew discourse between Americans and distort reality.

Say all you will about the “fake news”, or legacy media, the mainstream media, like they’re profit driven cowards, you could say they’re corporate tools, one could even claim they’re milk toast media, too afraid of speaking truth to power on the chance it would offend their bottom line and upset the almighty messiah that is the capital stuffing their fat pockets. CNN, CBS, ABC, NBC, or MSNBC, although some may show an apparent bias towards Democratic ideals, and receive their talking points from corporate overlords, they were not instructed by the Kremlin to divide America.

On the first amendment. In this country you are free to believe and say what you please. Yet some have exploited this endowment granted in the Bill of rights to collapse and crumble an essential pier of a free society bestowed in said amendment. An independent, free, and credible press. Sadly it’s one thing when the president says things like, Jan 6th was a day of love, or Haitian immigrants are eating pets, ect, it’s another to present yourself as a purveyor of factual information, convincing your audience of such, and feeding them an alternate reality. It sews division and animosity, one side consuming lies as truth.

Moving on.

On the left, a well meaning, and justified movement, of holding those who would prey on women without consent accountable for their actions, transformed from the righteous and long overdue pursuit of justice, into a culture of censorship if others opinions offended, or were in contrast to those who held their own ideals as law. The cancel culture had began.

This cancel culture would deny controversial speakers from freely expressing their opinions in universities and at events across the country, it would shame and accost speech or views contentious to their perception, the fight for social justice became eerily similar to that which they opposed, fascist thought police.

The thing about freedoms, rights and liberty is that it must be enjoyed by all to be enjoyed by any. Personally I find Nazis and racism, discrimination, disgusting and unacceptable, yet those pathetic bigots have to be granted the same privileges of free speech as non ignorant citizens of a free society for that right to be given to society as a whole. It doesn’t mean one would have to go along with it, it doesn’t mean one can’t oppose or combat it, it doesn’t mean that Nazis don’t deserve what they get for openly supporting it. It means they have a right to say and express it.

Another unforeseen consequence of stifling viewpoints which may be contradictory to one’s self, offensive or controversial is the limitations of one’s personal growth. By denying and sheltering debate of that which you find fundamentally wrong or that goes in opposition to that which you believe, it causes one’s perspective to become rigid and narrow, unwittingly being that which you decried as intolerant.

The backlash to this, and to the nations first president of color, was the inception of an opposition party with very vibrant tones of racial intolerance. The T.E.A. (Taxed enough already) Party would bust on the scene as a far right movement, raising havoc at town halls and throwing rallies in nearly every state. All this would be perfectly acceptable and even welcomed, but there was an unsettling theme. Rally goers would brandish signs refuting Obama’s citizenship, signs that read, “a village in Kenya is missing its idiot”, some that referenced slavery even some using the N word.

Along with this not so subtle display of racism, Republicans were questioning Barak Obama’s eligibility to hold the office of president as well. His foreign sounding name, and the pigmentation of his skin, prompted some to call for Obama to prove his citizenship, asking to see his birth certificate. Even upon the release of his birth certificate, the skepticism lingered heavy in the atmosphere of general discourse on the right.

One of these voices was a crude, frankly vulgar, insulting, failed businessman turned reality television personality, not particularly articulate or intelligent, but his crass style was relatable and entertaining, the trash that spewed from his mouth was unimaginable not 10 years prior. This was the rise of Donald Trump, who would go on to win the nomination for president as a Republican.

In a display of arrogance the Democratic Party, the only viable choice for progressive thinking liberals in the U.S., disregarded the support for its own unconventional candidate, a Jewish socialist, Bernie Sanders. Instead they nominated a candidate, sadly unconventional due to the sex, but about as establishment as it gets in Hilary Clinton.

Perhaps it’s the young age of the United States, or perhaps it’s just misogyny, but America, unlike much of the world, isn’t willing to elect a female to its highest office. Trump, an adjudicated sexual assailant and known adulterer, exudes misogyny, and sexism. His attacks on Clinton were relentless, unfounded, and inappropriate. In their debate he loomed over her like a caged animal, pacing back and forth. At the end of the day Trump’s victory was a shock, even to the Trump campaign.

The 2016 Trump administration started off slow, and bumbled their way forward. In February, just prior to the election, long time conservative Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia passed away. The sitting president is constitutionally obligated to replace any vacancy in the Supreme Court should it arise, but reptilian alien, turtle variant, Mitch McConnell had other plans.

McConnell popped his head out of his shell to make out of whole cloth, a rule that had never been instituted in the previous 240 some years of this nations existence, claiming that a “lame duck” president didn’t have the right to nominate a justice to the highest court in the land, blocking any attempt to appoint Obama’s nomination. That’s how Neil Gorsuch sits on the court today, and how Merik Garland was given the opportunity to fail the American people and the Constitution four years later.

Newton’s 3rd law it states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. If you push against the wall, the wall “pushes” back with the same force. The laws of physics can apply to society as well. When one force pushes, the same amount of force will push back.

In 2018 Justice Anthony Kennedy retired, giving Trump his second Supreme Court pick. Although Kennedy would be considered a conservative, he wasn’t stuck with a closed ideological view, and was often a swing vote for the more liberal justices on the court. The man chosen to replace him, and in which Trump instructed his FBI to forego any sort of extensive investigation, Brett Kavanaugh, who’s past, riddled with allegations of sexual assault and heavy drinking that should have been disqualifying, leaned much farther to the right that his predecessor. The balance of the court had shifted significantly.

In the hype of a global pandemic was the 2020 general election. Americans, and much of the world was in turmoil. People were dying in droves, the global economy was in shambles, commerce and shipping was at a halt, even the essentials like toilet paper was hard to ascertain, when on September 18, the liberal icon Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away, just 2 months before the 2020 election.

In a shameless move of outright staggering hypocrisy, majority leader, old freezeframe tortuga himself, Mitch McConnell moves at lightning speed, ramming through the confirmation of Trump’s 3rd Supreme Court pick, Amy Coney Barrott, creating a near supermajority, right wing court.

What does any of this recent history lesson have to do with polarization? Equal and opposite reactions.

What’s one of the first major rulings coming from this maga court? Rescinding Roe v Wade, stripping women of their bodily autonomy, to where their grandma had more rights than they did. This court has drastically set environmental standards back, it has weakened labor rights, taken authority over experts in their fields of science, it has removed voting protections, protected weapons of war for any civilian, and in the most revolting show of partisanship and an absurd interpretation of the our Constitution, it gave immunity to the executive branch regarding crimes committed as president of the United States.

Still. How is this relevant to the division in our nation?

I try, with great effort, to emphasize, relate and understand the current “conservative”, slash, right wing perspective. From my perspective, what they say, and what they do, or their voting record, are vastly different things.

They claim they’re for the working class yet stack their administrations with billionaires. They enact tariffs that get passed down to the consumer, raising the price of goods ever higher. They continually vote against raising the minimum wage, against collective bargaining, against protections from hazardous materials, against paid family leave and sick leave, against guaranteed overtime. Yet they vote for restricting lawsuits against corporations. How does that benefit the working class?

They claim to be pro family, pro life. Yet they vote to slash nutritional assistance benefits, they vote to eliminate the Department of education and head start programs, they vote against the child tax credit, they vote to eliminate consumer protection agencies like the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, and the FCC. They vote to eliminate price caps on pharmaceuticals, to slash Medicare and Medicaid, against universal childcare. How does that benefit families?

They claim to be fiscally responsible and good for the economy. Yet 10 of the last 11 recessions have been under Republican administrations. The first Trump administration added a quarter of the OVERALL debt we’ve accrued. They cut taxes for the wealthy and for corporations, yet our tax rate has risen to nearly 40%, offloading the fiscal burden onto the working class. How is that fiscally responsible?

They claim to be for the first amendment but they want the Bible in public schools. They claim to be pro free speech, but threaten universities. They have vilified the press, arrested and deported protesters, they burn and ban books. How is that pro first amendment?

The most obvious example of what is now the Republican Party, but can be categorized as conservative, (although I’m not sure exactly what they’re conserving) or the right wing exuding utter disdain for this country, the rule of law, and the constitution. Their constant assault on the foundation of this republic, votes.

Since the birth of the democratic system, where the people choose their governance through casting a vote there have been those who would seek to sway the odds in their favor. There are numerous ways in which to to this, buying votes with favor or capital, intimidation, fraud, having influence over those who count the votes, but the one most commonly used in the United States is simple voter suppression.

There are several ways to carry out this suppression, even to a point where the act is difficult to notice. After emancipation black Americans were a predominate target. White election officials would enact a poll tax that many could not afford, they had literacy tests, they would insist that they name council members or representatives in full, now it is more prevalently undertaken by adding obstacles and restrictions, making it harder to register, unnecessary documentation, proof of citizenship.

We all want free and fair elections. I think we’d all agree that only American citizens should be allowed to vote in American elections. I can’t tell you how many times I tried explaining this during the most recent election. People will say, ‘You should have to show ID in order to vote!’, the thing is, you do.

In all states, in order to get a drivers license, drivers permit, or state issued identification you have to show your birth certificate. In order to register to vote you have to show an ID when you register. I guess I was unaware that the Department of Redundancy Department was so involved in the electoral process. Migrants and those residing in the U.S. legally are required to possess United States identification from the state they’re in but the number on your state license is linked to your Social Security number which is tied to your birth certificate, which those not born in the U.S. are not in possession of.

The penalties for voter fraud and non citizen voting citizen voting are severe. The act is a federal crime punishable by up to 5 years in prison, fines exceeding $5,000, both civil and criminal charges can be filed, and those who aren’t United States citizens can be deported. Seems like the juice ain’t worth the squeeze to cast a single ballot amongst 150 million votes.

The Republican (right wing/conservative) led House of Representatives just recently passed the SAVE Act requiring a birth certificate or passport, not accepting a state drivers license (ID). Approximately 146 million Americans are without a passport, to put that in perspective 153 million Americans voted in the 2024 presidential election. This would exponentially impact those in the middle middle class, lower middle class, and the working poor. Statistics show that 1 in 5 Americans making less than $50k a year have a passport.

This bill will disenfranchise nearly every woman who has taken their spouses last name as the bill makes no mention of a marriage license or change of name documentation, and if your name on your birth certificate doesn’t match that of your ID then you’re unable to verify.

The bill would void the use of military ID’s as acceptable documentation to register to vote, or cast a ballot. Our men and women who serve our country are often moved from various bases here at home, and many serve abroad, making state issued identification (not that that would suffice anyway) unnecessary or just redundant. Disenfranchising those who fight for our freedom is beyond unamerican.

The Get Out The Vote (GOTV) registration drives are prohibited under the SAVE Act as well. The bill would deny the use of online registration and mail in registration, forcing citizens who wish to register to go in person to their local agencies in order to register.

Voter fraud and non citizen voting is extremely rare, with statistics showing you’re more likely to get struck by lightning than for fraud or non authorized votes to be cast in our elections. The ultra conservative Heritage Foundation claimed to have identified prior to the 2024 election over 1,100 suspected fraudulent votes, yet in fact Only 105 cases come within the past five years,and 488 within the past 10 years. Thirty-two cases are from the 1980s and 1990s. Indicative of its overreach, the database even includes a case from 1948 (when Harry S. Truman beatThomas Dewey) and a case from 1972. In that time frame there have been over 3 BILLION votes cast. It’s a solution looking for a problem and disenfranchising millions of American voters in the process.

This is a blatant attempt to limit voter turnout, particularly those in a lower, or middle, socioeconomic bracket.

I have an idea! Instead of suppressing voter eligibility and participation, how bout enacting policies and laws that benefit the majority of the people? Or maybe they could look out for and protect the largest voting block, the middle class and working poor, instead of cutting Medicare and Medicaid, lowering and trying to eliminate social security benefits, dissolving agencies enacted to protect consumers and workers and giving tax breaks to billionaires and corporations. Meet their desired population with that in which the population desires.

We would all benefit from both parties being strong and possessing conviction. A healthy democracy is nourished through the diplomatic exchange of ideas. Compromise and bipartisan give rise to policy that is more robust and well rounded. Debate bolsters the power of thought.

This current system of obstructionism and hostility only serves those looking for publicity. These people are hired by us to do a job, and that job is to work together for the good of America and its people. We cannot ride a bike missing a wheel. The sycophancy and allegiance to a person and not to the Constitution or the constituency they represent shows a sharp decline in the values of governance.

This nation needs grounded in truth, not falsehoods. It needs bolstered with integrity, not capitulation. We need leaders who project honor, not arrogance. We have to remember, whether liberal or conservative, traditional or progressive, Republican or Democrat, the verb United that so proudly brandishes our nations title involves more than vague admiration. It requires participation, cooperation, civility and respect. For we may not be kin by blood, but it is our shared bond that makes us kin.

[ecargmura]

Wind Breaker Episode 18 Review - The World Below The Tightrope

Before I start the review, I want to let you know that I will be referring to Tsubakino with male pronouns as the author of Wind Breaker, Nii Satoru, confirms he identifies as male. However, you are free to refer to him however you want as long as you don’t be an ass about it to me or to anyone else. If Sakura can be accepting of Tsubaki, why can’t you?

Anyways, I found this a very lovely episode. Sakura finally realizes that he likes being in Makochi and in Bofurin. If you noticed since episode 1, he has always been walking on a tightrope as a metaphor for his own life. However, in this episode, he finally jumped down from the rope and found a colorful place that accepts him for who he is. Sakura finally has a place to belong.

I do like that Anzai is the one lecturing Sakura as it befits him being the center focus of the Keel arc. I also like that the other members of Class 1-1 are revealing their own weaknesses and fears with Takanashi being terrified of bugs, Tsugeura afraid of ghosts to the point that he showers with his eyes open, even when showering, and Suo hating natto despite his denial. Suo does hate natto and he will deny it until his dying breath.

Other than the heartwarming moments with Sakura and his new found family, three new characters are formally introduced. The first being Tasuku Tsubakino. As Furin is a boys’ school, he is a guy. Despite that, Tsubaki is very beautiful and bubbly. I love how straightforward he is with him being a guy but loving to dress feminine as he’s the only one in the school wearing a skirt; also, props to Sakura for not being prejudiced about it—some men in real life need to learn from him (just saying). He wears his heart on his sleeve. Yes, he has a crush on Umemiya and he’s not denying it. Everyone can see it, but they’re not against it either.  I love how affectionate he is towards Sakura. My favorite part of the episode was when he hugged him so tight that his soul left his body but Tsubaki slipped it back in.

The next two characters are twins Seiryu and Uryu Sakaki. Despite looking identical, I do love that the author made them look different, but not to the point of being completely different. Seiryu is more talkative, has a sunny visage and his hair is straight while Uryu barely talks, is always seen with a frown and has wavy hair. I really like whenever a story makes twins not look completely identical from each other to show off that twins are their own people and not a collective.

The voice cast for these three is seriously high quality. Tsubaki is voiced by Ryota Osaka who is probably one of the most versatile voice actors of modern anime alongside a few others like Toshiyuki Toyonaga. I swear, Osaka comes with a different voice every time he is casted for a role. If you’re not familiar with Osaka, some of his roles includes Haruaki from A Terrified Teacher At Ghoul School, Gyutaro from Demon Slayer, Bennett from Genshin Impact and Akaashi from Haikyuu. The fact that Osaka is able to produce a voice that’s deep for a man, but not too baritone is good. I seriously anticipated what Tsubaki would sound like and I think it’s perfect! It’s a perfect blend of effeminate and masculine that doesn’t outdo one or the other!

I’m also excited about the twins’ voice actors as they got stellar ones. Seiryu is voiced by Soma Saito, who is one of my favorite voice actors ever. I just love the chipper tone of his voice. Though, I do admit that this is a little different from the roles he usually plays as he normally voices androgynous beauties like Chigiri from Blue Lock, beautiful cuties like Miyano from Sasaki and Miyano and Shion from Twilight Out of Focus, or just super silly characters like Honda from Skull-Faced Honda-ku. I don’t really know how to classify Seiryu amongst Saito’s usual roles, but as long as he’s in the cast, I’m pumped up! Uryu didn’t talk, but he does have a voice actor! He’s voiced by Kazuki Ura, who you might know as Isagi from Blue Lock, and is basically a current rising star in the voice acting industry. It does feel like a small waste that Ura’s lines are just grunts, but I don’t remember if he talks—please let me know.

But yes, I can’t wait to see Sakura’s “date” with Tsubaki animated next week. It’s one of my favorite parts in the manga as it’s a very emotional story that got me shedding a few tears because I am a sucker for them. I’m glad that Wind Breaker S2 is weekly because I get motivated to write whenever I finish an episode! I’ve been feeling a bit glum lately and it has been affecting my motivation to write, but watching Wind Breaker, writing episodic reviews and then uploading them onto my blog and Tumblr restores my writing powers like how a game character restores their MP. I feel like Sakura whenever I see familiar faces like and comment on my posts—it’s like my own little community in a way. Anyways, enough about me—let me know your thoughts on this episode!

[icrytearsofsadness]

Even before it happened, Steve had decided that the masks were stupid.

He could feel the strap digging into his scalp above his ears, probably screwing up his hair. And besides, he wanted people to look at him and know who he was. He'd voiced this (very real, thank you) concern to Robin, who had called him an attention whore -- rude -- and then assured him that his "mile high hair" would tip everyone off to who he was, mask or not.

God, he just felt so ridiculous.

He wasn't even really supposed to be here. Steve had graduated. But it was Robin's prom, and she'd harassed Steve about the whole thing until he finally caved. He couldn't let his best friend go to the prom alone, after all, that just wouldn't be right.

Besides, Robin and Jonathan had combined forces to make what they had affectionately dubbed the "don't fucking freak out" brownies again. A beautiful concoction of weed strains that were guaranteed to keep even the most traumatized of teenagers sane in a dark, noisy room.

Anyway.

Robin was all for the masks, but it really wasn't fair. Girls always got more freedom with colors and frills and whatever. All the guys were dressed similarly, maybe with a pop of color to match their girlfriend. But the girls had crazy variety. Nancy had on this deep green dress with a matching emerald mask, with sparkles and lace and shit. Robin was wearing this dark blue suit thing with crazy shoulder pads. Nancy must have helped her pick it. Her mask was smooth and pointy, dark blue and black.

Steve was wearing a boring classy, simple tux, standard prom fare, tailored perfectly. His mask was black to match, with dark blue trim to match his bow tie and Robin's epic suit. Simple, elegant. As masculine as it was going to get, wearing a damn masquerade mask.

Pretty much every other guy had the same thing going on. If anyone tried to do anything really crazy, they'd probably fuck it up and get laughed out of town. Every so often a guy would get brave and wear an all-white suit, but that was about as crazy as it got.

So it wasn't exactly easy to ignore the guy with the dark red ensemble going on.

It was that color you only ever saw in sexy magazines. It wasn't firetruck or lifeguard red, but it wasn't burgundy or maroon either. The guy had a black jacket like everyone else, but the shirt beneath it -- open several buttons, by the way -- was that deep red. The mask was the same color and covered not just his eyes, but his nose and half of one side of his face, too. His blond hair was slicked back artfully. Steve was a bit bothered by his new competition for best hair.

That had been before he'd found himself behind the gym making out with the guy, of course. By that point he wasn't really thinking about the masks, either, because what really mattered was that his lips were unobstructed. Maybe it was the don't-fucking-freak-out weed talking, but Steve wasn't even really concerned about the fact that he was a guy.

He was a really good kisser, was the thing. He smelled good, too. All that sinful red brought out the blue of his eyes, not that Steve was honestly looking that hard. He was a very polite kisser, thank you, and kept his eyes closed.

But God was he good.

The day after, Steve was half-convinced it had been a fever dream. Sure that the lethal combo of drugs and triggering environments had created this weird, screwy version of prom to distract Steve from the part of his brain that went "something scary is in that dark corner, and it's not Tommy and Carol sucking face in public". But nope, he had a truly wicked hickey on his neck -- and worse, his mask had gone missing, and he found the blond's fucked-up red and black mask in his car hours later.

Steve was, like, ninety percent sure they hadn't had sex. He didn't remember getting the mask, though. Upon reconvening with Robin, she'd claimed not to see any of Steve's escapades, which Steve immediately blamed on Nancy's emerald dress. Robin had blushed and accusatorily turned that on Steve, pointing out that Steve had apparently made out with a guy.

After that they both agreed to blame everything on the weed.

Steve just couldn't get the whole thing out of his head. He'd really made out with a guy, high or not, for the first time at prom. It wasn't something you moved on from quickly.

The worst part wasn't even that Steve kind of wanted to do it again. The worst part was that, after coming to this conclusion and accepting it, after weeks of queer crisis, Steve couldn't. Because he didn't know who the damn guy was.

It was truly haunting him. He lost interest in flirting, spaced out even more than usual (an impressive feat, according to Robin) and kept the mask in his bedside table.

He thought about it a lot. The details were fuzzy, but he remembered the guy's slicked back blond hair, the flickering blue of his eyes, the sweet red of his lips. He remembered most how the ends of his hair felt between Steve's fingers, but seeing as he couldn't just go feeling up a stranger's hair, that wasn't exactly helpful.

Honestly, Steve spent more time daydreaming about the concept of the guy than trying to actually figure out who it was. He had this nagging feeling that if he did figure it out, he'd want to actually do something about it, and that was scary. So no, thanks.

Steve had almost, almost managed to put it out of his mind when he'd gone to pick up the kids from the pool and seen Hargrove lifeguarding.

Steve hadn't even been meaning to pay attention. He'd just sort of glanced up and Hargrove happened to be there. Steve's instinct was to roll his eyes, to huff and look away, because a guy that unstable should not be looking out for the lives of children, no sir.

But then Hargrove had blown his whistle at a kid. Steve nearly jumped out of his own skin at the shrill sound, and looked over to glare at Hargrove, only to suddenly find himself very interested in the flash of silver against red lips.

Huh.

Hargrove's hair was perfectly styled as always, one curl draped obnoxiously down his forehead like he was waiting for the wind to come and tousle it. Which meant he knew how to do hair. Like, well. Probably well enough to get that perfect slicked swoop. And his hair was blond. And now that Steve was looking, really, his eyes were quite blue. Not -- not like, good blue. Not bright or anything. Not like summer skies or some shit. God.

But then Dustin had nearly bowled Steve over in his haste to join the other kids in their race to claim shotgun in Steve's car, so he'd been torn away and forgotten about it for a while.

Prom 1985 was a masquerade theme, and for weeks, even months after, Steve is trying to find the blonde guy he kissed out behind the gym. One kiss and all his mojo was stolen, he can’t seem to get the guy with the slicked back hair and the sweet red lips out of his mind.

What is a boy to do?

[tough-girl9]

Dear Data

Summary: When Geordi learns that Data has been forced to resign from Starfleet to avoid Maddox's experimentation, the Enterprise's Engineer writes a heartfelt letter to his android friend about everything he's feeling.

Posted on both AO3 and FFN

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Dear Data,

I still can't believe you're really going away. I keep thinking this is all a nightmare that I'm sure I'll wake up from any minute, but I keep not waking up. It keeps staying real. Awfully, unfairly real. You're really going away.

It's so unfair, I want to scream. I want to throw my hyperspanner across Main Engineering. I want to give that puffed-up idiot Maddox such an earful of everything I think of him that his damn skinny head will be ringing for weeks. I want to rage at everyone who was stupid enough to let this happen.

You're one of the best Starfleet officers I've ever had the honor to work with, if not the best. And I don't just mean your super android abilities. It's in how deeply you care about our mission, the thoughtfulness you put into the details of every project you work on, the devotion to nothing short of excellence in everything you do. It's the love you have for your job (yeah, Data, I know you can love). I've become a better Starfleet officer just by working alongside you. The Enterprise is losing so much with your departure, and I can't believe anyone would let this happen.

But I'm not just losing a great co-worker; I'm losing a friend. That might be what hurts the most. It's not everyone who gets to work alongside a dear friend, and I guess I took some of that for granted. I love my job, you know I do, but working with you made the days fly past. I'm realizing just how much I'm going to miss. I'm going to miss how easy it was to talk to you: how I could say something that would leave most people staring blankly at me but you would instantly understand. We were both Perceivers and that's something I'm going to be damn hard-pressed to find again. I'm going to miss your questions about sneezing and sleeping and life and death that made me think more about my own humanity. I'm going to miss watching someone use a colloquialism in front of you and smiling to myself when you immediately turn to me for an explanation. Damn it, Data, I'm even going to miss your never-ending string of awful jokes.

I keep thinking of all the things we'll never do together now. The dozens of ideas we had for future Sherlock Holmes adventures that'll never happen. The plasma flow regulator recalibration that we were going to work on together next week that I'll be doing alone now. That "game night" you were hoping to plan to test out all those 20th century Terran board games you found patterns for in that old replicator program you were fiddling with last week. I know everyone on the Enterprise is missing out – and everyone else in the galaxy whom you'd have been able to help if you'd lived out your career – but I feel like I'm the one who's losing the most. Maybe that's selfish of me, but I feel what I feel.

I know you're not dead, that you're just going away, but it still feels like I'm mourning a thousand little deaths all at once.

I know there are ways we can keep in touch, but it won't ever be the same again.

I hope you're able to find another path that feels as right for you as this one did. I hope you're able to get that teaching job that you were considering and that it brings you the same level of fulfillment that serving in Starfleet did. Most of all, I hope you're all right – out there in a world that sees androids as nothing but machines who can be ripped apart without compunction. I wish the whole world could see you the way I do – white glow and all – and recognize the wonderful person you are underneath that synthetic skin.

I just want you to know, I'm glad to have known you, Data. Even if it had to end like this, I'll never regret the year and a half I had to get to know you and work alongside you. You're the best friend I ever could have asked for. I really thought I'd grow old working on this ship with you, and I hate that everything had to be cut short far too soon. But no matter what, I'll always treasure the time I did have with you, being your friend.

I'm angry for you, Data, and I'm sad and I'm hurt, but more than anything, I'm so glad you were stationed here on the U.S.S. Enterprise with me. Take care of yourself out there.

Love,

Your Best Friend, Geordi

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A/N:

I wrote this little one-shot about a year ago, when I found myself in Geordi's shoes in real life. A wonderful co-worker and dear friend whom I'd worked extremely closely with for over four years was very suddenly and unfairly bullied into resigning, leaving both her and me unable to do anything about it. This one-shot was just as much my way of processing my own sudden rage, feelings of crippling loss, and deep sense of unfairness with it all just as much as it was about Geordi and Data. And unlike Geordi and Data's story in "The Measure of a Man", my story didn't have a happy ending.

This story is dedicated to Jenn, the best Teen Librarian I've ever gotten to work with. This story is dedicated to all the program ideas we never got to do together, the stories we never got to share, and the time that was cut short far too soon. I'm glad I got to be your Geordi while it lasted. Live long and prosper.

[catsualwolf]

Shocking discovery made as the reformation of the Dragonball Z watchparty that I am a part of has uncovered hidden truths:

[keebwee]

no way no way LMAOOO giggling im so happy u like this

me for real me for real !!!

yeah, currently there's like, very few posts i've made on this because its mostly been in dms LMAOOOOO but i've been planning a lore dump post. there's just so much in this au. its like, the craziest found family ever. eggdad makes me crazy.

sonic is a menace in this for sure. theres that one drawing above where he robs a bank specifically bc eggman said they're low on money. ive always thought of sonic as like, morally grey in many ways, but acting as a goody two-shoes hero because that's the role he's fallen into. but with his memory gone and a new family full of villains, he's going to be kinda crazy.

i really don't think he'd like, hurt anyone, for sure. that's something i think he would never want to do unless they deserve it, and in that situation he definitely wouldn't kill anyone. he wouldn't go that far. he'd likely be going on a lot of heists n stuff. stealing materials for eggman, etc.

yes yes to bokkun and sonic baking together!! yes !!!!! they are best friends. they are so cute together <3 sonic steals things for him whenever he goes out, like candy or some fun little toy or a pastry. bokkun is like the most obnoxious little kid ever and he just follows sonic everywhere he loves this guy.

metal and sonic are so silly in this au. metal absolutely hates that sonic's there initially and eggman has to lock the room sonic's staying in while he's recovering because he does NOT trust metal to be around sonic alone. then, when sonic wakes up, he's like "woah!! this guy looks like me?? that's crazy!! hi!!" with no malice, no anger, no fear whatsoever. he just wants to be friends. and metal does not know how to react.

he definitely avoids him for the first month, but sonic always manages to find him. sage tries to convince him to give sonic a chance. i'm not sure yet what would happen to make metal finally give in, maybe its not even anything crazy. maybe sonic's just talking to him, and metal is like, damn. this guy ain't even bad. maybe it's okay to like to hang out with him.

i think my favorite part of this au is the fact that there's so much potential. sonic going missing for 7+ months is INSANE. like, everyone is going to freak out. this isn't just like, tails, amy, and knuckles out looking for him. its everyone. the chaotix are involved, and silver is actually a huge part of this, too. he's kinda the one to slowly get everyone else to be okay with sonic and eggman bein family now, because guys. the future is literally fine. this has no big consequences. let the guy make his son a grilled cheese.

i am so glad u like my funny little au that makes me so happy :)

uaghh crazy abt an au concept i made for wild kratts in like. fuck. uhhh 2022? and the account with that stuff is like hidden now etc but rapids (the au) has stuck with me so profoundly that i like to play around with it in other fandoms. basically the main idea is like. an amnesiac hero found family w/ the villains that save them. usually i dont get too far, but this time. chat ..... this time its crazy again. sonic rapids au ..... its been devouring me for months

basic premise of the sonic version of the au: sonic fall in water rapids. sonic drown ... almost. sonic hit head, gravely injured. eggman finds him unconscious and bloodied on the shore of the river. he schemes... takes him home, planning on somehow taking advantage of this.

but as sonic's condition worsens and he just doesn't wake up after a week, he actually starts to get worried. he has a real bad fever, a nasty head wound, and gashes on his side that were a real pain to clean up.

when he does eventually wake up, its revealed he has amnesia. he does not know who he is, where he is, what he is ... etc. now eggman has no idea what to do. his first instinct is to manipulate sonic into working with him, so, he decides to go with that.

but then he realizes he's started to care about the blue idiot. and now he's making him pancakes for breakfast every morning and scolding him when he refuses to eat his vegetables. and he realizes there's no way he's getting out of this.

insert eggdad—big family w/ eggman, sonic, orbot, cubot, sage, metal sonic, and POSSIBLY bokkun im still thinking abt it (i miss him he's my baby boy)

all the while, sonic's friends have no fucking idea where he went, and eggman has been suspiciously inactive since sonic's disappearance .... hmmmmmmm

that is all I'll say for rn bc im tired and my knee is fucking KILLING ME. but here are some doodles for the au. ft. sonics design

enjoy ig