#I’m just so tired and frustrated and I’m tired of being tired and frustrated | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 3 days ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc

I N T E R L U D E

warnings: mentions of suicide and rape, trauma, suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, childbirth, blood, post-natal depression. just heavy maternity topics altogether, but also soooo much fluff. a little bit before the next chapter 👀 also, yes, I'm fine, I'm just exploring what I can do :)

The following is a series of audio and video recordings belonging to one L.REED recovered from their residence.

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #1

(The static crackles. A breath. Then a sniff—quick, sharp, like she’s trying to get herself under control. The mic picks up the soft creak of wood, and the rustle of fabric as she shifts.)

“It’s… ten-thirty-two in the night. August third.” (A pause, her voice stiff like she’s reading from a script. Then, softer—like admitting it to herself as much as the recorder—) “And I think I...”

(Silence. Then another slow breath. Hesitant, unwilling.)

“I mean, I'm um, in my living room.” (A beat.) “And I have just found out I am pregnant.”

(The words sit there, utterly unwelcome. She sniffs, a wet sound, then lets out a short, uneven breath like a laugh she doesn’t feel.)

“I know how it happened. I know what my body is capable of, what the biology is, how it works, what I—what I couldn’t have stopped. But knowing doesn’t change anything.” (Another beat, like she’s swallowing down a jagged marble.) “I cannot fix this. Cannot stop it. I have no say in this. None.”

(Her voice shakes on the last word, and she inhales sharply like she’s trying to stop it from happening.)

“I just…” (A sniff, another breath, her voice almost inaudible—) “I just wish I knew what the hell to do now.”

(Silence. Not empty. Suffocating. She shifts again, restless, like she can’t stand the feeling of being in her body.)

“I’m so scared. And so... alone. But I can't have anyone near me, not with everything I am now.” (The smallest her voice has ever been.)

“I think I’m—four months in, maybe more. My stomach, it's…” (A soft exhale, like she’s looking down at it, touching it, struggling to accept it.) “It’s getting bigger every day. The baby is growing fast. I feel it when I sleep, when I roll over, when I move. It's in there. Real, alive. Something I didn’t ask for.”

(She stops, swallowing hard before forcing herself to go on.)

“My body—it doesn’t want this. It knows it doesn't belong to me anymore. I can feel it. It’s rejecting food, rejecting rest, rejecting reason. I—I am so tired, I can barely think, but my mind won’t shut off. I keep trying to get back onto research, to make sense of my life but I can’t focus, I can't sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t stop—” (Her voice catches, and she presses her lips together. A second passes before she forces the next words out.)

“I can’t forget. But I also can’t remember. Not all of it. Just—these pieces. Bits that crawl in when I least expect. And when it comes... I cannot move. Breathe. I am helpless to escape it.”

(She exhales sharply, frustrated, like she hates herself for saying it.)

“Maria, the leader of this new commune, brought a doctor home. She said the baby will be born around mid-January.” (A pause. Then, the tiniest scoff, that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so resentful.) “That’s five months. Five months until—” (She stops. Another breath.) “Until this is real. Until I have to face this.”

(And then her voice shifts—tightens, sharpens like she’s trying to force steel into it.)

“But it’s not mine.” (The words come fast, desperate, like if she says it enough, she’ll believe it.) “It’s not. I know it’s not.”

(She inhales too quickly, voice trembling as she goes on—rushed, frantic—like she’s trying to outrun a danger that’s catching up to her.)

“I can’t do this. I can’t. I'm going to stain the poor thing, I'm going to ruin it. I can’t be a mother. I can’t care for it, I can’t love it, I—I don’t want to. How could I?” (Her breath stutters, her voice turning quiet, broken—) “Not when every time I look at it, all I’ll see is them.”

(A silence. Her breathing is uneven now, rough around the edges. When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.)

“I still hear them.” (A lull, thick and trembling.) “At night, in the hallway. I think it's them. The shadows. Their footsteps, their laughter. I think I'm going crazy. I can't stop reliving it. I thought it was over the moment I burned that place. I thought I was safe. That they were gone.”

(She swallows, breath shaking.)

“I still smell them on me. It reeks.” (A horrible, suffocating admission. Then nothing.)

(Silence. The static hums, filling the empty space. And then, a sound—tearful, muffled. She’s crying. But she won’t let herself fall apart. She won’t.)

“I feel them everywhere.” (The words barely make it out. Like they weren’t meant to.)

(Then—one deep, rattling breath. Too big for her lungs, like she’s struggling to contain everything inside her.)

“It takes everything in me not to throw myself off that dam. Easy, isn't it? One jump, you fall, your bones break, you deserve every bit of the pain, and eventually you drown. Calm.” (Flat. Hollow. A simple truth.)

“Were it not for the tiny human depending on me...” (Her voice is small again. Furious. Tired. Fading.) “And until it’s out, I have to stay.”

(Silence. Long, awful silence.)

“I can’t love it.” (A raw confession. A wound.) “But I can’t kill it either.”

(Another silence. She sniffs hard, then inhales slowly, forcing the air into her lungs.)

“I have to stay alive.” (A breath. Then another.) “At least until this baby is out of me and safe.”

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #2

(The static clicks on. A breath, like she’s convincing herself she’s fine before she speaks.)

“It’s… ten-sixteen in the evening. September the eighth." (Her voice is steadier than the last recording. Detached, almost clinical, like she’s just logging facts.) “I’m in my living room.”

(A longer pause. A shift of fabric, like she’s adjusting, trying to get comfortable. Then—)

“I’m five months in now. More than halfway.” (The words land heavier than she expects. Another pause, like she’s thinking about it too much. Then—quieter—) “I’ve gotten used to the bump. It’s just… there. Part of me now. Stopping me, restricting me.”

(Another inhale, then a sigh, frustrated.)

“But the food—god. I just can’t eat.” (The words come out sharper, like she’s sick of repeating herself, sick of struggling.) “Nothing stays down except eggs. And I hate eggs now. But it’s the only thing I can stomach, so I eat them. Every damn day. Maria jokes that I've gone through most of Jackson's egg produce this month.”

(A quiet lull. A shift, and then, softer—like she’s speaking more to herself than the recorder—)

“Y'know, I hate that food is a necessity to the human physiology. That my body demands it even when I don’t want it.” (Another beat. Then, bitterly—) “Like I don’t have enough things forcing me to keep going.”

(Silence. Then, her voice drops lower, a heaviness creeping in.)

“My research has stalled. Not that it matters. I stared at the board for days now, and nothing.” (A sharp laugh.) “I’m a disappointment anyway. A waste of space. My parents left this world thinking they were handing their life’s work to someone capable. Someone who’d do something with it. Carry it forward.” (A swallow.) “Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Daddy. I blew it. I failed you.”

(Her voice stays even, but it's cracked at the edges, barely holding together.)

“I’ll be joining them soon enough. Incomplete, inadequate. Useless.”

(Silence stretches. Then, she exhales, long and controlled, like pushing that thought out of her lungs.)

“Now, Maria won’t leave me alone.” (Flat. Matter-of-fact.) “Neither will her husband, Tommy. He’s… alright. Nice, even. But they keep coming by. With food. With medicine. With advice I don’t want. They think they’re helping.” (A humourless snort.) “They won’t listen when I tell them to stop and leave me alone.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—reflective—) “Maybe that’s why they keep showing up. But I don't need their hope. I just need to stay alive, stay away and have this baby.”

(Another pause. A change in her tone—slightly lighter, curious.)

“Tommy told me today that the house across from mine isn’t empty after all. Says his brother has been living there for sometime now. Joel.” (She repeats the name, testing it in her mouth, unfamiliar.) “Said if I needed anything, I could go to him.” (A scoff.) “Like that's happening anytime soon. I don't need anything from anyone. I just need to... think.”

(Silence. Then, there's a difference in her voice—unsure, reluctant.)

“But… I’ve been watching him.” (A quiet, almost amused breath.) “Not in a way that's intrusive. He's doing it in plain sight. Wasting away, like me.” (A soft exhale, like she’s shaking her head at herself.) “He just—he has this routine. I haven't understood it yet.”

(She shifts again like she’s glancing toward the window as she speaks.)

“Every night, he sits on his porch with that guitar of his. He plays. Sometimes he sings.” (Another pause. Then, softer—) “It’s… nice. Simple.”

(The words linger, like she didn’t expect to admit them. Then, quieter—almost like a secret—)

“It helps. It calms me.”

(Another silence. The mic picks up a faint sound—her fingers rubbing against fabric, an absent movement, thoughtful.)

“I feel the baby kick when I listen.” (She exhales, almost like a laugh—small, tired, but real.) “Maria says that’s a good thing that the baby is kicking. That it means it’s healthy.” (Then, neutrally—) “I don’t care.”

(And yet, she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. Then, softer, quieter—like she hasn’t let herself think this before—)

“But I guess it’s nice to know it’s happy inside me. That I can still...”

(Another pause. Her next words are barely more than a whisper—like she isn’t even sure she wants to say them out loud—)

“That there’s something about me it likes. Even if I'm much worse than those Infected out there.”

(Silence. Then, the click of the recorder shutting off.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #3

(The static clicks on. A deep exhale, then a groan, voice laced with exhaustion.)

“My back has been killing me. I think it’s splintering apart every time I move. Which means my baby is getting bigger by the day. And happier, too, apparently.” (A tired laugh, warm despite itself.) “Kicks all through the night—doesn’t let up for even a second.”

(A beat. And then, quieter, softer—like she’s only just realizing it herself—)

“I really like it. I like thinking about it, rather than the nightmares. How it might feel to hold the baby. See it smile at me.”

(Silence, just for a second. Then—another small, breathy laugh, almost amused at herself.)

“I mean, yeah, I can’t sleep when I think of this, but… I stay up. Just listening. Feeling it move. And when I talk—like right now—ooh—oof, okay, I felt that one.” (A giggle, surprised, unguarded.) “Yeah, okay, I know you’re in there, baby. I'm listening. You having fun? Spacious enough for you?”

(Barely more than a whisper—like it’s a thought she isn’t meant to say out loud—)

“Why do you like me so much?”

(A beat. Her voice turns dry, self-deprecating—like she’s brushing it off before it can settle too deep.)

“Huh, guess you haven’t met me yet. You'll hate me just as soon.”

(Abruptly lighter—like she’s trying to reroute her own thoughts before they get too serious.)

“So, I’ve been eating more. Craving more, actually. Blueberries. Mashed potatoes, mostly. Which is good, carbohydrates are energy. Good for the baby. I've had so much of it, I swear I might give birth to a sack of potatoes instead.” (A small, wry chuckle.) “Baby doesn’t seem to mind, though. I've put on twelve pounds, easy. I feel so large.”

(Silence for a moment. And then, her voice shifts again—subtly different now. Thoughtful… curious.)

“Oh and, well. My neighbour’s made some progress. It's always nice to see.”

(A hint of amusement now, almost teasing.)

“Finally combed his hair. Patched up his shoes. Got himself a nice shirt. And—get this—he played my favourite song the other day. Handy Man.” (A small exhale, almost a sigh.) “I even sat out on the porch steps just to listen. He’s got a good voice. A real singer's voice. Maybe he was once upon a time.”

(A pause, and then—quieter, like she’s saying it more to herself—)

“Baby and I went wild for it. We hear him sing every night now, without fail.”

(Silence lingers this time. When she speaks again, her voice is different. Not playful anymore. Not light.)

“I didn't ask, but Tommy tells me Joel’s been through hell. That he's still going through it.”

(Silence lingers, stretching out like a thread pulled too tight. Then, a sharp inhale—one that shakes, just slightly, before she steadies herself.)

“Yeah. That’s something we’ve got in common in this awful world.”

(She exhales, but it’s not relief. It’s bitter, sitting on the back of her tongue.)

“I hate that we do. Some arbitrary, lonely, bitter man... and me.”

(A pause. Not empty—just full of things she doesn’t want to think about. Full of everything she’s been trying not to feel.)

But it's creeping in any way.

She’s spent so long trying not to really see him. Just some man with a permanent scowl and a slouch that almost looked like he was reverting the evolution chart back to ape. The kind of grief that takes the pressure out of a man’s steps, that hollows him out so bad you start to wonder if there’s anything left inside at all.

It was easy to ignore. To dismiss. Just another ghost of a person.

But then—then she started watching.

Not on purpose. Not at first. She’d catch glimpses—him sitting on his porch, fingers idly plucking at the strings of his guitar, eyes staring out at nothing, lost in some place she wasn’t sure he’d ever come back from. Sometimes that pretty little girl would stop by, sit with him, and talk to him. Joel barely ever spoke. But he listened to her, hanging onto her every word.

And then Leela started listening, too.

And the more she listened, the more she saw. How he still went on patrol, and still did what he had to. How, despite all that he carried on his shoulders, he never let it slow him down. How he walked around like a man who had no reason left to live—except he was still here. Still moving, existing, even when it looked like it hurt.

She saw herself in that, and she hated it.

Because he had already given up. And she hadn’t. Not fully.

So, the words slip out before she even realizes she’s saying them. They sound strange. Foreign. Like they don’t belong to her...

“I don’t want to die.”

(She swallows. The admittance has been buried under months of fear, exhaustion and numbness.)

“If that man can do it, just live for the sake of it, why can't I?”

(It's harsh. She means it.)

“So, not dying just yet. I'm going to have this baby and I'll make it work. That's what I do best. I am not a quitter.”

(A deep inhale. Exhale. Like she’s setting a task down. Or maybe picking that task up.)

“I have too much left to do in this house. I have to finish what they started. I'm not giving up.”

(A pause. Then, almost like an afterthought—)

“For my parents. For their legacy. For me. I will not die.”

(A soft clearing of her throat. Getting back to the facts now.)

“It's eight-twenty-two in the evening, November the second. I'm in my living room. Seven months in. Um, Leela signing off.”

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #5

(The static clicks on. A deep, shuddering breath. Then another. It’s slow, controlled—like she’s fighting to keep it together.)

“Uh, eight months now. Ow... Eleven pm, I think. Kitchen. December nineteenth, right? God, my D-day's in three weeks. I just get cramps more often now.”

(She exhales, sharp and strained.)

“It’s not bad. It’s just—” (a shifting sound like she’s trying to find a comfortable position) “—it’s like having my period. Constantly. I can't believe the shit women have to go through.”

(Another breath—this one shorter, hitching slightly at the end.)

“So, Maria’s sentenced me to bed rest now. Tommy comes by every day to check on me. I’m… I’m so grateful for them. But I really don't need anyone to...”

(A deep breath. Then, suddenly—)

“Ooh—” (A small, startled sound, not quite a groan, but close.) “Yeah, there it is. Comes and goes. I've got to start tracking that, too.”

(A long silence follows. Just static humming in the background. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter—faintly distracted, like her mind has wandered somewhere else.)

“But I’m doing okay. I think. I’m eating more. I’ve tried to move around a little, to cook for myself, but…” (a breath, then a tired huff of laughter) “…my garden is overgrown. Like, completely. It’s a jungle out there. And the house…” (she sighs, deeply, the weight of it pressing down on her words) “I keep seeing everything that needs to be fixed. Loose floorboards, dusty windows, and a leaky pipe in the kitchen. I’ve let it go to hell. Daddy would be furious.”

“I guess I’ve been too busy… I don’t know. Baking a baby? Surviving?”

(Another shift, a slight creak of whatever she’s sitting on.)

“I set up a nursery. Because the baby needs space to feel at home.” (Her tone is vague. Then, wryly—) “Heh, a nursery. If you can even call it that.”

“It’s just my old crib. In the nearest room.” (A beat.) “That’s it.”

“I wanted to do more. I really did. But it was hell just getting that stupid thing up the stairs. Had to drag it, inch by inch. Thought I was gonna throw up halfway through.” (She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it fades quickly.)

“God, this baby’s gonna hate me so much.”

(Silence. Just for a second. Just long enough for that thought to settle.)

“And what’s even scarier than that? The actual birth.” (Her voice tightens. She doesn’t want to say this, but it’s been sitting in her head for too long, and now it’s coming out whether she wants it to or not.)

“I've been warned that it’s going to hurt a lot. That it's not just a simple push.” (A breath. A hand, maybe, pressed to her stomach—may be pressing against a cramp, maybe just needing to feel the realness.)

“Like bones breaking. That’s what they say.” (A quick inhale.) “That there's going to be a lot of blood and mush. That it could last hours. The 'labour pains'. A whole day. That when it happens, I’ll need to find someone, fast. Get myself to the clinic. That I’ll need help.”

“But what if I don’t?”

(Her voice is smaller now. Fragile. Like a crack she’s been trying to plaster over, finally starting to widen.)

“What if something happens? What if it starts in the middle of the night, and I can’t get to anyone in time? What if I… what if I die? What if I die without ever seeing my baby? What if I die without finishing my research?”

(A sharp, unsteady inhale. Then silence. Heavy, pressing down on everything.)

“There was this nice old woman who came over.” (Her voice is different now, like she’s remembering, and grounding herself.) “She told me that plenty of women have done it on their own. That it’s a matter of strength and love. That I have nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t know if I believe her. The thought of blood and guts is scaring me.” (A breath, then, like she’s forcing herself to say it—) “But I have to be ready. Just in case.”

(A long pause. Then, quietly—like she’s reminding herself, she’s willing it to be true—)

“I know I won’t be alone. There are people here around me now. Joel from across the street. The old couple next door. Maria. Tommy.” (A beat. A swallow.) “But… on the off chance?”

(Another pause. Then, softer—like a vow, like a promise, like she’s holding onto it with both hands.)

“I’m going to fight like hell.”

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #6

(Click. A beat of silence. Then, her voice—soft, thoughtful, almost hesitant, like she doesn’t know why she’s saying this out loud.)

“It's December the twenty-second. Nine-seventeen in the morning. Um... Joel came by my place.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—almost to herself—)

“I don’t know why I feel the need to log that. This is supposed to be about the baby, not…” (A sigh.) “Whatever. It's not like anyone's going to hear this.”

(Then, the faintest hint of a scoff—amused, self-aware—)

“He was only here for, what, two minutes? Less than that? Just long enough to hand me some food. Tommy couldn’t bring it over—something about the Christmas celebrations in town. So, I guess Joel got stuck with it. Poor guy.”

(A beat. A shift in her voice, like she’s turning the memory over in her mind, inspecting it.)

“It’s different, seeing him up close. I’ve been watching him from across the street for months—just glimpses, shadows, the sound of his guitar carrying over, entertaining us. But when someone’s right in front of you, you see things you didn’t before.”

(She exhales, thoughtful.)

“He’s taller than I thought. Very... big.” (A soft, almost breathless chuckle, like she’s realizing how ridiculous that sounds.) “I don’t know why that surprised me. He looked tiny from all the way here.”

(A pause. Then, slower, like she’s piecing it together as she speaks—)

“He’s got more silver in his hair than I realized. I'm guessing he's around fifty. And this scar, right on his temple—looks like a bullet just barely missed him. He smells like sweat and dirt and old clothes that’ve been worn too many days in a row. And his eyes…”

(She trails off for a second, then swallows, trying to find the words.)

“They’re thin. Sad. Not in an obvious way, but—” (She exhales, frustrated, like she’s mad at herself for not explaining it right.) “—they turn down at the edges. Could be from age the way Daddy was, or could be from grief. Maybe both. He's seen too much.”

(A quiet halt. Then, abruptly—)

“He’s handsome, right? For his age.” (A beat. Then, drier—) “Not that I’d know what the hell that means. The only men in my life are Daddy and Tommy.”

(A change. Something smaller now. More personal.)

“He didn’t even knock.” (Another breath, like she’s thinking back on it.) “Wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t seen him standing there and opened the door first.”

(A pause.)

“He asked about me. The baby, I mean.”

(She says it softly, like it means more to her than she wants it to.)

“It was… weird. Having him there, asking me. S'like watching something from a distance for so long and then suddenly finding yourself in the middle of it.”

(She inhales.)

“He nodded. And that was it. Just turned and left. Now I wished I'd talked a little more. I'd like to be his friend.”

(A beat. Then, softer, almost like a realization—)

“And this morning, the snow on my pavement was gone.” (A faint, barely-there smile in her voice—) “He did it for me.”

(Silence stretches for a moment like she’s sitting with everything she just said. And then, almost too soft to hear—)

“Sweet, sad man.”

(And then, barely above a whisper—)

“He saved my life without even knowing it.”

(The static runs for a while. Click.)

The first wave of labour pain came like a shockwave. Sharp, deep, untimely.

Leela sucked in a tight breath, stiffening, clutching the edge of the sink as a dull ache bloomed low in her belly, deep in her bones. Her nightgown stuck to the backs of her thighs, damp, and—

She looked down. A thin stream of fluid ran down the inside of her leg, spilling onto the marble floor. Clear. Warm.

No. Her heart lurched. Her mind reeled, scrambling for numbers, for weeks, for the dates that made sense—four weeks early.

“No,” she whispered, gripping the sink tighter.

She wasn’t ready. The baby wasn’t ready.

Another wave of pain slammed into her. Worse. Like the baby inside her was twisting, pushing, trying to force its way out between her legs. She gasped, curling forward, forehead pressed against the mirror. Her reflection blurred in the fog of her breath.

Was she dying? Was the baby dying? Had she done something wrong?

Breathe. Breathe, she repeated to herself. It was probably just another cramp. Although it felt worse than usual.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember Maria’s voice. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

She counted. She breathed. She thought through the haze, clutching the one that mattered.

Get help.

Joel.

The name came without hesitation. She didn’t question it.

Leela stumbled out of the bathroom, one hand gripping the swell of her belly, the other steadying herself on the walls as she made her way down the stairs. She barely felt the cold wooden steps beneath her feet—just the pulsing, unbearable reduction to her thighs. Another contraction hit before she reached the bottom, and she collapsed onto the last step, twisting her ankle with a strangled sound, curling into herself.

Too fast. Too fast. Slow down.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She wasn't prepared. Her baby was going to die, she was going to kill this baby—no.

She was saving this baby. The baby was going to live today.

She gritted her teeth, forced herself upright, and half-ran, half-fell toward the door. The night hit her like ice shards, the biting winds slashing through her thin clothes. Snow stung her bare feet, but she didn’t stop, didn’t think—just kept moving.

One house. Just one house. That was all she needed. And the baby will be safe.

She barely made it up the porch steps before the next contraction sent her crashing to her knees.

Leela gasped through the pain, body curling forward, forehead pressing against the frozen wood. She couldn’t—couldn’t—stay here. Couldn’t do this alone.

With the last of her strength, she reached up and knocked. A polite knock, at first. Stupid. She was past politeness now.

“Please help me.” Her breathless voice barely carried over the wind.

Nothing.

Inside, something crashed. A bottle? A chair? He was there. He just hadn't heard her.

So, she knocked again, harder this time. Her whole fist. Faster. Desperate.

“Joel. Please.” Her voice wavered, although louder. The next contraction was coming, she could feel it rolling over her, pulling her under—and then, from inside—something shattering onto the floor. A glass. A plate.

“I said fuck off!”

A thundering snarl, slurred and dangerous.

The force of the yell startled her back, her sore heel slipping on the icy porch, sending her stumbling into the railing. The world tilted, and then—pain.

She crumpled onto the cold wood, a ragged sob ripping from her throat as the contraction slammed into her.

She tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Tried to move. Couldn’t. Her body was locking up, shaking, curling in on itself against the cold. No one was coming. Completely alone.

She had to leave. She had to go. Joel wasn't coming.

But—she had no energy to make it to the next house.

The wind had already swallowed her footprints by the time she stumbled back through her front door. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud. Cold. The floor was so cold. Or maybe that was her. She couldn't tell anymore.

Her eyes tracked up the daunting stairs that led right up to the washroom. Somewhere warm and clean.

She cried out. “No.”

She couldn't go up there. She couldn't move.

Her fingers dug into the floorboards as the next wave of pain tore through her, blinding, all-consuming, like her body was being ripped apart from the inside out. She gasped, legs curling in, a sob clawing its way up her throat.

She couldn’t do this.

She needed help.

But there was no one. Joel had sent her away, possibly passed out drunk. No one else was awake. No one knew. Of course—it was Christmas Eve. Everyone would be up at the square, raising their cups in celebration.

She pressed her forehead to the floor, breath shuddering against the wood. It hurt so much. It was too much.

And still, the baby kept coming.

The contractions came in surges, pulling her under, like dark waves on a cliff, and stealing the air from her lungs with every swell.

She lost track of time. Minutes. Hours. An epoch.

Her body wasn’t her own anymore. No, it was ravaged by the pangs and pangs of shooting pain. It was something else entirely—a force of nature, unstoppable, breaking her open, splitting her apart.

She couldn't stop trembling. Somewhere in the haze of pain, she thought of her mama. Her mama never got to do this; it was why she got her. She thought of the women who had done this before, utterly alone, on dirt floors, in darkened rooms. She thought of how she’d sworn she would never be one of them.

And yet—she was.

She whimpered, nails scraping weakly against the wood. “Please, baby. Please don't do this to me.”

She couldn’t do this. She had to do this.

The next contraction ripped through her, and she screamed. The sound barely made it past the walls. The winds outside devoured her cry for help.

She had to move.

Leela’s hands shook as she crawled across the floor, belly sagging, breath uneven. Her body felt alien, now it really didn’t belong to her anymore—just another one of her machines grinding itself down to dust, gears forcing, and bent on one purpose. Pushing this child out.

Her head swam. She was soaked in sweat. Every muscle in her body clenched and burned.

Get up, Leela.

She made it to the kitchen on sheer instinct, her knees bruising against the tile, ankle smarting, fingers scrambling at the counter.

Something soft. To sit on. To lie on. A towel.

Her hands closed around one. She fumbled to turn on the tap, let the water run warm, and then laid the cloth on the floor. The heat bloomed through the fabric as she slogged onto it, already improving the sensations.

Okay. Okay. Think.

She was alone. She was doing this alone. It was okay.

Her arms trembled as she lowered herself down, lying back, spine flat to the floor, trying to find some way to ease the vicious fire tearing her open.

She was gasping, sobbing, whispering half-broken things under her breath—prayers, curses, for her mother. Mostly her mother. She imagined her looming over her, holding her hand, stroking her hair, telling her she was so brave. It felt good, until it didn't.

“Please, please, please...” she begged no one.

Another contraction hit.

Her entire body seized. The pain was a wave—no, an earthquake, this time, tearing through the core of her. This may have broken a bone in her ribs, she was sure of it.

She clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might crack a tooth.

A sound ripped out of her. Somewhere between a wail and a growl. She didn't even know what made sense anymore. Breathing? Dying? Choking?

She was splitting apart. She knew it.

But it wasn’t stopping. She couldn’t stop it.

She pressed her head to the floor, chest heaving.

Think, Leela. Think. You know what to do. What?

She had to push.

Yes, push. She’d heard it before, the doctor had specific about that, she knew the basics, but now—now it was real. Now it was her body, her baby, her pain.

She adjusted her legs, her back arched off the floor. She sucked in a gasping breath, readying herself. She shook her head, and everything else out. She was saving this baby. She was saving her baby.

“Push,” she breathed.

Another shockwave of agony rolled through her.

Push. Push hard.

She nodded, “okay, okay,” and braced herself. Breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again, and again, until she felt like she was ready.

And she pushed.

A scream tore from her throat. The pain was unreal, as if her insides were tearing open. Pulverizing. This was torture.

“I can't, I can't,” she sobbed.

She let her head fall back against the floor. Panting. Sobbing. Wishing death upon everyone in this fucked-up world. Wishing death upon her drunk neighbour, Joel. Wishing death on Tommy and Maria for not being here. Wishing death upon everyone but her child.

Her body felt too weak, too small to hold so much pain, so much life.

Push, Leela. Save the baby.

But she kept going. Over and over, she pushed and pushed, between sobs, between minutes that stretched into eternities. Between the waves of contractions that seemed to shorten and shorten. Seconds. Cried for her mother so hard, she must've heard her from the heavens. Cried hard for anyone, someone to come help her.

And then—a movement deep inside. A twist. Another deep breath, and she pushed, another scream storming these empty hallways.

A ripping, a world-ending agony, a slip, and a sudden, unbearable release.

And then—a wail. Light. Reedy. Shuddering. Alive.

Leela groaned with the spasms. Her body was ruined, quivering from pain, from exhaustion, from the unthinkable, unbearable weight of what she had just done. She had done it.

She gasped, her head rolling back against the cold floor, her chest rising and falling in ragged, disbelieving breaths.

She had done it. She had done this all by herself.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, everything else vanished. The cold floor beneath the towel. The ache in her bones. The pulsing, raw wound inside her. All of it... gone. Just for a fleeting second. It was over. She was alive. Her baby...

Another cry—louder, stronger. Needy.

Her hands, trembling so violently she could barely feel them, fumbled downward, searching.

My baby. Where's my baby?

Then there it was. Warm. Tiny. Slick with blood and life. All hers.

She nearly collapsed over the baby as she gently lifted it to her chest, curling her body around it, sheltering, shielding, warming.

So small. So ridiculously, beautifully small.

A shuddering breath tore from within her. She pressed her forehead to the damp, wriggling heft in her arms, her baby. Her baby. Her whole life.

She wept, her body trembling with it, the last remnants of pain and terror and exhaustion spilling out of her in waves. It was over, she was okay now.

The storm outside raged on. Time was lost to her, meaning, too. The wind howled, the snow fell, and the world went on. But here, in the quiet, in the warmth of her own arms, her own home—she had survived.

Leela didn’t know how long she stayed like that—hunched over the tiny body in her arms, shaking, holding, not letting go.

It could've been more and more eternities. But finally, it was the cold that finally snapped her out of it. The wetness soaked through her clothes. The sweat cooled on her skin. The lingering ache clawed through every inch of her.

She blinked down at the baby's little feet, her breath hitching.

I should look at my baby.

The thought terrified her. For months, she’d been carrying this thing, this life, this... stranger.

She had felt it move, twist, push inside her. She had known it was real. But she had never seen it. It was hers, she knew that much. Her little baby.

Her arms loosened, just enough to shift the child. The tiny body squirmed, legs kicking weakly, the cry dwindling into a soft, hiccupping whimper.

Leela’s fingers, still trembling, moved on their own. Swept gently across damp, wrinkled skin at the soft, beating chest. Over the little fingers. A little clenched fist. And then—a face.

Oh.

Leela’s breath left her all at once.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered.

Her baby blinked up at her, squinting, face scrunched in the effort. Big, beautiful, brown eyes. Her arms curled tighter, drawing the tiny body closer, nudging the baby’s warm skin against her own. She ran her fingers through the wet wisps of dark hair and smoothed a shaking hand down the curve of a round, soft cheek.

Her baby made a sound—a tiny sigh, a noise so small, so utterly fragile that Leela broke.

“Hello.” A laugh—small, disbelieving, almost hysterical—escaped her lips. She made this. She had done this all by herself. The baby blinked at her, yawning, face still scrunched in that newborn way—like she was confused by the world.

Leela understood the feeling. She swallowed, throat raw from screaming, her fingers still tracing over delicate features. The button nose. The furrowed brow. The teeny tiny mouth. The soft fuzz around her cheeks.

She should be saying something. She should be feeling something. That spark of love. That spark of want, to protect, to keep.

Instead—there was nothing.

Her fingers barely twitched when they ran along the baby's arm again, the damp skin cooling now, sticky with blood.

She should cut the umbilical cord. She should clean it. She should wrap it up. She should keep it warm. She should—do something.

Her hands quivered as she shifted, trying to brace herself against the slick, cool tile. Her limbs were shaking, still too drained, but she forced them to move.

She knew where they were. The scissors. Leela let out a shuddering breath and half-crawled, half-dragged herself toward the stand, the floor sticky beneath her, her own blood and fluids trailing behind.

The baby let out a sound—a whimper, a breath against her. She shushed the baby, rocking it on instinct. “I'm still here. Ssh.”

Leela gasped through her teeth, reaching, reaching, finding. Her fingers fumbled against the metal. Grasped the handle. Slipped them into her grip.

Her breath came fast, too fast.

She pressed the scissors between the cord, hesitated.

It was so pale, twisted, true. This had been her lifeline. The little softness that had appended them together for months. Somehow, she didn't want to do it. Her vision blurred—would the baby even be hers anymore? Would it still know her?

She pressed the blades closed. A soft, wet snip.

A sharp pulse of pain tore through her stomach, a wetness slipped right out, and she sucked in a breath. Leela flinched, gasped, and held herself up. The baby gasped before it wailed another strident, shaking cry.

There. Done. Her baby was separate from her now. Their one unit, broken apart.

Leela swallowed hard, vision swimming in tears, limbs shaking. The scissors clattered to the floor.

Her chest ached as she held her child. Not from love. Not from relief. Just the echoing emptiness within her. She was just an empty vessel now, clinking around, making noise.

The baby sighed, its breath hot against her skin, and Leela blinked, staring down at it.

She had imagined this moment. Imagined some heaven-sent burst of happiness. Imagined weeping in relief, with gratitude. Imagined love so strong it would knock the breath from her lungs. Imagined kisses pressed to ten tiny fingers, imagined a warmth so bright and overwhelming it would banish all the dark things inside her. Imagined that something inside her would wake up, ignite, change. That she would feel like herself again.

All she felt was exhaustion. She was just so, so tired. And soon, the thought came and went too fast to hold onto.

I shouldn’t have done this.

Her breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut.

No. No, don’t think that. You’re disgusting. You're evil.

But she could feel it, creeping in at the edges.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Just love it. Love your baby.

The featherlight weight in her arms was heavy. Too heavy. She had to hold on. Make sense of her commitment.

She swallowed thickly and tried to whisper, barely above a breath, “You’re real. And mine.”

The baby stirred, a soft, sleepy noise leaving it.

Leela waited again. Anytime now. The warmth, the love, the connection. That the sound would evoke whatever was dormant in her. She was sure of it.

It didn’t come. Not even a little.

Her poor baby deserved better. Better than an impaired, stained, sick, disgusting, unloving mother.

Her arms curled tighter around the baby, almost desperate, still apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” she cried softly. “I'm so sorry, baby.”

But some notion of sound registered in her ears. The dull thud of boots on her porch. The hesitant creak of a door opening. A pause.

And then—“Holy shit.”

Leela didn’t lift her head, but she heard him. Tommy.

His boots hit the floor hard, fast—tracking the smeared trail of blood, of fluids, of everything that had poured out of her, dragged behind her like a crime scene.

Tommy's breath caught. A beat passed, and suddenly, he was moving.

His voice was a sharp inhale, half a curse, half a prayer. “Jesus—Leela.”

She barely had the strength to lift her head, but when she did—just the smallest movement—relief broke in her chest. They weren't alone. They had someone here. Someone was here for them.

“Tommy!” she sobbed.

He was already dropping to his knees.

“Okay, alright, I gotcha—” His hands were warm, gripping her shoulders first, then moving—checking, searching. His voice and breath were frantic. “My god, just how long—? Never mind, never mind. You’re okay. You’re okay, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

His eyes landed on the baby. A sharp, shaken breath, like he didn't know if he was happy or devastated.

Leela felt her own body shake, from exhaustion, from shock, from everything. With careful fingers, Tommy pulled his jacket from his shoulders, bundling it in his hands before reaching out.

“Here, honey, let me—let me take the baby off you for a second.”

Leela hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, without even realizing she was doing it, she let him.

Her baby was pried away from her, leaving her cold.

Her breath shuddered out of her chest as she fell back, half-conscious, as Tommy cradled the tiny, fragile thing in his hands.

The silence stretched. What did he think? Was the baby healthy? Did anything look weird? Was it still breathing normally? Was it choking? Was it safe? Was it hungry?

“Christ,” Tommy whispered, his voice breaking. “Look at you, beautiful. You wanted to see your mama that quick, huh?”

The baby let out a soft, breathy noise. A laugh or a sigh? A sound too small, too new to understand. It made Leela break out a tired grin.

Tommy’s face softened. “Hi, girlie,” he murmured, breathless. “It’s your Uncle Tommy. Oh, she's perfect. And so strong."

“Girl?” she whispered. She hadn't even thought to check.

Tommy nodded, still half-dazed, his thumb stroking over the baby’s tiny, blood-slicked fingers.

“Yeah,” he breathed, and his hand found Leela’s hair, damp and clinging to her forehead. He swept it back, easing her for a moment. “You did real good, mama. And you did it all alone. Fuckin' superhero.”

Leela let out something between a laugh and a sob. Her body slumped back to the floor.

“I can't move,” she rasped, her voice breaking.

Tommy nodded once, sharp. “Right, here’s what I’m gonna do,” he murmured, devising. “I’m gonna quickly wash the baby, then I’m carrying you upstairs. Maria’s on her way and she's gonna clean you up. We’re gonna take care of you, alright?”

Leela just nodded. Because what else was there to do?

She had survived. Her baby girl had survived. She had brought this life into the world.

Now, she had to figure out how to keep going.

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #7

(Click. A beat of silence. Then a breath—shaky, slow. When she speaks, her voice is raw, worn thin, like she hasn’t used it in days.)

“I’ve shut them all out. Locked the door. No more Maria. No more Tommy. No more—anyone.”

(The quiet hum of static. Then, softer, almost to herself—)

“If they see it—if they see that I don’t love her the way I should, they’ll take her from me. And I’ll be alone. Alone with the pain. Alone with the shadows in the hallway.”

(A sharp inhale.) “I can’t let that happen. She’s mine.”

(A long pause, then a slow, exhaled breath.)

“Day nine. January fourth. Baby girl is... still healthy. Maria said she’s too small, but—she’s here. She's okay. She’s breathing. I’m nursing her, constantly. Every two hours. Sometimes less. She sleeps, she feeds, she excretes and repeats. I thought—”

(A wry, breathy laugh, humourless.)

“I don’t know what I thought. That she’d do more? That she’d be awake, that she’d—hold my hand? That she’d know me? Smile, laugh, something.”

(A beat. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, duller, more clinical. She's speaking facts now.)

“But no. She doesn’t know anything yet. I understand that her brain development will be slow. Her motor skills will take time to come in. She is gaining knowledge, and she's intelligent. She tracks the light, she knows crying is a catalyst for food. Now, everything she learns, she’ll learn from me.”

(A breath. Like that is just now sinking in.)

“And I—I am—”

(A beat. A breath chokes in her throat. Then, a whisper—raw, broken—)

“I am bled dry.”

(A sharp exhale. A sniff. She presses on, voice more distant, detached.)

“I eat when I can. Throw up more often than not. Try to sleep, try to think sometimes. I scratch twenty integers on the board and try to satisfy it as a functional equation. My brain and body—it’s still not mine. It’s just... a machine. My baby's machine. Warm flesh, arms to hold her, her nutrition source. She doesn’t love me. She only cries when I’m gone.”

(A sigh. A sound—barely there. Like she might be rubbing at her face, at her tired, sleepless eyes.)

“I want to love her. I want to… know her. But I look at myself, and I don’t—” (A sharp inhale like she’s swallowed a bitter pill.) “I don’t recognize the person anymore. My body, my face—it’s all... wrong. I'm fat, weak, and can barely hold myself up.”

(She moves around, fabric rustling, the sound of creaking, like she’s leaning against a wall, trying to hold herself up.)

“My stomach is soft now. Loose, almost. There are marks, these pale lines like something clawed me open from the inside. Because something... did. My breasts leak, my thighs scrape each other—so alien—and my down there—”

(Another pause, but this time it stretches—too long—before she speaks again. When she does, the words are hushed, like a secret she’s afraid to say out loud, even in the privacy of this recording.)

“I can’t imagine a man loving me now. Not that I ever could before, but now—” (Her breath wavers.) “Now it’s impossible. I am not a woman anymore. I'm a ruined mother.”

(Then, soft—barely audible—)

“I feel like a monster. A monster who can't love her own child.”

(A deep, shaky breath.)

“But... I will try. I have to. I can’t let her go. She’s—keeping me sane. Giving me a reason to wake up. A reason to exist that isn’t research. She needs me. And I—I need her.”

(A swallow. A deep, slow inhale.)

“It’s... symbiosis. We are symbiotes. Like the inside of the Infected—she’s this incredible, complex brain. I’m the infection.” (A beat.) “Yes, always the infection.”

(Another silence. Then, barely above a whisper—)

“But it will work. In some time, it has to.”

(So soft it almost disappears—like a prayer, like a plea—)

“Please, let this get better. Please.”

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #8

(A long pause. The faintest sound of static, like she’s hesitating, maybe rubbing a finger over the mic. Then—soft, almost disbelieving—)

“This man… Joel. My neighbour. He’s here. In my home.”

(Another pause, like she can’t quite believe it herself. A rustle—maybe she’s moving, pressing the heel of her palm against her temple, thinking.)

“I thought—” (A breath, quick and shallow, like the memory unsettles her.) “I thought he was gonna put his boot through my ribs. The way he looked at me at the door that night—” (She exhales sharply.) “He hates me.”

(Quieter—like she’s marvelling at the absurdity of it all—)

“And now he’s upstairs. With… Maya.”

(A sound, soft and unexpected—giggle. The kind that sneaks up, breathless, like it doesn’t quite belong.)

“Maya. My baby’s name is Maya.” (She tries the name again, savouring it.) “My daughter. I’m her mama.”

(A slow exhale, tone shifting, tired but full of quiet wonder.)

“Maya. Such a pretty name. I think it was my mother’s. Or my sister’s? I can’t remember.” (A beat. Then, softer—wistful—) “But they were beautiful. Just like Maya.”

(Another silence, stretching. Then, a little lighter, like she’s almost smiling—like she’s trying to smile—)

“Joel said it rhymes with Leela. That Maya looks just like me.”

(There's fondness there, or confusion, or she hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet.)

“Every time he’s near me, I expect myself to bolt. Run the other way. But I don’t. I just—” (A breath, slow, searching.) “I just want him to stay.”

(She stops like she’s startled herself. Like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.)

“Not with me. Just… in the house. Breathing. Silent. A friend.”

(The last word is strange on her tongue. Like she’s testing it out, seeing if it fits. It doesn’t, not really. Not yet.)

“He’s a good man. A darling man, even.” (A half-snort, like she knows how ridiculous that sounds, but it's true.) “Nothing at all like the hotheaded ass he looks like. He isn't drunk anymore.”

(A sigh, long and slow, like she’s falling and doesn't want to admit it.)

“He's fixing that crib for her. He’s so good with Maya. So natural, like he’s been a father forever. He's bonded with her so easily. And I think—” (A swallow.) “I think my baby loves him.”

(Her voice tightens.)

“She smiled at him today.” (Then, lower—hurt, guilty, and in between—) “She’s never smiled at me. That's alright. At least she's feeling good. She has someone who loves her.”

(Silence. A stretch of it. Then, something fragile, almost apologetic—like she’s saying it to the air, to herself—)

“My daughter has the prettiest smile. Like a little blooming sunflower.”

(Another pause, something thick caught in her throat. A sniff. Then, shifting—pushing forward, changing course.)

“But Joel—” (A breath, bracing.) “Yeah, he does not like me.”

(A rustle. Maybe she’s pressing her hand to her face, rubbing at her temples, like saying it out loud makes it more real.)

“In fact—” (A quiet laugh, humourless.) “He called me a coward to my face. He's not wrong. I'm the coward who couldn't die. I'm the coward who can't love her baby. I am a coward for asking him to take my baby away. But I... I'm just so exhausted.”

(The words land heavy like they’ve been circling in her head for days, refusing to leave.)

“He watches me. Glaring. Every time I try to nurse Maya, every time she cries, every time I—” (She exhales, sharp, frustrated—at him? At herself?) “Like he’s waiting for me to mess up. To choke up. To drop her.”

(A pause. Then, bitter—resentful, defensive—soft.)

“And I get it. I do. Would anyone let a monster near a baby?”

(Silence. Thick, oppressive. Then—quieter, almost thoughtful—)

“But he doesn’t ask questions. Not like Maria. Not like Tommy. He doesn’t push. He just… is. He brings me food. He tells me to sleep. He has taught me to hold Maya.” (A breath, settling in tired and resigned.) “I’m grateful for that.”

(A long pause, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to say the next thing out loud.)

“I just hope he doesn’t leave soon.”

(It is creeping in at the edges. It's bitter, knowing.)

“Not for me. Not for anything to do with me.” (She exhales, sharp like she’s forcing the truth out before she can swallow it back down.) “It’s Maya. It’s always Maya.”

(Her voice tightens. Not angry, not quite. Just… something else. Aching, raw.)

“He doesn’t care about me. He barely looks at me. But he looks after my baby. Holds her like she's his own. That's all I want.”

(A breath. Then, a half-laugh—small, almost embarrassed, almost resigned, like she can’t believe she’s about to say this out loud.)

“He’s too useful around here.” (A beat. Then, even quieter—like a confession, like she shouldn’t want it but does—)

“I want to keep him with Maya always.”

(Silence. Then, a quiet click.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #1

(The screen wobbles, unfocused, a mess of pivoting shapes and the worn floorboards of the home. A voice, low and grumbling, cuts through the static—)

“Jesus. Is this thing on? Shit’s fucked.”

(Laughter—delicate, chiming—before another voice, lighter, teasing, cuts in—)

“Joel, just—” (a giggle, the sound of movement, a blur of fingers reaching for the camera) “Give it here. I'll do it.”

“No, no, no—go to her, darlin’. I got this.”

“You’re shaking it.”

“I ain't shakin’ it. It's the damn camera.” (A pause, more rustling, moving.) “Just go.”

(The camera swings wildly before settling, focusing—somewhat shakily—on Leela. She’s sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, in summer clothes, the warm glimmer of lamplights catching on the sharp edges of her face. She looks… younger. Softer. Happier. It's obvious, it's the love glow. There's a small smile playing at her lips, her eyes full of distinctive excitement as she glances toward Maya.)

“Okay.” (She starts, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, her voice turning sunnier, less factual.) “It’s September the eighth. Maya, aged nine months. Living room. The time is… seven-twenty-two in the evening. The temperature is—”

(A low chuckle from behind the camera—dry, amused—before Joel cuts in—)

“The hell are you doin’?”

(Leela frowns at the lens, scratching at her forehead, clearly exasperated.) “I’m… stating my controls.”

(Joel snorts.) “What, you sendin’ a rocket to the moon? It’s a goddamn home video. Just go to the kid.”

(Leela rolls her eyes, muttering—) “So unsystematic.”

(The camera tilts and refocuses—Maya’s in the frame now, sitting in the middle of the floor, a toy horse clutched in her tiny hands. She’s all soft curls and chubby cheeks, her dress a blur of little embroidered flowers. She blinks up at her mother, wide-eyed, then over at the camera, grinning when Joel snaps his fingers to get her attention.)

“Over here, baby girl. Here.” (His voice is softer now, coaxing.)

“Da-da, hi!” (Maya squeals, all four teeth and dimples, her tiny hands slapping at the carpet in excitement.)

“There's that winning smile. Hi.”

(Leela laughs, reaching out to smooth a hand over Maya’s curls.)

“Oh, you look so pretty. What is that you're wearing?”

(Maya clutches at her dress, scrunching it up in her little fists, bouncing where she sits.) “S’flowers. Dwess... flowers.”

“Wow. I don't have one like that.” (Leela coos, her face softening. She holds Maya's little hand between her index and thumb.) “Okay, okay—Maya, can you tell your da-da what you ate today?”

(Maya blinks, considering this. Then—)

“Mama.”

(Joel huffs out a quiet chuckle from behind the camera. Leela tries again, biting back a smile—)

“No, no, baby—what did you eat?”

(Maya grins, showing off all four tiny teeth.)

“Da-da.”

(Joel outright snorts this time, shifting the camera slightly as he zooms closer. Right on Maya and Leela's faces.)

“I've got bite marks to prove it.”

(Leela groans, nudging Maya's arm playfully.) “Maya, listen to Mama. What was it you ate, love? Was it… blue…? A berry?”

(Maya’s whole face lights up in recognition, and then—)

“Booooo-berries.”

(Leela bursts out with a giggle. Joel chuckles low in his throat.)

“Did you get that?” (Leela beams, glancing up at the camera, her elation clear.) “She said it!”

(A pause. Then—Joel curses under his breath, the camera jerking to the left.)

“Shit, I think I forgot to hit record.”

(Leela's head snaps up, eyes wide.) “Aw, Joel, c’mon.”

“I told you, darlin'—”

(Cut to black.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #2

(The camera hums to life, adjusting, focusing. A golden afternoon spills through the windows, warm light pooling over the wooden floors. The soft strum of a guitar filters through the room—enduring, unhurried—followed by a low, familiar voice.)

“Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you… Because you're mine, I walk the line…”

(The camera shakes and zooms in—Joel sits on the floor, legs stretched out, the guitar balanced against his knee. Maya sits between his legs, tiny fists tapping at the base of the instrument, her chubby fingers drumming against the wood in wild, uncoordinated beats. Every few seconds, she squeals, as if she’s part of the song, as if she knows she belongs in this moment.)

(Off-camera, a quiet laugh.)

“You’re a natural, baby girl.” (Leela teases, zooming in on the way Maya bounces in place, her curls bobbing, her wide, toothy grin bright enough to rival the sunlight.)

(Joel breaks off mid-chord, glancing up sharply. His brow furrows, like he’s just realized he’s being filmed.)

“Hey, get that thing outta my face.”

“But it’s your birthday video.”

“You're two days early.”

“I already turned on the camera, Joel. Go with it.”

(A sigh. He eventually sets the guitar aside, lifting Maya onto his lap, resting his chin lightly on top of her head. His fingers roll at her tiny palms.)

“Fine. Whaddya want?”

“Okay, first off—state your name, age, date, and time.”

(Joel gives the camera a flat look.) “I ain’t one of your science experiments.”

“Just do it.”

(Another sigh, this one profound. He rubs a hand down his face, muttering—)

“Can't believe this... alright. Joel Miller. Fifty-six. September the twenty-fourth. And it’s… I dunno, one in the afternoon. I am still waitin' on those greasy-ass cheeseburgers I was promised.” (Joel winks.)

(Leela muffles small giggles) “Patience is a virtue. Now, what’s your birthday wish this year?”

(He scrubs at his eyes, exhaling through his nose.) “Jesus, Leela.”

“Say it.”

(A hum. Joel shifts, adjusting Maya on his lap. When he finally answers, his voice is quieter, like he’s not sure he wants it caught on record—)

“Makin’ it to fifty-eight.”

(Leela hums.) “Okay, what... do you think about your birthday present?”

(Maya smacks at his cheeks before he can answer, her little hands patting at his stubble like she’s trying to figure out what it is. Joel huffs, catching her wrist before she can shove her fingers in his mouth.)

“My what?”

“Can’t believe you forgot. Think fast.”

(A set of keys flies through the air. They bounce off his chest, jangling, but his reflexes are still quick—he catches them before they can hit Maya.)

(The camera tilts and spins. Leela comes into the frame now, just her eyes, unfocused, wearing that playfully serious expression, her lips pursed like she’s pretending to take notes.)

“Signs of cognitive decline. Memory loss and poor motor functions.” (She shakes her head.) “I might have to look into that later.”

(The camera spins again and focuses back on Joel. He's glaring at her.)

“Cognitive... you big dork. You’re lucky I’m holdin’ the kid.” (He lifts the key, squinting at it, realization dawning.) “So, the Maranello is really all mine now?”

(Leela laughs, shifting the camera slightly, catching the way Joel’s eyebrows lift, just a fraction.)

“All yours. Surprise!”

(Joel exhales, rolling the key between his fingers. He looks back at her, a little sceptical.)

“And what, we’re supposed to ride out on the I-22 till the sun sets? You realize I can't drive the thing anywhere?”

“Sounds like a steady date.”

(Joel snorts, shaking his head, but there’s peace in his face—softer, fondness—that he doesn’t bother hiding this time. He glances at Leela, opening his mouth to say something, but...)

(The camera tilts again, zooming in on Maya. She’s sucking on her fist now, watching the two of them.)

“One more.” (Leela coaxes, voice gentle.) “One last present. Maya, look at Mama. Like we practised, okay? Happy…”

(Maya blinks, distracted, then grins at Joel. She curls and uncurls her fingers, rocking back and forth.)

“Da-da, comma, comma, comma.”

(Joel snickers, adjusting her in his arms. He points back at Leela, forcing her attention. He wants to hear this present right now.)

“Your mama’s talkin’ to you, baby girl.”

(Maya glances at Leela, her tiny hand lifting, fingers wiggling in a wave.) “Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, baby.” (Leela laughs.) “Okay, you have to say it now. Happy…”

“Happy!” (Maya chirps, delighted.)

“Birthday.”

“Bo-day!” (She claps, bouncing excitedly in Joel’s lap.)

“Da-da.”

“Daaaaa-da.”

“Yay.”

(Joel grins, wide and real, lifting Maya up in the air, to which she squeals. He presses one, two, three kisses to her cheeks. With a voice like molasses for his little girl—)

“Thank you, sweetheart.” (Then he glances at Leela behind the camera.) “You're gettin' big party favours.”

“Can't wait.”

(The screen lingers, blurring at the edges when it meets with the light, the sound of laughter filling the frame—soft, real, warm—before the camera finally cuts to black.)

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #241

(A burst of static. A faint click as the recorder whirs to life. Then—silence. Not complete, but close. The soft rhythm of breathing.)

“Okay.” (A pause. A sharp inhale, like she’s readying herself.) “Okay. This is—this is me. Leela. Age thirty. The time is eleven sixteen in the evening, on November twenty-third. Basement. And this is real, working, undeniable proof.”

(The rustle of paper. The scrape of a pen tapping against something solid. A controlled breath, like she’s holding back—excitement, disbelief, a feeling bigger than both.)

“I have solved it.” (A beat. Then, sharper, firmer—) “I solved the Riemann Hypothesis.”

(Silence. Then a small laugh—half-breathless, half-shaken, like she still doesn’t quite believe her own words.)

“I don’t even know who is gonna listen to this.” (Another laugh, quieter now.) “I guess I don’t care. I just—I need to say it. I need it to exist somewhere beyond my head, beyond these pages. I have just solved the goddamn Holy Grail of Mathematics.”

(More rustling. Paper shuffling. A faint scratch of pen against the margins, like she’s still working, still checking, still making sure.)

“I don’t even know what that means anymore. A hundred and fifty years ago, it would’ve changed everything. Even just twenty. It would’ve rewritten how we understand numbers, patterns in the universe, and how we predict and solidify prime distributions. Gene sequencing, theoretical physics, rebuilding our quantum computers, our shitty communication systems—it was the missing key. We suddenly have a roadmap to the structure of numbers. To the future.”

“And I-I think... I think, and I might be wildly mistaken, but if Cordyceps follows some sort of biological network or pattern with our neurons—in terms of protein folding or catabolism—I assume disease modelling relies on prime-based arithmatics. That would mean safer genetic research. That means a possible...” (Her voice falters slightly, like she’s thinking too fast, trying to hold onto a world that doesn’t exist anymore.)

“And now?” (A short, bitter laugh.) “Now it means nothing. The world ended anyway. Nature, unlike the infection, has run its course.”

(She exhales hard, like trying to steady herself. Then—softer, slower—she speaks again, like it’s fragile.)

“I don’t know if I should tell her. If she'll even understand. Of course not, she can't even speak.”

(A shift—fabric moving. A sound—small, barely there—someone breathing, a rustle of movement.)

“My Maya.” (Her voice is cautious now.) “She’s asleep. She’s got her hand curled up against my neck, and she does that thing—” (A breath of amusement, faint but warm.) “—where she scrunches up her nose when she dreams. She's my darling.” (A soft chuckle.)

“She doesn’t know the world used to mean things like this. Used to have things like this. A world where proving a theorem could change the future, where it could make you matter.”

(A lengthy pause. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, like it’s delicate and in her hands.)

“My parents spent their whole lives chasing something they could leave behind. Mama—Jesus, Mama—I think she loved this problem more than anything else in the world. She used to say it was poetry, that it was—” (a breath, remembering, then softens—) “that it was the closest thing to God she’d ever seen.”

(A swallow. Then—firmer, like she’s gripping something real.)

“They didn’t get to finish it. But I did.”

(A change in sound, the creak of an old chair, the faintest shuffle—someone moving in their sleep? The pattern of breathing remains the same, undisturbed.)

“And now what?” (A small, wry exhale.) “What the hell do I do with it? The world it belonged to is gone. The journals, the universities, the mathematicians who would’ve lost their minds over this—it’s all gone.”

(Silence stretches long enough that it almost feels like the recording has stopped. But then—softly—)

“But my parents aren’t.”

(The sound of fingers drumming against the table. Rhythmic. Thoughtful.)

“They lived for this. Died for this. And now it’s done. They deserve that. Their work deserves that. I deserve that. And if no one’s left to care—then I’ll care. I’ll make sure it exists. That it doesn’t just die here with me. This is their legacy. I have given too much, lost too much.”

(A long inhale. The softest stirring—fabric rustling again, the faint creak of old bedsprings, a body curling closer. A tiny sound—so small, so sleepy—Maya moaning in her sleep.)

(Leela’s breath hitches. Then, lower now—almost a whisper—)

“I have to tell Joel tonight. My pragmatist. He's the first person who has to know. It's always him. I just... I love him so much. He matters to me more than any proof in this world. More than any equation or legacy. I hope he loves me, too.” (A small laugh, tired but real.) “He’s not gonna understand a thing. Gonna tell me I’m crazy. And maybe I am. But I think—I think I have to do this. I have to get this out there, out of Jackson. Joel will know what to do; he always does.”

(A long pause. The sound of fabric shifting again. Then—faint, barely above a whisper—)

“This is far from over. Because I have not just solved any equation. I have proved that humanity is not done yet. We prevail.”

(Click.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #11

(The camera jolts to life, static crackling before the lens steadies. The frame is tight on Ellie’s face, her grin wide, her freckles vivid under the glow of the living room light. She holds the camera at arm’s length, angling it just right.)

“This is Captain Ellie Williams to ground control. It is officially time to… paaaaarty!”

(The camera pivots wildly, zooming in and out like at a chaotic rave, the frame cutting to Maya. The toddler bounces on her feet as the camera goes all over, hands flailing in pure excitement, her curls bouncing with her. She giggles, caught up in Ellie’s energy.)

“Yeah, baby’s got moves. Shake it, shake it—uh-huh, uh-huh. Yeah, go, Maya. Go, Maya.”

(Maya claps, delighted, then reaches for the camera with grabby little hands, eyes bright and pleading.)

“Pease, gimme, Evie!”

“You wanna see it?” (Ellie waggles the camera, teasing.)

(From off-screen, Joel’s voice cuts in, dry, unimpressed—)

“Ellie, do not give her the damn camera. She’s gonna break it.”

(The screen tilts, spins, refocuses. Now it captures the living room—the warm, homey clutter of it. Joel and Leela are curled up on one couch, Joel’s arm stretched lazily along the back, fingers just brushing Leela’s cheek and temple. Across from them, Tommy and Maria lounge on the other sofa, relaxed, a drink in Tommy’s hand.)

(The camera zooms dramatically in on Joel’s face, the frame locking onto his beard, then his nose, then back to one irritated eye. In an exaggerated deep voice—)

“Joel, the Contractoooor.”

(Joel exhales sharply, shooting her a look.)

“Shut that thing off. We’re talkin’ here.”

“You’re such an assh—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life—more static, a blur of movement as Ellie fumbles the camera, laughing.)

(Ellie in mock horror—) “Oh no, we lost transmission! Lieutenant down! Ground control, come in!”

(The screen whips around, a mess of limbs and floorboards before it lands back on Maya, who is now dramatically collapsed on the rug like a fallen soldier. She peeks up, eyes squinting, then throws herself fully onto her back, arms splayed out.)

(Maya giggles.) “Noooooo!”

“We have a casualty, people. The baby’s down! Baby lieutenant fought bravely, but it was just too much dance power!”

(Maya, caught up in the game, dramatically sticks out her tongue. The camera shakes as Ellie cackles, zooming in close on Maya’s sprawled-out body.)

(Ellie narrates solemnly.) “Gone too soon. Alas, she shook it too hard, too fast. We will remember the too-young Maya Miller. I will avenge—hey!”

(A hand suddenly snatches the camera from Ellie’s grip—Joel’s hand, big and firm, filling the frame as he yanks it away.)

(Joel grumbling) “Alright, that’s enough bullshit from the two of you.”

(The camera shakes as Joel turns it on Ellie, flipping the interrogation around. She blinks, caught mid-laugh, then scowls. Maya sets off into a whining, screechy cry which is silenced by Maria, who sweeps her up into her arms.)

“Da-da, no!”

“Give it back, Joel!”

“Yeah? How d’you like it?” (The camera zooms right into Ellie’s freckled face, awkwardly close.) “Feels real fun, don’t it?”

(Ellie shoves at him.) “Ugh, you suck.”

(The screen wobbles again, and suddenly, it shifts—click—now the camera is facing Joel, who does not know how to hold the camera properly. His thumb partially covers the lens, and he’s squinting at the screen like it personally offended him.)

“The hell is this shit? Didja break it?”

(Ellie, off-camera, laughing.) “Fucking move your thumb, man!”

“Ain’t my fault this thing’s built for tiny-ass hands—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life, the lens slightly smudged, making the warm glow of the living room blur at the edges. The angle shifts as if someone’s adjusting the camera, propping it up on the table. Murmurs of conversation spill through the speakers—low laughter, the clink of glass, the distant, delighted squeals of Maya as Ellie entertains her.)

(Then, a new face fills the frame—Tommy. He squints into the lens, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans in, his voice a lazy drawl.)

“Damn thing even on?” (He taps the side of the camera like it’s an old radio, then glances to his left. The camera shifts as he picks it up and leans into Maria’s side, burrowing his face against her neck to press a slow kiss to her skin.)

(Maria laughs, tilting her head away as she swats at his chest.) “Save it for later, cowboy.”

“Ooh, slow your roll, partner. Gonna make me blush." (But his eyes drift past her, locking onto something else across the room. He snorts, suddenly grinning, and spins the camera in that direction.)

“Would you look at that? My favourite lovebirds.”

(The frame tightens on Joel and Leela, curled up on the couch. Leela is murmuring to him, her cheek pressed against Joel’s shoulder, her fingers idly stroking into his hair. She looks up at him as she speaks, soft and unguarded, and Joel is just gone. His eyes are half-lidded, his head tilted slightly in her direction, his arm lazily curled around her shoulders. Every so often, without even thinking, he leans forward, brushing a slow kiss to her ear. Like breathing. Like habit.)

(Tommy whistles low, off-camera.) “They’ve definitely done the deed.”

(Maria hums.) “I knew that weeks ago.”

(Joel’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing as he glares at them from across the room.)

“I heard that, fucker. The hell is wrong with you?”

(The camera zooms in, catching the way Leela immediately buries her face in her hands—and into Joel’s shoulder—while he groans, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s questioning every life choice.)

“Alright, alright, since we’re all cosy now—tell me somethin’.” (Tommy adjusts the camera, fixing the focus on them.) “What do y’all like about each other?”

(Leela peeks out from behind her hands, blinking at him.) “What?”

(Tommy’s voice comes from somewhere off-screen, laced with amusement.)

“Yeah, c’mon, indulge us.” (The lens adjusts, sharpening.) “Y’know, since some people in this house refuse to talk about their damn feelings.” (The camera shifts in Joel’s direction.)

(Joel just glares at it.) “What are you tryna pull? Turn that thing off.”

“Hey, don't be such a sourpuss.”

(Joel doesn’t meet it. He’s now staring at the ceiling, hands templed on his nose, like he’s willing divine intervention to strike Tommy down where he sits.)

(A soft hum of agreement from Maria, somewhere nearby.) “It’s a good question. I wanna hear it.”

(Leela glances sideways at Joel, hesitation flickering in the crease of her brow. But that set of her mouth—small, teasing—suggests she’s not entirely opposed to this game.)

(She tilts her head, the motion easy, natural.) “You go first, Joel.”

(The footage picks up the sound of Joel sighing. His shoulders roll back as he glances toward her out of the corner of his eye. One hand moves—rubs at his jaw, then drags down the back of his neck. The camera catches the exact moment he exhales, muttering—)

“Well, Leela’s... goddamn smart.”

(Off-screen, Tommy groans, the camera giving a small, jostled shake like he’s throwing up his hands.)

“C’mon, man. That’s what you’re goin’ with? Everyone and their mother knows that.”

(Joel shrugs, his mouth twitching like this whole conversation is exhausting him.) “Well, she is. Her brain is so big and weird. She even speaks in nerd real cute.”

(The lens catches the quick flicker of a smile as Leela nudges his knee with hers. The camera wobbles slightly as Tommy shifts again, leaning forward.)

“That’s it? Nothin’ else, just her big brain?”

(Joel exhales, shoulders stiffening. He really hates this. Then—without looking at her—his voice dips lower.)

“She’s got a good heart. She cooks like a mad scientist, and her food is downright sinful.” (A pause, a shift in his expression, reluctant—then, almost reflectively—) “And... she's beautiful.”

(The camera picks up the way Leela blinks at him. Joel rubs the back of his neck, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor.)

“She's really beautiful.” (A beat.) “Could watch her all day if I could. Just being. One smile and...” (He shakes his head with a small grin.)

(Silence hums through the speakers—just for a second before the camera lurches slightly. A blur of motion as Maria smacks Tommy’s arm, a flash of her grin as she hums the wedding march—)

“Dum-dum-da-dum, dum-dum-da-dum... there's really no saving him now.”

(The camera refocuses just in time to catch Leela still watching Joel, an unreadability in her eyes. Her lips part slightly like she wants to say something—but before she can, the lens wobbles again, a brief static crackling as Tommy clears his throat.)

“Alright, honey, your turn.” (The camera steadies on Leela.) “What do you like about big ol’ grumpy over here?”

(Leela, still looking at Joel, tilts her head. The footage picks up the flicker in her eyes—affectionate, thoughtful.)

“Hmm.” (She drags out the sound, considering.)

(The camera catches Joel shifting beside her, his hand twitching slightly against his knee. His voice—grumbled, almost embarrassed—murmurs—)

“Just say my face and get it over with. I'm tired.”

(Leela laughs—the sound clear through the speakers, genuine. The camera catches the way Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile and losing.)

“Well, I like when Joel plays his guitar.” (Her voice is softer now, the corners of her mouth still curled upward, loving gaze on him.) “I love that he's an artist at heart, the exact opposite of me.”

(The footage picks up the way Joel clears his throat, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans.)

(Leela hums, quieter now, more thoughtful.)

“And... I love when he's with Maya.” (The camera zooms slightly, catches the shape of her smile, the certainty in it, the careful way she speaks—like she’s weighing every word.) “She loves him. And he loves her, too.”

(Joel swallows, gaze dropping to his entwined hands.)

(The footage shifts slightly as Tommy clears his throat, the camera adjusting with a jostled movement.)

“Alright, alright.” (His voice, still light, but gentler now.) “You heard it here first, folks. The mean man’s a big ol’ teddy bear.”

(The camera shakes slightly as Joel tips his head back against the couch, groaning.)

“Jesus Christ, Tommy—”

(The lens steadies, framing Leela as she laughs, reaching for his hand. The footage captures the way Joel naturally laces his fingers through hers. He lifts it to his lips—)

(The screen flickers. Cut to black.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #14

(The footage wobbles before settling, the lens clouded with the faint smudge of tiny fingerprints. Maya’s face wedges the frame—round cheeks, big curious eyes, the softest scrunch of her nose as she pokes at the camera, inspecting. A chubby hand reaches, pressing directly against the lens, smearing a blur of warmth and colour across the screen.)

(Muffled giggles. The grainy recording shakes slightly as Maya shifts, little fingers gripping at the edges of the camera. The background is soft—white pillows, blankets, the low glow of a bedside lamp casting everything in golden hues.)

(A blur of dark hair enters the frame, then—Leela, tilting in, resting her cheek against Maya’s head, her voice sing-song and sweet—like she's sharing a secret.)

“What is baby Maya doing?” (The camera jostles as Maya shifts, little hands still gripping the device.) “Is she making a video? Is she Maya Spielberg? What are you looking at?”

(Maya’s mouth opens in a wide, toothy grin, giggles bubbling up from her throat. The camera shakes with her laughter, tiny hiccuping sounds breaking up the quiet.)

“Is that Maya’s smile?” (Leela’s fingers brush gently over her lips.) “Big, big smile? Look at her big girl teeth. And her cute little nose...”

(Maya throws her head back, her giggle turning into a full-blown squeal, arms flapping wildly in delight. The footage shakes, unfocused for a moment, before a low, familiar voice rumbles from somewhere off-camera—tired, amused—)

“Don’t work her up before bed, darlin’.” (The footage tilts slightly, catching a glimpse of Joel’s veined arm as he shifts somewhere out of sight.) “Can’t get her to sleep without pullin’ a muscle.”

“Oof, Daddy's in a mood again.”

(Joel sighs gruffly.) “Daddy has to wake up early but is distracted.”

(Leela laughs softly, shifting Maya onto her lap and pulling her close. The camera steadies just enough to capture the moment as she presses their cheeks together, her voice lilting—warm and full of affection.)

“C’mere, baby.” (She tilts her head, looking directly into the lens.) “Wow, Maya looks just like Mama. Mama's hair, Mama's skin, Mama's eyes.” (A gentle kiss to Maya’s temple, a soft murmur—) “Can you gimme a kiss?”

(Maya hesitates for only a second before turning, pressing a wet, tiny kiss against Leela’s cheek. The screen wobbles as Leela laughs, delighted.)

“Oh, that’s a big kiss.” (She nuzzles in closer, rocking slightly.) “Now, can you say ‘I love you, Mama’?”

(Maya makes a sound—soft and sweet, a garbled attempt, not quite words but close.)

(Leela gasps, grinning.) “Oh! Almost! That was so good!” (She brushes her fingers over Maya’s cheek, teasing—) “Do you love Mama more or your Da-da?”

(Before Maya can respond, a hand—large, rough—enters the frame, pinching at Leela’s cheek, pulling playfully. Joel’s voice rumbles, equal parts exasperation and affection—)

“Fair play.”

(Leela swats at his wrist, half-heartedly.) “Ah-ow.” (She rubs her cheek dramatically, throwing Maya a conspiratorial look.) “Did you see that? Big bad daddy.”

(Joel grumbles.) “Sure, I'm the bad guy.”

(Maya squeals, bouncing in place, eyes bright—) “Mama!”

(Leela stills slightly, looking down at her, like she can't really believe it.) “Me? You love me?”

(Maya beams, pressing a small, chubby hand to Leela’s cheek.) “Mama, Mama.”

(The camera shakes as Leela gathers her closer, pushing her lips to Maya’s forehead, eyes closing briefly as she whispers—soft, whole, like it’s the easiest, truest thing in the world—)

“I love you, too, Maya. Mama loves you so much.”

(The screen lingers for a moment longer—the softness of them, the quiet hum of contentment. Then, a small static pop—black.)

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #242

(A soft click. The hum of the recorder comes alive, accompanied by the faintest rustle of fabric—Leela shifting, settling. A sigh, deep and measured, like she’s leaning back. Maybe the wall. Maybe Joel.)

“This is my final log for the R. hypothesis documentation.” (A breath.) “I’m not stating any benchmarks. No primes, no numbers. None of that matters anymore. Not tonight. I'm done.”

(A soft exhale—she’s smiling.)

“The night is sweet. My daughter, who will turn one this month, is sleeping. I am safe. My skin feels clean. I have…” (A small, almost sheepish laugh, barely more than a breath.) “Made love... to the most perfect, cynical, gentlest man on this planet, who apparently loves me, too.” (A muffled snicker—like she’s covering her mouth, shaking her head.) “That’s personal. Joel doesn't like to flaunt. So, off the record, okay?”

(She sighs again, slower this time. Something moves—her tone, her posture, her thoughts.)

“I keep thinking about how the last ten years of my life have been… numbers.” (A breath.) “A set of variables and primes. A world so little I could carry it between my palms, hold it in my mind.”

(A faint rustling—her fingers tracing, maybe the fabric of Joel’s shirt.)

“I stayed in Jackson. Cremated my parents. Lived. Died. Survived. Delivered a baby girl.” (A long, slow inhale. A quiet realization.) “Found a partner I love and trust.”

(There's no sadness. It's simply final.)

“And the thing is… I did it. I proved it. Every part of it. I took the step to live, and I finished what my parents started. I reached the end of the proof. And I thought—” (She exhales.) “I thought I’d feel… bigger. Massive. Like the sky should crack open, like humanity should turn its head and finally, finally listen.”

(She laughs—not bitter, not regretful, just… acknowledging it.)

“But it won’t. It never will. Because there’s nowhere to send it. No one left to care. No world left to change. I think this is it.”

(A beat. A quiet moment where she lets the truth sink into her. Then—a softer change. A lighter note.)

“And I’m okay with that. I accept it now.”

(The creak of the bed. A shifting weight—like she’s leaning back, closing her eyes.)

“I don’t need anyone to hear it. Because I did it. I solved it. And maybe it’ll never matter, maybe it dies here with me.” (A slow breath, controlled.) “But I know. I know what I achieved. And Joel does. My new, small family does. And Maya will someday.”

(A quiet hum. More static of the recorder. An anticipatory breath—like she’s structuring her thoughts before speaking.)

“It's strange... how do I put this? You know, a function is defined by its inputs and outputs. A system or machine is shaped by its limitations. A theorem is valid only if every variable holds true.”

(Leela’s voice is quieter, warmer now.) “For ten years, my variables were singular. A closed set—isolated, self-contained, unworkable. I measured my life in absolutes, limits and intersections. And then…”

(A long pause. Her voice softens.) “The equation changed.”

(An infinitesimal sound—the murmur from Joel, deep in sleep.)

“Dare I say more complicated? New inputs and outputs. New limitations. A system with unknowns. And somehow—against every probability—”

(Her voice quiets, like she’s reaching the final line of a proof, the last, inevitable step.)

“It balanced.”

(A slow inhale. A hand smoothing over fabric, maybe Joel’s arm.)

“One woman. One child. One man. The sum is still whole. My system works. The theorem is valid.” (A beat.) “That's a good enough proof for me.”

(An understanding silence. A breath. Certain. Absolute.)

“This is Leela, signing off. If you listen to this, know that I'm still trying despite this. I am going to fight like hell to put my findings out, even if it's a long shot. Please help me prove what I've left behind, in case I don't. Prove that we haven't lost yet.”

(Click.)

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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botnetconspiracy · 1 day ago

Text

Thought That Counts

Pairing: Alpha!Dave / Dirk

Warnings: Stridercest, Very NSFW, slight dubcon(?), language

Notes: Might turn into more chapters later. This was only supposed to be a tiny, self-indulgent oneshot because there’s not enough Hollywood superstar Dave in the world, but then it became a slightly longer oneshot with all kinds of Dave/Dirk feels thrown in, so I’m just going to toss this out here and be done with it.

Inspired by Kelaruj’s rendition of Alpha!Dave here.

AO3 You’re so used to being frustrated and turned on at the same time with Dave that you’ve almost accepted it as an inevitable and permanent part of your relationship.

Your name is Dirk Strider and today is your birthday. Or rather, it was your birthday, since the digital clock’s glowing numbers are telling you that it’s now 12:17 AM. Your Bro is next to you in the wide bed you share, propped up against the wall with his arms folded behind his head. His shades are clipped to the front of his red silk shirt, the one that almost matches his eyes (the color is a bit too dark). You’re reclining next to him, stretched out on your side with am arm slung lazily over his broad middle, listening contentedly to the dialogue and sound effects of the movie while his soundless inhales and exhales move your arm slowly up and down.

All things considered, today wasn’t that different from any other day, except that Dave stayed in. No meetings, no errands, just some quality Strider family bonding time, meaning that he told you to ‘pick some shit that you feel like doing, I’ll just be along for the ride today little dude’ and subsequently sat through three movies with you, finally caved in and helped you take apart and fix the stovetop, and finished that off by testing it with a chemistry project you’ve been planning (biofuels are easy to make if you have the right materials). But that was yesterday, and your final movie choice of the night to top everything off is about ten minutes from ending. You managed to pay attention to most of it even though you’ve seen it before, and about two hours in your exhaustion got the better of you, leading to the position you’re in right now. Dave considerately turned the volume down on the TV after you settled in against his side, until it was just loud enough for you to make out the words, but not quite enough to keep you from dozing off.

As the credits start rolling, Dave takes a deep, noisy breath that usually indicates that he’s about to move. You feel his long fingers thread into your hair and run through it gently. His nails against your scalp are heaven.

“You were right man, that wasn’t bad.”

“Told you.” You mumble into his side, too tired to bother with more elaborate declarations of success. His fingers gently tuck your short hair behind your ear, then run down the side of your jaw, brush against your neck, trace the contour of your clavicle. You crack an eye open when you feel and hear him shift on the bed. The red of his shirt is all you see when the mattress dips down and his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You breathe in the lingering scent of his cologne, almost gone now that it’s the end of the day, and who the hell puts on cologne when they’re not going out? His fingers return to your hair, carding through it affectionately. A contented sigh communicates to him how happy you feel, wrapped in his arms. He speaks your language of minimal gestures and sounds, a mutual dialect the two of you share. He understands.

The two of you stay like that until the music from the credits finally fades out, and the room falls quiet, apart from the television’s faint electronic whine, and the distant rush of traffic from the streets below. Dave’s hand has abandoned your hair to massage your neck and shoulders. You’re on the edge of falling asleep, but his ministrations are keeping you from slipping into unconsciousness, and you’re starting to suspect his motives.

Almost as though Dave can sense that his cover’s been blown, he leans over and his warm, soft lips press against the side of your head, your cheekbone, the edge of your jaw. One of his hands has wandered south, smoothing down the side of your thin sleepwear shirt. His mouth lingers at your neck, lips trailing lightly over your skin at first, but by the time he reaches your shoulder and pulls the fabric aside, his teeth and tongue have gotten involved. The evening up until now had been relaxing and, damn it, you do not want to have to deal with his particular brand of physical intimacy tonight. When he inevitably moves to straddle you, you respond by sitting up as far as you can manage with a man almost twice your size on top of you, pushing halfheartedly against his shoulders and pulling up your knees to get some leverage, but his hands grab onto your legs and he gently but firmly pushes back. He’s leaning over you somewhat precariously, and you could force him off if you wanted to. But you don’t. This isn’t a rooftop strife. He looks pleased with himself, blood-red eyes staring purposefully into yours as he plucks his shades from where they’re hanging on his shirt and sets them aside, and you know exactly what he’s trying to do.

“The fuck are you trying to do?”

Dave’s expression, probably intended to be seductive up to this point but that shit doesn’t really ever work on you and you both know it, breaks into a genuine smile, like he’s actually found something un-ironically funny about what you just said. “Duh. It’s your birthday, dude.”

That earns him a lifted eyebrow, which quickly becomes a frown when both hands start to travel down, sliding over your back and around your hips. He pushes your shirt up as he shifts further down the bed, until you could wrap your legs around his shoulders.

This confirms your suspicions of what his intentions are, and you grab his hand right before it can slip into your pants. “Dude.”

“Come on, bro, relax.” He’s still got that predator’s look on his face, and you briefly consider actually forcing him off of the bed. But his hands are at the junction between your leg and hip, achingly close to your slowly hardening erection, and he’s rubbing in firm circles, kneading at the fabric of your pants, and yeah you’ve definitely got a full-blown hard on coming soon if he keeps that up. You are way too fucking tired for this.

His head dips down again, this time to press an open mouthed kiss to your exposed stomach. His tongue, smooth and wet, swipes across your skin, teeth scraping lightly in between licks, and his hands are under your knees, lifting them up to push you further back against the bed.

You try to prop yourself up with your elbows, but the mattress is too soft to provide a firm enough surface, and you’re soon flat on your back, knees bent, with him looking up at you in between. “Dude, come on.” You protest, but your heart’s not in it, and Dave knows that, damn him, (probably from the obvious tent in your pants), acknowledging you with a skeptic 'Ahuh.’ There’s a big part of you that doesn’t want him to stop, despite your words and the fact that you really are too tired for this. He resumes massaging your thighs and hips, occasionally sliding his hands between your legs to brush purposefully against your erection, and now you can’t stop your hips from twitching up in response, because the longer this is going on, the less you feel like fighting it.

“I’m really not in the mood, Bro.” You try, but can’t seem to force any conviction into the words as they come out, and your breathing has picked up. Dave knows he’s already won. He’s persistent tonight. The hands at your thighs are starting to feel unbearably good where he’s kneading in firm circles, just a short distance from your crotch.

“Are you sure? Tonight’s a special occasion.”

“No it isn’t. My … birthday ended half … half an hour ago."

He rolls his eyes out of lack of concern for that minor technicality. Your hips are moving with his hands now, rolling up a few centimeters every time he rubs, inching closer to your aching dick.

"It’s still yesterday elsewhere on the globe, bro. Come on.” His voice is softer now, cutting through the intended sarcasm, and he leans down to press his mouth to the jutting bone of your hip where he’s succeeded in pulling your pants down a few inches. His warm lips slide over your skin, traveling across the dip of your abdomen to the opposite rise of bone, leaving behind a path of cooling saliva, and it feels wonderful. Your own lips part in a quiet sigh, watching the top of his white-blond head as his restless hands slide around to rub from the back of your knees up to the edge of your ass, stopping just short of grasping the globes of your butt. He suddenly presses his mouth against the top of your clothed erection, and you can’t stop the hiss that escapes between clenched teeth.

“Fuck.” You fist your hands into the sheets, trying to keep from bucking your hips but only partly succeeding. He looks up at you with that infuriating smirk you simultaneously hate and can’t get enough of. Fucking sexy asshole.

“We can turn the lights off if you want.”

'If that will help.’ He means. And yeah, it would. You know that he likes to keep them on during intimate moments such as these, but he also knows how much more uncomfortable you are with it. It doesn’t stop him from teasing you about it later, but at least he’s willing to work around your hang-ups.

You can’t see anything except the top of his head as he dips down again, apparently deciding not to wait for an answer, and presses his lips against the bulge in your pants. He mouths your dick through the fabric, making you grit your teeth and your hips roll up against your will. An agonizing minute or two of that, and you finally let your head fall back, hands fisting the covers as your breathing speeds up in audible sighs and pants. Several months of trial and error have made him a master at ramping you up at just the right pace. He knows exactly how fast to move, how hard to push you to make you give in. And god, sometimes you want to give in so badly it hurts, but there’s this obnoxious, persistent voice in your head that can’t let you go down without a fight.

His hands have wandered behind your legs again, except this time he does slide them all the way up to grab your ass in both hands, shamelessly kneading into your flesh. Your reflex is to tell him off, because while you have a personal appreciation for plush rumps, you don’t particularly enjoy having yours manhandled, but his mouth is getting more forceful by the moment. Somehow the words won’t come when you part your lips. All that does come out is a high-pitched whine that makes you burn with humiliation. Shit.

When you finally manage to form a coherent sentence, Dave’s already well on his way to working his fingers into the waistline of your pants. “Man … c-come on.” The way you gasp makes you cringe, and you feel a hot blush of embarrassment creeping into your face that he can’t possibly miss. “You said you’d … turn the … the light off-f.” He’s won, you’re not going to deny that anymore. It’s been too long. You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve let him go down on you. That isn’t to say that he hasn’t tried more often than that, but you’re rarely receptive. Distracting and redirecting him isn’t usually difficult. You’d much rather have his cock down your throat, his voice groaning your name in your ears, than have it the other way around.

Dave sits up with this smug, victorious look on his face, but it’s darkened with how much he’s getting off on this too, and you watch him lean across the bed to turn off the lamp. After the familiar click, the room is briefly obscured in darkness until your eyes adjust a moment later to the faint light from the television. You can see the outline of your Bro, returning to kneel between your knees, hands pushing down into the mattress on either side of your waist, but you can’t make out his features anymore except for the murky outline of his hair and jaw.

Turning off the light changes the atmosphere in the room, and Dave doesn’t say anything as his fingers smooth across the fabric of your pants, and maybe it’s the fact that the lights are off and you know he can’t see you any better than you can see him, but your willingness to let go and let him have this is growing, and it makes you nervous, the way that losing all of your carefully, preciously maintained dignity and self-control tends to do in a way that you’ll never admit to. At least, not in words, and not to anyone but him.

He finally pulls down your pants, and by now your legs are trembling, equal parts arousal and nerves. The soft fabric slides down until it bundles up at your knees, but you make no move to help him get them off. That rebellious part of you is still against this, although it’s quickly being overpowered. You can see, even in the dark, how hard you are for him. The arousal is clouding your judgement, little by little, as he keeps nudging you along. It’s the best tactic that works with you, and he knows you so well.

He moves down again after pulling your pants off the rest of the way, tossing them out of sight. His elbows rest on either side of your hips, his fingers brush over the base of your dick, and he starts to massage there, rubbing tiny circles with his fingertips, kneading into your groin in a way that makes you bite back a groan. God, it feels fantastic after he’s built you up, but at this point you kind of wish that he’d just let you jerk yourself off, because the way you’re shaking and jerking your hips now is humiliating. His head dips a little lower, and you go rigid in anticipation. The pressure of his flattened tongue against the head of your dick is the first thing you feel, and he lingers there for a long moment. You can tell that this is going to be exactly like every other time he’s done this, and it drives you crazy with frustration. But you swallow the urge to say something because that’s a little further than you’re willing to give in just yet.

His lips slide slowly over the head and form a tight seal around it, tongue staying pressed flat against the tip. You breathe deeply and try to stay still, resisting the way your toes want to curl when his tongue starts to move around the slit, teasing, too light to provide enough stimulation. His hands leave the base of your cock and slide reassuringly up to rest on your hips, probably to hold you down later when he finally cuts the bullshit and starts to do this seriously.

As he moves to take in more of your length, the top of his head descends slowly, a centimeter at a time, and the tight suction of his mouth gradually devours you. You can’t stop your hips from bucking in response, and just like you predicted, his hands are already there to hold you down, so all you manage is a restless shudder. This isn’t going to happen any faster than he wants it to. You realize suddenly that you can hear yourself panting, and make a conscious effort to clamp your mouth shut.

It takes what feels like forever, but you know he’s reached the base when you feel the tip of his nose touch your abdomen. You’re immensely glad that he’ll have trouble looking up at you from that angle. However all thoughts go out the window when his tongue starts to work you. He rubs the soft, wet muscle against your shaft, firm and slow, obviously not in any hurry to get you off. He’s only really just gotten started, and you can already feel yourself losing it. Without breaking the seal of his lips around your cock or the rhythm of his tongue, he lets go of your hips and wraps his arms around your trembling legs, affectionately rubbing your knees with his hands since they’re the only thing he can reach from that position. Without him holding you down, you’re restlessly bucking your hips up, but since he’s already completely swallowed you, it doesn’t do you much good. You run through a string of curses in your head, try to squirm in his grasp, but his arms are keeping you firmly in place. About the only productive thing you can do at this point is move your hands, so you release your death grip on the wrinkled sheets to rest a shaking hand on top of his head. But the urge to bury your fingers in his hair and grab on is too strong (you know from experience that he doesn’t appreciate having his hair pulled while he’s doing this), and you latch on to one of Dave’s arms instead where it’s wrapped around your leg. Your restraint is finally starting to crack.

“Ahh-h … … D- … Dave … ” Your trembling voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it all the same. You feel his grip tighten on your legs in response, but the tongue working your cock doesn’t move any faster, and actually does the opposite. God fucking damn it. You’re shaking all over now, you’re already so close, but he’s slowed down, and it’s your own damn fault for saying his name out loud. He does it on purpose, every time. You gasp his name again, even though you know by now that nothing you do or say will make him go faster. This is why you were against this. Every time he goes down on you, it’s torture. Sweet, sexy torture, but all the same, it’s still fucking torture.

It takes a few minutes of admirable, miraculous self-control on your part before you really start to lose it. It happens gradually, marked by your increasing inability to stay quiet. Biting your lip only helps to a point, and it doesn’t stop the whimpers and choked sounds from getting out, or from getting progressively louder. And Dave, damn him, is going to keep this up until he pulls you, little by little, over the edge. You know the apartment is soundproofed for your Bro’s mixing, but it doesn’t lessen the embarrassment of hearing your voice betray you like this. Dave’s let go of your legs, hands running slowly, lovingly up and down your sides, grasping your ass, touching you everywhere he can reach, encouraging you, finally coaxing out a few bare, honest moans from your throat. His mouth and tongue feel so good it borders on painful. You’re helpless to stop your back from arching off of the bed, despite the way it makes your muscles ache. He makes some sort of sound, gently vibrating around you in his mouth, and it almost pushes you over, almost drowns you right then and there in the sensation. You’re shaking too hard to wrap your legs around his shoulders, but he gently takes hold of your knees and guides you there, doesn’t care about the way your heels dig mindlessly into his back. It’s too much, his weight on your hips, his mouth working your dick, the sound of his labored breathing through his nose, the obscene pressure of his hands kneading into your ass, it’s all too much. His name comes out as a strangled sob between clenched teeth. You’re so close, so painfully, unbearably close, and he knows.

You begin a familiar mantra in your head, a random, nonsensical chain of curses and pleas that slowly becomes audible, if not exactly discernible. You know what’s coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop him when he releases one hand from its grip on your ass to slide it up, working his fingers between his own tightly sealed lips and the base of your cock, and you can’t stop (don’t want to stop) the desperate, stuttered cry of 'please god fuck no Dave please’ as he wraps a practiced thumb and forefinger around you and squeezes hard. The sound of anguish that comes out of you is loud enough to qualify as a scream, but you’re beyond caring. His other hand brushes between your legs, and you feel his fingers form a similar ring around the top of your scrotum, just beneath your cock. He pulls down, while the ring of his fingers around your dick tightens to just shy of painful, but he knows what he’s doing. Your own hands are gripping the sheets so hard you’re losing the feeling in your fingers. With both of Dave’s hands occupied he’s unable to hold onto you, but, god, you’re shaking too hard to buck your hips anymore, reduced to uncoordinated, wracking spasms of muscle, hair damp with your own sweat, and you’d be ashamed if you had enough thought processes left. Cool droplets of sweat sting your eyes and roll down the curve of your back as your muscles finally start to go into fatigue (all that strifing is the only thing that’s kept you going this long). The effort to censor the sounds being coaxed out of you has also been abandoned, words dissolving into nonsense that you’ll be embarrassed about later, but you aren’t capable of it at the moment. You barely have enough strength left to shake under his touch, but you manage it somehow.

The next few minutes of your life are spent in a state that you’ve labeled in the past as 'borderline legitimate abuse, Bro.’ You’ll be sore tomorrow, no doubt. The fact that everything happening right now between the two of you is consensual does not change the fact that you’re not going to let him do this to you again for a long time. The only reason Dave subjects you to his favorite form of tantric torture is because he gets off on it almost as much as you do, and you imagine that he’s just as hard himself right now. With every passing moment the sensation becomes increasingly unbearable, and you know that you’re finally getting close. You also know that begging is useless, but it doesn’t stop you, and you hold out the hope that maybe, just maybe, if you can show him how desperate you are and how badly you need this that he’ll take pity on you. Your abused voice is horse by the time you give up and just let go of that last remaining thread of restraint, pulled taught by your Bro’s persistent ministrations and finally broken, and your loud moans are, for once, rewarded with just the slightest, sympathetic increase in the pace at which he’s been working you for what feels like far too long. His hands are still fastened around your cock, pinching off any hope you had of coming immediately, but he’s moving with you at last, the seal of his mouth moving up and down your length. He alternates between swallowing you completely and pulling back just enough to give his tongue room to curl around your shaft and rub, and the slight change in angle allows him to look up at you, to watch you shudder and plead, “fuck please I can’t, I can’t, god Dave please please fuck please,” your voice strained and raw in your throat, shaking with the rest of you.

He watches you for a long moment, then shifts, rising up on his knees and moving to lean over you without breaking the seal of his mouth. His elbows push at your legs until they part all the way, and he buries your cock into his throat, lips pressing against the base of your shaft, and he sucks hard as his hands release you to press his weight down against your hips, pushing you firmly into the bed, and your back immediately arches like a bow, forcing from you a high-pitched keen that turns into a scream as you experience one of the longest and hardest orgasms of your life. He doesn’t ease up until the last few wracking spasms have left you senseless and overwhelmed, pulling back and gently running his tongue over the head, mindful of how sensitive you are. He licks away everything he didn’t manage to swallow, hands running affectionately up and down your sides as you come down from your high. You’re damp with sweat and still trembling slightly with exhaustion and relief, eyes closed and chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Regaining your composure can wait until after the post orgasmic haze stops feeling so goddamn good.

After a minute, Dave finishes cleaning you and starts peppering your abdomen with kisses, making his way back up your body. His restless tongue traces over your ribs as they rise and fall, before he moves up to press his lips against the side of your neck, mouthing at your skin. You manage to tip your head up enough to look down and see the telltale bulge in his pants, before one of his hands cards through your hair, and your head falls back to rest on the pillow. He leans over you, his face inches from yours, and he’s breathing almost as hard as you are. When he finally leans down to close the short distance and his lips meet yours, it’s uncharacteristically tender. His fingers run through your damp hair, thumbs rubbing against your forehead, smoothing away the strands sticking to your skin as he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll break. His tongue slips out a few times only to brush lightly against your lips, and he tastes like he just got done sucking you off, but you don’t care. You relish the way the rough stubble on his chin scrapes against your skin, more so than usual because he hasn’t shaved, and how his forehead presses against yours in between kisses. He’s panting against your mouth as you lift a weakly trembling hand to rest it against the side of his neck, then the other, and you let your arms wrap around his shoulders, too tired to do anything else, yet perfectly willing at this point to let him do whatever the fuck he wants to you. But he abruptly breaks away and leans back to look down at you silently. Your hands slip from his shoulders and slide down his chest, only exposed by the unbuttoned top of his shirt, until they’re resting on his legs not far from the large tent in his pants. You know that he’s watching you, but you can’t decide whether he’s waiting for you to do something or if he’s hesitating.

As soon as you make the decision to touch him yourself, he moves on his own, rising up on his knees to unzip his pants just enough to uncover his erection. Dave going without underwear isn’t unusual if he’s staying in, but the sight of how painfully hard he is takes you back, and you can’t think of much to say besides “Shit, Bro,” which you whisper under your breath. His cock is significantly larger than yours, and you don’t miss the way his breath hitches when he pulls it free from his black pants.

He’s pauses for a moment, seeming to consider something before he leans over to the side, reaching for the standing lamp next to the bed, which turns on with a click. The sudden light makes you wince and by the time your eyes are open he’s leaning over you, pulling at your arm until you slide it under his leg, then the other, before he moves to press his knees into the pillow on either side of your head. The tip of his cock rests against your cheek before he takes it in one hand. His thumb rubs across your lips, parting them, tracing the outline of your mouth along the bottom, and you feel a slight sting where you bit yourself too hard a few minutes ago. You guess that he wants you to return the favor, then, which you have no problem doing, except this particular angle might present some challenges.

“Open up.” He whispers, and you obey. His eyes are locked on to yours, and the light lets you see the pronounced flush across his face. Looking up at him from this angle is a new thing for you, and you decide that you like this position. You have a slight (maybe not so slight) kink for being held down that Dave either doesn’t know about or isn’t inclined to explore, which is fine. But the way he’s sitting on you, pinning you to the mattress and holding your arms down with his legs, makes you wish that you had gotten to try this before he got you off. You consider telling him that, but you figure it can wait until later.

Dave leans forward and guides the tip of his cock to rest against your bottom lip, the curve of it stopping just inside of your mouth. You raise your head to meet him halfway, but a hand on your forehead pushes you back down. You give him a mildly confused look, but you’re too tired to really care about how he wants to do this. He’s staring down at you, slowly tracing your face with his fingers, around the curve of your eyes, brushing against your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. Looking down to take in the sight of his cock at your mouth, you notice that his other hand has started to move up and down his own length. Oh.

“Look at me.” He says breathlessly, and you can tell that he isn’t going to last much longer given how uneven his breathing is already. You meet his eyes and wish that you could touch him, maybe unbutton his shirt all the way so you can run your hands over the broad planes of his chest or push the hair out of his face where it’s falling in front of his eyes, but he’s still got your arms pinned. So you do the only thing you can, pressing the tip of your tongue against the head of his cock. He doesn’t seem to object to that, at least. You rub your tongue in small, lazy circles, and you can see his hips twitch as he gasps and tries his hardest not to thrust into your open mouth. His unoccupied hand threads into your hair and tightens. The dull pain is almost enough to reawaken your spent arousal, but he quickly lets go, smoothing the mussed spot down with shaking fingers. It would be kind of nice if he pulled your hair every once in a while, but he never seems to want to, even when he obviously does want to, and it’s one of many things about sex with Dave that frustrate you.

He’s cursing under his breath, and you catch your name a few times between expletives, letting you know that he’s close. As much as you love the smooth, deep tones of Dave’s voice, usually layered with a monotone of sarcasm and confidence for the media and his adoring public, nothing will ever compare to how the pitch of it changes when you’re getting him off. You’re the only one who gets to see him like this, without the cool persona he maintains for the rest of the world, and you want to remember every moment of it. You flick your tongue against him, close to the little slit at the front where there’s a recognizable salty flavor, and he digs his fingers into the pillow, inches from the side of your face, while his other hand starts to move faster. You watch his expression carefully, noting the way he grits his teeth when you rub your tongue against the underside of his cock, so you do it again, and again. That finally earns you a breathy moan, and the sound is exquisite. When you start to work the tip of your tongue against the slit again,he shudders violently. “Ffff-fuck …. aaa-ah … ” You feel him suddenly tense up with a small jerk of his hips that thrusts him a little bit further into your mouth, and it’s just enough for you to close your lips over the head and suck. He comes with a startled gasp, and you watch his face as he rides out his orgasm, taking in the way his red eyes squeeze shut and his jaw tightens, and it awakens something in you, something you’ve been fighting. You want him to thrust into your mouth. You want him to hold you down and shove his cock down your throat and pull your hair and mark you, not just with his mouth, but with his hands. You want to wake up covered in bruises and teeth marks, knowing that he put them there, that they’re his. You want him to take you so badly, even now after you’re both already spent, and you don’t understand why he hesitates, why he treats you like he’s afraid of hurting you, because you want him to hurt you. Maybe you’re a little fucked up when it comes to intimacy, but he’s your Bro, and you don’t know why he can’t understand this about you when he gets everything else. You’ve inflicted worse injuries on each other when he strifes on the roof with you, even if he does pull his hits sometimes. You’re so used to being frustrated and turned on at the same time with Dave that you’ve almost accepted it as an inevitable and permanent part of your relationship.

But he’s finished riding out his orgasm, and his fingers have returned to card through your hair as he watches you with tired, half-lidded eyes and tries to catch his breath. The flavor of his cum in your mouth is mildly bitter, and you swallow it down before he pulls away. His weight lifts from your chest as he leans over to turn the light off, and in the returning darkness you feel him shift down the bed to stretch out next to you. His hand cups the side of your face and his lips are suddenly on yours in a long, firm kiss.

“Love you.” He whispers against you mouth, still a little out of breath. You can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you’re sure he can feel it.

“I love you too, Dave, but you’re an asshole.” You whisper back, capturing his lips again before he can reply. “You’re not supposed to torture people on their birthdays, dude.”

“But you said it wasn’t your birthday.”

“Fuck you."

He chuckles into the kiss before he pulls back and lays his head on the pillow next to yours, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly against him. You bury your face into the crook of his neck and close your eyes, exhausted, but content, and more than ready to finally get some much needed sleep. Dave seems to agree with you, and you can already hear his breathing start to even out. He smells like a mixture of faded cologne and sex, and you breathe it in with a deep sigh. There may be plenty of things about your Bro that frustrate you, but you understand that it’s just the way he is, and you can’t bring yourself to really wish for him to change.

Thought That Counts

Pairing: Alpha!Dave / Dirk

Warnings: Stridercest, Very NSFW, slight dubcon(?), language

Inspired by Kelaruj’s rendition of Alpha!Dave here.

AO3 You’re so used to being frustrated and turned on at the same time with Dave that you’ve almost accepted it as an inevitable and permanent part of your relationship.

Keep reading

#read more

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lov3rachan · 3 days ago

Text

SKZAnniversary

Summary: When everything seemed to catch up with them, a moment of peace arrives too.

Pairing: OT8 (Individual) x reader (not very heavy on a relationship)

Genre: fluff, comfort, gender neutral (you/your)

Warning: insecurity, beauty standard, society

Word count: 1408 words

Comment: Happy 7th Anniversary once more Stray Kids! This started off as soft moments (Chan) and turned into insecurity comfort rip. As always I’m late lol

Requested by: no one

Written: 24.03.2025-26.03.2025

Taglist: @skzdreamer13, @blueohs

Network: @supernovanetwork

Chandsome

« You can rest ».

The moonlight softly caressed his relaxed features, as his light snores fill the otherwise silent room.

It’s like a rhythm, matching his breathing.

Chan’s lips are slightly open, soft lips still.

Beautiful and at peace, calm.

His body melts in your arms, as he is cradled in sleep’s embrace.

The day’s fatigue and pains, after hours of practice and performances, is slowly washed away, like footprints on the sand.

Chan is finally relieved of toil and weight of his hard work, even if just for a few hours.

He’s no longer leader Bang Chan, Channie-hyung or producer CB97.

In the silence of the room, his worries and responsibilities slip from his mind and he is just Chan.

Minpossible

« I’m here »

Being an idol wasn’t easy, especially not when you liked your privacy.

Lee Know… he was like a cat, unpredictable and mysterious, which wasn’t always appreciated in the industry or by his so-called fans.

He’d come up with weird random post ideas or fun messages and he enjoyed messing with STAY… a lot.

However, not everybody liked his teasing manner and they weren’t afraid to say it, at least online.

Sometimes, he’d just grumble and complain, to no one in particular, really.

All his bottled up feelings finally released in a stream of anger and frustration.

From way too exposing outfits, to the fans’ wild theories: every single thing that irked him, no matter how insignificant, was laid out.

Minho didn’t need someone to give him a solution, or explain how the industry worked.

He just wanted to vent, let it all out.

No words were needed, as you held him in your arms.

As the anger dissipated, his face slightly red from his rambling, he listens to your heart beat to calm down.

Then, with a lighter heart, he is ready to face the world once more.

Charmbin

« You’re beautiful »

Changbin was oh-so beautiful.

As you stared at him lovingly, your gaze fixated on him and only him… he felt like a jewel amongst rocks.

He was surrounded by men who fit the beauty standards, who were praised for their good looks and, in an industry like the entertainment one, let alone that of K-Pop, it was easy for him to forget his own beauty.

Sometimes he’d forget about the muscles he built up with dedication, day after day.

He’d ignore his gorgeous face and curly hair.

More importantly, he’d easily forget how talented he was.

He was one of the greatest producers of K-Pop’s fourth generation, a rapper with powerful vocals and perfect enunciation that could also sing just as well, with a touching voice.

He was one of the funny guys of his group but he was so much more: he was reliable, trusted, respected.

Amongst so many stars he’d forget all about his own light.

However, in your eyes he could see its reflection, shining in your eyes as you loved him without a word, as you wanted him for all he was.

And he felt the most beautiful man of all.

Hyunique

« You’re talented »

Hyunjin really didn’t mean to come off as ungrateful but even he grew tired of compliments.

More precisely, of compliments about his looks.

Gorgeous, sexy, handsome… what about who he was inside?

What about all he had achieved?

His powerful dance moves weren’t just because of his beautiful appearance.

He had poured blood, tears and sweat into it, his whole life had been polishing his skills just to get complimented for his looks.

How many people would have really looked at his art if he didn’t look that way?

Who would have ever spared him a glance if he wasn’t handsome?

People would have probably called him an unreliable good for nothing or an idealistic dreamer, if he hadn’t had his looks, wouldn’t they?

He didn’t know but, the more he thought about it the more his blood boiled, as frustration and helplessness gnawed at him.

Then one hug, as he cried his heart out.

One session together through posts and videos complimenting his art, his dancing and his vocals…

It didn’t take away his insecurity, not completely.

But it helped him ignore the ‘what if’s and focus on the present and on his future, that shined as bright as a diamond.

Hanbelievable

« You’re strong »

Small and cute quokka.

Frail, weak, defenceless.

That’s how he felt whenever he saw fans treat him as if he were made of glass.

Not just them, his band mates and staff as well acted as if he was a ball of anxiety ready to crack and crumble at the smallest sign of pressure.

He was an idol, he had been working his ass off and managing his own mental health for ages.

Sure, he appreciated the concern but sometimes it felt suffocating, as he felt babysat by the others.

He wasn’t his anxiety nor his panic attacks.

However, just because he could be lively, fun and happy, it didn’t mean that he was faking it all.

The perception of others, at times, felt more pressuring than his anxiety himself, as they fuelled it.

Han wanted to be supported but he didn’t want anyone on his case 24/7.

It was just a few words as you were cuddling in bed, a whisper that slipped out as you admired his tired form, as Jisung was starting to doze off.

“You’re so strong”.

Just one sentence woke him up, as he smiled, comforted by your unassuming words.

Yeah, he really was.

Lixtroardinary

« You can cry »

The sky isn’t always sunny, sometimes it rains.

Just like that, even Felix couldn’t help but get mad or sad.

He was already known for crying on stage but, with the exception of the survival show, they were always tears of happiness.

The dancer was Stray Kids’ happiness, the one to bring a smile on STAY’s face.

However, sometimes the fatigue and pain was too much;

Sometimes the hate got to him;

Sometimes his day went wrong.

Hidden in a safe embrace, he’d allow himself to cry, let out all the sadness he felt.

There was nothing beautiful about it, it was an ugly cry, raw.

Felix was going to have a headache the hours after but at least his heart felt lighter and the world seemed brighter.

Sure, his problems hadn’t been whisked away but his mind was clearer than ever: everything was going to be okay.

He was going to be okay.

Perhaps he wasn’t always going to be Happy Felix, but he was going to relish all the happiness he could get.

Seungsational

« You’re special »

‘Eight members, eight all rounders’.

Seungmin didn’t feel like he belonged.

He was the vocalist of the group yet he didn’t have the same unique voice as Felix.

He wasn’t an all-rounder genius like Han nor was he a rapper and producer like Changbin or Chan.

He wasn’t a talented dancer like Lee Know nor didn’t have striking, unique looks like Hyunjin.

And he definitely wasn’t as adorable and fashionable as I.N.

He was… ordinary.

Then, whenever you asked, he picked up his guitar and started to play a bit, singing along the melody.

As he saw your heart melt with every note, and your loving gaze on him, he understood.

It didn’t matter how special others thought he was, nor did he need to compare himself to others.

As long as those who mattered believed in him, Seungmin himself included, he was going to keep doing what he loved.

I.ncredible

« You’re enough »

I.N had grown used to being treated like a baby by others but he couldn’t deny his annoyance, at times.

He was a grown man, capable of his own choices and perfectly fine on his own yet his own fans seemed to treat him as a kid.

Sure, being pampered wasn’t that bad but, when his every move is watched and his independence is undermined… he hated it.

However, what could he do about it?

It’s not like he could change his date of birth.

Age is just a number but it always seemed like his role as a maknae overshadowed his vocals and… it stung. I truly did.

So he appreciated whenever he got asked for a favour.

It was a small thing but it showed the intrinsic trust you had in him, that he could handle it.

That even though he was the youngest of his group, he was good enough, he was capable enough.

69 notes · View notes

angelsglitch · 3 days ago

Text

PARTNER

cute lil fic 💋

there is some until dawn characters in this ;-;

content: ellie x fem reader, enemies to lovers, ellie catches feelings first, reader is lowk a bitch in the middle. r!receiving.

warnings: adult themes, smut, idk

extra: use of 𖤐 for readers name bc i don’t like y/n. a little ooc with some characters but idc, for example ellie would not be friends with mike😭😭🙏🏼 but it’s just for the plot LOL.

lowercase intended

you never really liked ellie, the two have you have never been friends nor did you want to be. it was hard to avoid each other since the two of you shared the same friends — but it didn’t bother you too much to be in the same room together

you’d been partnered up with ellie to go on patrol, however you had overslept leading it to banging on your front door in attempts to get you to wake up.

“god wake the fuck up! there’s no way you’re still sleeping, we should have already left!” ellie shouts through your front door, clearly aggravated. the door does open but ellie was confused to be greeted by someone that wasn’t you.

instead of simply opening the door, matt swings it wide, his disoriented expression suggesting he'd just woken up, clearly startled by the shouting.

ellie looked up at matt, clearly annoyed. "where's 𖤐?" she said bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. he rubs his eyes, blinking in confusion. "oh, hey ellie, man." he mutters, extending his hand for their usual handshake.

ellie looks at matt's hand, before looking back up at him and rolling her eyes. she doesn't do the handshake, which is unlike her. "where is she?" she asks again, more demanding this time. she was in a pissy mood.

her looks momentarily taken aback by her sharp tone. rude demeanour "she's asleep. why? are you good?" she sighs, getting more frustrated. "yeah, i’m fine…just- wake her up, will you? we’ve got patrol.”

“yeah, okay- but- seriously man, you okay?”

ellie sighs, leaning against the doorframe and looking away from matt

"it's nothing. i just have a lot on my mind, that's all."

"whatever you say, man." he mutters, closing the door behind him. two minutes later, the door creaks open again, revealing you, still half-asleep. your eyes struggle to open as you try to focus on her, you’re wearing a white tank top and small black shorts that you slept in the night before. rubbing your eyes, you glance up at her and murmur, "hey."

ellie's eyes look you up and down as she sees your outfit. she tries to keep her eyes from wandering and she looks away, trying to act like she wasn't checking you out.

"you finally decided to wake up." she said in a sarcastic tone.

“mhm.” you mutter, still clearly tired from being woken up.

ellie couldn't help but steal another glance at your body. she cursed herself in her head for letting her eyes wander again. “are you gonna get dressed or what?" she asked, trying to hide the fact that she was struggling to look away from you. "uh, what are we doing?" you ask, your voice thick with sleep, still struggling to fully wake.

ellie takes a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. "we're going on patrol. so get your lazy ass dressed and let's go." you look at her for a second, processing what she said "ohhh, yeah," you mumble, closing the door once more. ten minutes later, it creaks open again, and this time, you're dressed and looking much more presentable.

ellie looks at you again, her eyes scanning your body for a brief moment before she snaps out of it. she gives you a nod of approval, attempting to act nonchalant.

"finally. let's go."

"bye, matt!" you call out into the house before quickly shutting the door behind you. matt's voice can be heard shouting back from inside the house."bye! don't die!"

“oh.” you say.

ellie rolls her eyes again at matt's words, shaking her head "ignore him. he's an idiot." she says, beginning to walk away from your house and towards the main gates to leave. you nod and jog a little to catch up to her. the guards let you out and you leave, you walk into the forest, ready to clear any infected you see and make your way to the next look out.

ellie leads the way through the forest, walking in silence. she steals glances at you occasionally, her eyes always lingering a little too long before she looks away again.

ellie clears her throat, breaking the silence.

"soo... how was your night?" she asks, trying to make conversation. she was struggling to keep her eyes off you, but she knew she had to try to act normal. you look at her, confused, wondering why she’s suddenly trying to make conversation when the two of you have never really been friendly in the past.

“if you’re asking why matt was there, nothing happened.” you say bluntly.

something did happen — but she didn’t need to know that.

she was friends with mike, your ex, and you didn’t need her going back and telling mike that matt was at your house.

ellie lets out a small sigh of relief, a bit of tension leaving her body. she wasn't exactly thrilled at the thought of you being alone with matt.

"okay, good. i was just curious." she said, trying to sound casual.

“good?” you repeat.

ellie mentally cursed herself for letting her words slip. she hadn't meant to sound possessive, but it had come out that way.

“i just... i mean, it's not a big deal or anything. i was just asking." she quickly tried to cover up her slip up.

"well, no," you begin, rambling, your words tumbling out in a rush. "it's just... i know you're close with mike, and I don't want you running back to him saying matt stayed over at my house when i'm not anything with either of them anymore." you trail off, clearly stressed and trying to make sense of it all.

ellie clenches her jaw, feeling a pang of jealousy at the mention of mike. “i’m not going to run back and tell anyone anything." she says defensively, trying to hide her annoyance.

"sure." you scoff, clearly not believing her.

ellie rolls her eyes again, her frustration growing. “why are you being so defensive about this? It's not like I care who stays over at your house." she lies, knowing full well that she does care.

“ok but mike does, he’s my ex—he’ll be mad, and he’s your friend so you would tell him, it’s common sense.” you reply hastily. ellie sighs, knowing that you were right. mike would be pissed if he found out that matt stayed over at your house. especially since matt was a problem in the relationship when you and mike dated. since matt is another one of your exes. but we don’t need to get into that.

“fine, maybe I would tell him. but it's not like he has any right to be mad. you're not with him anymore." she replies

“just because he doesn’t have any right to be mad doesn’t mean he won’t be mad.” you say clearly annoyed by her naive answer. ellie stops walking and turns to face you, her expression a mix of irritation and something else. “why do you care what mike thinks? you're not with him anymore, remember? you don't owe him anything."

"yeah, but it's just drama," you sigh, frustration creeping into your voice. "mike had a problem with matt when we were dating because i’m friends with matt, and matt’s my ex. so, if mike found out matt stayed over, it would just start an argument. I just can’t be fucking bothered" you frown, getting increasingly upset that she keeps pushing the topic.

she laughs mockingly, crossing her arms over her chest. "so you're just going to let mike dictate who you can and can't have over? that’s bullshit."

"surprised you're not defending him," you say, looking up at her. "you always do when he's around." you narrow your eyes, wondering why she’s challenging you instead of automatically defending her best friend. ellie looks away, feeling a pang of guilt. she knew you were right, she always defended mike no matter what he did or said. "i'm not always defending him." she mumbled, knowing full well that she was.

“you are.”

ellie sighs again, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “okay.” she pauses “maybe i do. but it's not because i agree with everything he says. i just... i don't know. he's my friend, my best friend and I want to support him."

you scoff. “right.” you nod sarcastically, showing you think she’s full of shit.

ellie rolls her eyes again, starting to get annoyed with your tone. “what's that supposed to mean?" she asks, her voice slightly sharp. “what’s what supposed to mean” you reply.

she glares at you, her patience wearing thin. “you keep saying 'right' like you don't believe me—like you think i'm a complete idiot for defending mike."

you chuckle. “well you are.”

ellie clenches her fists, her anger flaring up. "oh, so now i'm an idiot? because i care about my friend?"

“oh my god!” you throw your hands up in the air “i don't care what you do all im saying is don't go running back to mike saying shit”

she takes in a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. "i won't, okay? i’m not gonna tell mike about matt staying over, but you have to understand that i'm not going to stop being friends with him just because you don't like him."

“when did i ever say stop being friends with him?” you snap

she looks at you, slightly confused. "you just implied it. you keep saying that i always defend him and that I'm stupid for it. it just sounds like you don't want me to be friends with him."

you pull a confused face “you and i aren’t even friends! why would i care who you’re friends with?”

you both stay silent for a moment

until you speak up “look, you and i aren’t ever gonna be friends and we’re obviously never gonna like each other and that’s fine.”

ellie feels a pang of disappointment at your words. she had been trying to deny it, but deep down she knew that you were right. she didn't like you, and you didn't like her.

“yeah, i know. enemies, like you said.”

ellie sighs again, looking away from you. there was a strange tension between you two, a mixture of annoyance and something else that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"can we just... get back to patrol? we’ve got a job to do."

you and ellie finish up patrol and head back to jackson. having neither one of you spoken a word since your little argument earlier.

the two of you walk through the jackson gates, both of you still feeling the tension from earlier. the sun is starting to set, casting a warm orange glow over the town.

"finally, we're done." ellie says, relieved to be back. she stretches her arms above her head, trying to ease the stiffness in her muscles.

“yep.” you say bluntly, then walking off in the direction of your house, your boots treading in the snow as you walked.

the next day your friends were chilling and drinking at dina’s house, and unsurprisingly, ellie was there too.

ellie is sitting on the couch, sipping a drink, being more quiet than usual. she glances around the room, noticing that everyone is having a good time. however, she can't help but feel a bit on edge. she looks over at you, trying to gauge your mood.

ellie notices that you seem to be deep in thought, your eyes fixed on the wall in front of you. she debates whether or not to approach you, not wanting to push you too hard. she decides to give you some space for now, but keeps an eye on you from across the room.

as the night goes on, ellie can't shake the feeling that something is off with you. she's used to you being more outgoing and talkative, but tonight you're quieter than usual. she finally decides to get up and make her way over to you.

she takes a seat next to you on the couch, trying to sound casual.

“hey, you good?”

you snap out of your thoughts then an annoyed expression takes over your face “why’re you being nice to me all of a sudden. what do you want.”

ellie is taken aback by your bluntness, but she tries to hide her surprise.

“i'm not being nice, i was just checking on you. is that a crime?”

you scoff “you’re never nice to me.”

she rolls her eyes, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.“i’m nice to you sometimes. we just... obviously don't get along that well."

“so keep it that way then.”

ellie clenches her jaw, frustration building up inside her. she can't believe how stubborn you're being.

"you know what? forget it. i don't know why i even bothered."

she gets up from the couch and walks away, leaving you alone once again.

ellie joins the others, trying to distract herself from the tension between you two. she chats with jesse and dina, but her mind keeps wandering back to you. she can't help but feel like she did something wrong, even though she was just trying to be friendly.

as the night continues, ellie finds herself stealing glances at you every now and then. she sees you laughing and joking with the others, but she can't shake the feeling that something is still off.

she can't understand why you always push her away. she thought maybe you two were starting to get along, but it seems like every time she tries to get closer, you shut her out.

her mind stops racing suddenly as cat, her ex, sits down next to her

ellie is caught off guard as cat takes a seat next to her. they had broken up a while ago, and ellie had been avoiding her since then.

cat smiles at her, trying to act casual.

"hey, ellie. how've you been?"

ellie forces a smile, trying to be polite despite her discomfort. “i’ve been good. just been chilling, you know." she glances over at you, wondering if you're watching them. she feels a pang of guilt for some reason.

you cast a sharp glance at cat, your face twisting in distaste. the tension between the two of you had always been palpable, a silent feud that had never quite dissipated.

cat notices your glare and rolls her eyes. she's never liked you either, and the feeling is mutual.

ellie sees the exchange between you two and sighs. she knows that you and cat have a history of disliking each other, and she wishes you would just get along.

cat turns back to ellie, ignoring your glare.

"so, any plans for the weekend?"

ellie shrugs, still feeling uneasy. "not really. just the usual patrol and chores. nothing exciting." she tries to keep the conversation light, but her mind is still on you and the tension between you all.

cat's sharp gaze flickers over to ellie, noticing the distant look in her eyes. she raises an eyebrow, her voice laced with curiosity.

"you seem off. something bothering you?"

ellie pauses, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. she weighs the decision in her mind—whether to confide in cat or keep her thoughts to herself.

ellie sighs again, deciding to be honest. "it's just... i don't know. things have been weird lately. between you and me, and... well, with her." she gestures subtly in your direction, hoping cat will understand who she's referring to.

"𖤐?” cat’s brow furrows in confusion before she lets out a short, incredulous laugh. "what about her?"

ellie nods, her cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. "yeah, her. i don’t know what’s going on with her. she’s been acting... weird. meaner than usual. it's like something’s off, but i can’t figure out what."

cat scoffs, her tone blunt as she leans back slightly.

"well, yeah, because she doesn’t like you." she says, as if stating the obvious.

ellie frowns, feeling a pang of hurt at cat's words. “yeah, i know she doesn't like me. but i thought maybe we were getting somewhere. i thought we could at least be civil."

cat rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed by ellie’s hesitance. "honestly, i wouldn’t bother trying to befriend her. she’s always been difficult to deal with." she says, her tone laced with frustration.

ellie bites her lip, torn. she knows cat has a point, that you can be difficult, but there’s something about you—something she can’t quite put her finger on—that keeps pulling her in, making her want to understand you despite everything.

cat catches the conflicted expression on ellie’s face, her eyebrow arching skeptically. "you're not seriously thinking about being friends with her after all this time of you two at fucking each other's throats?”

ellie looks away, her gaze drifting to the floor as her mind churns with indecision. she knows she shouldn’t try and create a friendship with you, considering the two of you have never liked each other and never planned on liking each other, but—something deep inside her won’t let go of the pull she feels toward you.

"i'm not—" she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "i just... i don’t know. there’s something about her that makes me want to keep trying. i mean- we’re all in the same friend group; we’re not little kids anymore we should be able to be grown and be civil with each other—friends even. and that goes for you and her too.”

cat scoffs, shaking her head with a mix of frustration and disbelief. "you're too nice for your own good, ellie. she’s not worth it. trust me, i’ve known her long enough. she’s just going to keep pushing you away."

ellie sighs, the weight of cat’s words sinking in. she knows deep down that cat was probably right—that you’ve built walls so high it seems pointless to try and break them down. but still, there’s something inside her, a gut feeling that there’s more to you than the cold exterior you show the world. and for some reason, she can't shake it.

the conversation is interrupted as jesse calls out to ellie, asking her to join him for a game of cards.

ellie looks at cat apologetically before getting up to join jesse. she glances back at you one last time, her mind still racing with thoughts about your relationship.

as the night goes on, ellie tries to focus on the game and the conversations around her, but her thoughts keep drifting back to you. she can't help but wonder why you're being so difficult, and why she feels so drawn to you despite your attitude.

she glances at you again, noticing that you're talking and laughing with the others, but you don't seem to be paying much attention to her.

after a while, ellie excuses herself from the game and heads outside for some fresh air. she needs a moment to clear her head and think things through. she leans against the wall, staring up at the sky as she tries to make sense of her feelings. why does she care so much about someone who clearly doesn't want anything to do with her?

"that’s cute.” a voice cuts through the tension, causing ellie to jump in surprise. she turns quickly, only to see you standing behind her, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

before she can respond, you casually close dina’s front door, the sound echoing through the quiet. without missing a beat, you drop to the ground, sitting in the snow and crossing your legs, taking in the cold air with a quiet exhale.

ellie jumps slightly at the sound of your voice, not expecting you to come outside. she quickly wipes away the heart she drew and turns to face you, trying to act casual.

"what’re you doing out here?" she asks, trying to hide her surprise.

"needed some air." you say, your gaze flicking over to ellie as you settle into the snow, your tone surprisingly casual. you seem unfazed, as if the cold doesn't bother you in the slightest.

ellie nods, looking at you as you sit in the snow. she can't help but notice how peaceful you look, with the moonlight illuminating your face.

"yeah, me too."

there's an awkward silence between you two, both of you unsure of what to say.

"who’s the heart for? cat?" you ask, the words laced with a hint of sarcasm, though there’s an edge of genuine curiosity in your voice as you glance toward ellie.

"what? no, it’s not for cat." ellie snaps defensively, her cheeks flushing slightly as she shifts uncomfortably. she wasn’t expecting that question, and it stirs something she wasn’t quite ready to confront.

“but she’s your ex isn’t she?” you say, challenging her.

ellie sighs, knowing that there's no point in denying it. "yeah, she is. but it's not like that anymore. we broke up a while ago."

“so who then?” you push the subject, genuinely curious.

ellie looks away, her cheeks flushing slightly. she's not used to being so vulnerable, especially with you. "i... i don't know. no one important, i guess." she can't bring herself to admit that the heart was for you. she's afraid of what you'll think, of how you'll react. she was supposed to hate you—she always hated you, she didn’t know why just today she had a sudden change of heart.

you scoff “what?”

ellie looks at you, annoyed by your reaction. "what do you mean, 'what'? i just told you it's for someone who isn't important." she crosses her arms, feeling defensive.

"if they weren't important why would you have done it?" you ask, a sharp edge to your voice, frustration creeping through. you can’t quite mask the annoyance at her secrecy—it’s clear she’s holding something back, and it's starting to get under your skin.

ellie rolls her eyes, trying to keep her cool. "because i was bored, okay? i just felt like drawing something in the snow. it doesn't mean anything."

she knows that she's lying, but she doesn't want to admit the truth. she doesn't want to admit that the heart was for you, that she's been thinking about you more than she should be.

the two of you say silent.

ellie lets out an exasperated sigh. “why do you even care who the heart was for?" she's starting to get irritated with your questioning, feeling like you're picking at her for no reason

“i don’t. i was just asking, is that a fucking crime?" you snap back, your irritation rising as you glare at her. "jeez." you mutter, clearly fed up with her attitude, the tension between you both thickening.

ellie clenches her jaw, trying to control her temper.

"no, it's not a crime. but you're being really pushy about it."

she looks at you once more, her eyes narrowing slightly. "why are you even out here again? shouldn't you be inside with everyone else?"

“needed some fresh air, like i said” you say frustratedly

ellie nods, feeling a bit guilty for snapping at you. "right… sorry. i didn't mean to get all defensive." she takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. "i just... i don't know. you're always so difficult to talk to."

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, confusion flickering across your face, quickly replaced by offense. you hadn’t expected her to react like that, and now you're left questioning her tone, wondering if there's more behind her words than she's letting on.

ellie shrugs, feeling a mix of frustration and confusion. "it means exactly what it sounds like. you're always such a fucking bitch and just- so rude, like you don't want to be around me."

she looks at you, her eyes searching yours for any sign of emotion.

"we’ve never been friends," you say, your voice tinged with confusion as you try to make sense of what she's getting at. "why are you acting like this is some kind of big deal?" the words feel sharper now, a mix of frustration and genuine confusion.

ellie sighs, a deep, quiet disappointment settling in her chest. “i know that," she admits, her voice soft. "but i thought maybe... i don't know, maybe we could be."

she gazes down at the snow, tracing small patterns with her fingers.

"but you always push me away. every time i actually do try to be nice you always pick a fight." the words hang in the air, the raw honesty in them unmistakable.

you stay silent for a moment then speak up “you’re mean to me too, I thought maybe you’d grown up and we could just be civil but no you always have to be a bitch.”

ellie's eyes widen in surprise at your words. she wasn't expecting you to call her out like that. "i'm not a bitch," she protests, her voice rising slightly. "i just... i don't know how to talk to you. you always act like you hate me."

“you are—and you have literally said, multiple times on, multiple occasions that you hate me” you huff

ellie looks away, feeling a mix of guilt and defensiveness. "okay, fine. i have said that i hate you. but it's not because i do. it's because you make it so fucking hard to like you." she turns back to face you, her expression softening slightly. "you're always so… i’dunno.. cold? and standoffish. you never let anyone in."

“well maybe because they’re all bitches like you.” you laugh as a flash of annoyance creeps into your expression.

ellie flinches at your words, feeling like you just punched her in the gut. "you know what? forget it. i don't know why i even bothered trying to talk to you." she stands up, brushing the snow off her pants. "cat was right. you are impossible to deal with. i don't know why i thought you would ever change."

you scoff, the words leaving your mouth with clear frustration. "you're such a bitch!" rising to your feet, you fix her with a glare, your eyes intense and full of resolve.

ellie clenches her fists, trying to hold back her anger. "and you're such a stuck up one at that! you think you're so much fucking better than everyone else!" she takes a step closer to you, her eyes blazing with frustration.

ellie stares back at you, her chest heaving with anger. She can feel the tension between you two growing stronger with each passing second.

“what? cat got your tongue?" she snaps, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

you shove her away, the tension in your chest snapping as you storm back into dina's house. the door slams behind you, and you take the stairs two at a time, your heart pounding in your chest. ellie’s footsteps echo behind you, relentless, but your friends are too lost in their drunken haze to even notice the storm brewing between you two.

you can almost hear their laughter and slurred chatter, distant and hollow, as you reach the top of the stairs, alone with your thoughts and the weight of what just happened.

ellie follows you up the stairs, her anger fueling her steps. she's determined to get the last word in. “i wasn’t fucking finished talking to you!" she demands, catching up to you in the hallway.

you storm into the guest bedroom, the anger surging through you like a tidal wave. without a second thought, you slam the door behind you, the sharp bang echoing in the quiet house.

your breath comes in heavy, controlled bursts as you try to shake off the fury bubbling beneath your skin. you can hear her muffled voice from the other side, but you don’t care. she’s pushed you too far this time.

ellie grits her teeth as the door slams in her face. she stands outside the door, debating whether to barge in or walk away.

after a moment of hesitation, she reaches for the doorknob and tries to open the door.

“what do you want?!” you shout.

ellie pushes the door open and steps into the room, closing it behind her. she crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing at you. "i want to talk to you. you can't just fucking storm off like that and leave me hanging."

“you’re a bitch! that’s all there is to it!” you reply starting to get aggravated.

ellie lets out a frustrated growl, her patience wearing thin. "no you’re a fucking bitch! you know what? i'm done trying to be nice to you. you’re a brat! you don't deserve it."

“oh fuck off!” you scoff, trying to push past her

ellie takes a step closer to you, blocking your way and her voice rising. "no, you fuck off! I've had enough of your attitude. you're always so fucking difficult to deal with!"

“i don’t care what you think!” you snap, your voice rising with the heat of your anger. the words taste bitter on your tongue, a mix of frustration and hurt. every insult she threw at you feels like a weight pressing down harder, but you refuse to let it break you. you stand there, chest heaving, every muscle taut, as the tension between you simmers.

ellie clenches her fists, her anger boiling over. "oh, you don't care? that's fucking rich coming from someone who can't even bother to be civil for five minutes." she takes another step closer, closing the distance between you.

you scoff, looking her in the eye, “you’re the most aggravating fucking bitch I have ever fucking met”

ellie's face reddens with anger.

"and you're the most fucking insufferable bitch i’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing!" she's standing so close to you now, her chest almost touching yours.

you stand there, frozen in the moment, the sting of her insult lingering in the air between you. for a heartbeat, the world seems to pause, but then, something shifts inside you. without thinking, driven by a surge of defiance and emotion, you step forward and crash your lips against hers.

ellie's eyes widen in shock as your lips touch hers. she freezes for a moment, her mind racing to catch up with what's happening. but then, her body seems to take over and she finds herself kissing you back.

you pull away, your breath shallow, the heat of the moment still lingering. “fuck—sorry, i don’t know why i did that—” before you can finish, she interrupts, her voice sharp and cutting through the tension.

“shut up.”

ellie presses her body against yours, her lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss. she kisses you with a mixture of anger and passion, her hands still holding onto your wrists tightly.

ellie breaks the kiss, her breathing heavy as she looks at you with a mix of desire and annoyance. "you're such a pain in the ass, you know that?"

“could say the same to you,” you mutter under your breath, the words more challenging than you intend. without waiting for her response, you find yourself kissing her again—this time, more urgent and reckless, as if the world outside no longer matters.

ellie melts into the kiss, her hands letting go of your wrists and wrapping around your waist instead. she pulls you closer, her body flush against yours as she deepens the kiss.

“fuck… take these off” she pants, as she takes your bottoms off.

she pushes you onto the bed, her eyes filled with a hungry desire. she quickly straddles you, her hands roaming over your body as she begins to undress you more.

“take that off.” you say, tugging at the hem of her flannel.

she smirks at your command, her fingers slowly undoing the buttons of her shirt. she takes her time, enjoying the way you're watching her every move.

"patience, 𖤐.”

ellie lets her shirt fall open, revealing her toned stomach and the curve of her breasts. she tosses the shirt aside and leans down, her lips brushing against your ear. “you like what you see?"

ellie grins at your response, her hand trailing down your stomach and stopping just above the waistband of your underwear.

"good. because i’m about to show you how fucking angry you made me earlier."

“please fuck me” you whine, looking up at her.

ellie's eyes darken with lust at your plea. she hooks her fingers under the waistband and slowly pulls down your underwear, exposing you completely to her gaze.

ellie takes a moment to admire you, her eyes roaming over your body hungrily. she runs her hands up your thighs, her touch sending shivers down your spine.

"so pretty," she whispers, her voice low and sultry. “who knew a fucking bitch like you could be so pretty, huh?”

ellie leans down and presses a kiss to your inner thigh, her lips trailing up towards your core.

she positions herself between your legs, her breath hot against your skin.

“please.” you mumble.

"since you asked so nicely.

ellie begins to tease you, her tongue slowly tracing patterns along your inner thighs. she can feel your body trembling beneath her touch, and it only fuels her desire to please you even more.

ellie finally reaches your center, her tongue flicking over your clit. she takes her time, alternating between slow and fast strokes, savoring the way you moan and gasp in response.

“fuuck.”

ellie's pace quickens, her tongue moving faster and more insistently against your clit. she can feel you getting closer to the edge, your body tensing and shaking beneath her.

“you like that?”

all you can do is moan in response, ellie doesn't let up, her tongue relentless as she pushes you closer and closer to the edge. she looks up at you, her eyes dark with desire, and murmurs against your skin.

"cum for me baby."

ellie smiles at your reaction, feeling your body tense up as you reach your climax. she continues to work you through it, licking and sucking until you're completely spent.

she barley gives you time to catch your breath before she slides two fingers into your soaking folds.

ellie watches your reaction intently as she slides her fingers inside you, enjoying the way your eyes flutter shut and your breath hitches in your throat.

"atta girl" she whispers, slowly pumping her fingers in and out of you. ellie picks up the pace, her fingers curling and hitting just the right spot inside you.

she leans in and kisses your neck, her lips trailing down to your collarbone. "you're so tight," she murmurs against your skin. "can feel you clenching around my fucking fingers.”

ellie adds a third finger, stretching you even further. she starts to move her hand faster, her thumb rubbing against your clit in tight circles.

“fuck fuck fuck.”

ellie grins at your repeated curses, her fingers working you relentlessly. she can feel you getting close again, your walls starting to flutter around her fingers.

"that's it, baby," she coos. "let go for me."

“fuck— faster- please ellie.”

ellie obliges, increasing the speed of her fingers even more. she's practically pounding into you now, her hand moving at a frantic pace.

"you're such a needy little thing," she says, her voice dripping with lust. "begging for me to go faster."

“fuckkk, ellie” you moan.

ellie smirks at the sound of her name on your lips. she loves the way you say it, the way it sounds like a plea and a prayer all at once. "say it again," she demands, her fingers curling deeper inside you.

you moan again, even loader “mmh- fuck! ellie!”

ellie leans down and captures your lips in a bruising kiss, her tongue tangling with yours as she continues to finger you mercilessly. "that's it," she whispers against your mouth.

“fuckkk ‘ts too much” you say, feeling overstimulated from being so filled up.

ellie chuckles darkly, not slowing down her pace at all.

"oh, you can take it," she says, her fingers working you even harder. "i know you can.”

ellie can feel you starting to clench around her fingers again, your body on the verge of another orgasm. she leans in close, her breath hot against your ear.

“fuck— shit, fuck i’m gonna-”

ellie feels you tighten around her fingers, your body arching off the bed as you reach your climax. she keeps her fingers moving, helping you ride out your orgasm until you're completely spent.

once you're done, she slowly pulls her fingers out and licks them clean, savoring the taste of you on her tongue.

she smirks and lays down beside you, pulling you into her arms. she strokes your hair gently, letting you catch your breath.

“we should… probably get back downstairs with the others.” you say breathlessly.

“good idea.”

#ellie smut #ellie williams #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #smut #tlou smut #wlw smut #ellie the last of us #ellie willams x reader #ellie x you

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nekoashiii · 21 hours ago

Note

Can I request high school au with Caleb, where reader and him has been friends since kindergarten and have been pinning over each other for years, to the point all their friends know asides from them, until one day, Caleb asks reader to be his girlfriend and go to prom together?

Meant to Be, Since We Were Three

Note: here you go anon, hope you like this ╰(￣ω￣ｏ)

The first time you met Caleb, you were five years old, sitting alone on the swings at recess. Your tiny hands gripped the chains tightly as your legs kicked at the air, but the swing barely moved. You frowned, frustrated.

“Why isn’t it working?” you muttered under your breath.

“‘Cause you gotta go back and forward,” a voice said beside you.

You turned your head to see a boy standing there, messy brown hair falling over his forehead and bright purple eyes watching you curiously. He had a small gap in his front teeth and dirt smudged on his cheek, like he’d been playing in the sandbox.

You pouted. “I am going back and forward.”

He shook his head, then suddenly climbed onto the swing next to you. “Nah, like this,” he said, pushing off with his feet. His swing moved easily, gliding higher and higher as the wind rushed past him.

You watched him in awe. “Whoa.”

“See?” he said, grinning as he slowed down. “Now you try!”

Biting your lip, you copied him, leaning back and kicking your legs forward. The swing finally lifted, sending you up, and you let out a gasp.

“I’m doing it!” you cheered.

“Told ya,” the boy said proudly.

For the next few minutes, the two of you swung side by side, giggling as you raced to see who could go higher. Eventually, your legs got tired, and you let the swing slow to a stop.

The boy jumped off his swing, landing in the dirt with a small thud. Then, without hesitation, he held out his hand to you.

“I’m Caleb,” he said.

You blinked at him before taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “I’m (Y/N).”

Caleb’s smile widened. “Wanna go build a sandcastle?”

You beamed. “Yeah!”

That was all it took for the two of you to be friends. Within minutes, the two of you were running around the playground together, climbing the monkey bars and pretending the ground was lava. Caleb let you take the last turn on the slide, and you shared your animal crackers with him even though they were your favorite.

And when the school day ended, you really didn’t want to go home.

“Can we stay?” you whispered, standing next to Caleb while the teacher lined everyone up for pick-up.

He looked up at you with the same hesitant frown. “I dunno. My mom will be mad if I don’t go home.”

You sighed, kicking at the ground. “Yeah… me too.”

Still, neither of you wanted to leave. Because in just one day, Caleb had become your best friend.

By the time you reached middle school, your friendship with Caleb was still just as strong. Maybe even stronger.

You always walked to class together, sat next to each other at lunch, and partnered up for every school project. You were a packaged deal—wherever one of you was, the other was close behind.

But at some point, things started changing.

Maybe it was when you noticed how much taller he had gotten, or how his once-messy brown hair looked good in that effortless way. Or maybe it was when you started catching yourself staring at his purple eyes for too long, feeling your heart race when he laughed. His voice had gotten deeper too.

Whatever it was, it was weird. And kind of scary.

But you weren’t the only one going through it.

Caleb was going through it, too.

He didn’t understand why it felt different when you smiled at him now, why his stomach flipped whenever your hands accidentally brushed. He didn’t understand why he got so mad when another guy made you laugh, or why his face burned when Zayne teased him about being in love with you.

Love? No way.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But all your friends could see the truth.

“Just admit it,” Zayne glanced up from his book to look at caleb one day at lunch, watching Caleb steal glances at you across the cafeteria. “You like them.”

“I don’t,” Caleb muttered, stabbing his food with his fork.

“Then why do you stare at them like a lovesick puppy?”

“I don’t!”

Caleb had no response. He just turned red and focused on his food, ignoring his friend.

But deep down, he was starting to wonder if he was right.

By the time Caleb reached his senior year, his feelings for you were something he could no longer ignore. They had been there for years, buried beneath layers of friendship and habit, but they had grown roots so deep that no amount of denial could erase them.

It wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t just lingering glances or the occasional stuttering heartbeat when your fingers accidentally brushed.

It was in the way he searched for you in every room without thinking. In the way his day felt off if you weren’t beside him at lunch. It was in the way his name sounded different when you said it, softer, warmer, like something worth treasuring.

Caleb had always been your best friend. He had always been by your side. But somewhere between childhood and now, the simple joy of having you near had twisted into something deeper.

And it terrified him.

Because if he admitted it—if he said it

—there was no going back.

Still, despite his fears, there was one thing he couldn’t ignore.

Prom was coming.

And if he didn’t do something now, someone else would. Why would they not, You looked like an absolute angel.

The thought made his stomach twist. He could already imagine it—someone else holding your hand, standing beside you, making you laugh. Someone else watching the lights reflect in your eyes, dancing with you in the soft glow of the prom room.

It made his hands clench into fists.

It had to be him.

So, one afternoon, with his heart pounding harder than it ever had before, Caleb finally made up his mind. He was going to ask you.

The day he did it, the air was thick with the scent of spring—freshly cut grass, warm pavement, and the faintest trace of cherry blossoms from the trees lining the courtyard. The setting sun cast everything in a golden hue, and for once, Caleb wasn’t thinking about anything else.

Just you.

He found you sitting on the bleachers behind the school, exactly where he expected. It was your usual spot, a place you always ended up after classes—away from the chaos, where you could just exist without the noise of the world pressing in.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring, trying to memorize you in this moment—the way the wind toyed with your hair, the way your fingers absently traced patterns on the worn wood of the bleacher.

You were beautiful, And he was hopeless.

Caleb took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then climbed up the steps, taking a seat beside you.

You glanced at him, smiling without hesitation, like you had been waiting for him.

And that was all the encouragement he needed.

So, with every ounce of courage he could gather, Caleb turned to face you fully, his hands tightening into fists against his knees. His heart was trying to beat out of his chest, but he forced himself to speak anyway.

“Go to prom with me.”

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in like ink seeping into paper.

Prom. With Caleb.

Your best friend since childhood. The boy who had been by your side through everything. The boy with deep purple eyes that always found yours in a crowded room. The boy you had spent years secretly yearning for, too afraid to ask for more and ruin what you had.

And now he was asking you. Not as a joke. Not as a backup plan. Not with the easygoing smirk he used when he teased you.

He was serious.

You could see it in the way his fists clenched against his knees, the way his jaw was set like he was bracing for something, But most of all, you saw it in his eyes.

You had dreamed of this moment, wondered what it would be like—if he would ever look at you the way you looked at him. If you first boyfriend could be caleb, If asking people out was just as romantic as it seemed on shows you watched, And now here he was, sitting inches away, offering you everything you had ever wanted.

And the answer had never been more obvious.

“Yes.”

The word left your lips before you even had time to second-guess it. It was so easy, like breathing.

Caleb’s shoulders relaxed, his hands uncurling, his entire body unwinding like a coil getting released. His lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t been sure—as if he had doubted himself even a second—that you would say yes.

Instead, you reached out, taking one of his hands in yours, fingers threading together like they had always belonged that way.

“I’ll go to prom with you,” you said again, softer this time, just in case he needed to hear it twice.

Something flickered in his expression, something relieved.

Then, a slow grin broke across his face, the kind that reached his eyes, bright and unguarded, the kind that had always made your chest tighten.

“Good,” he said, squeezing your hand, voice lighter now, steadier. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And just like that, the space between you shifted, something finally falling into place.

The night of prom arrived faster than either of you expected.

It felt surreal—like a dream that had been unfolding for years but was only now coming into focus. You and Caleb, dressed in beautiful attire, were walking side by side, but it felt different than any other time before. There was a subtle electricity between you, a quiet excitement, as though the entire world had paused to watch the two of you finally cross that invisible line you’d both been dancing around for so long.

You had never seen him like this before. Caleb, always relaxed and carefree, was a little on edge tonight, his usual confident smile a little shakier, his movements a little stiffer. But he looked incredible—his dark hair styled neatly, his purple eyes bright with anticipation, and that navy suit he wore seemed to fit him just a little too perfectly, as if it had been made for this night alone.

And you... You had never felt more gorgeous in your life.

Your dress—deep blue, flowing to your heels and elegant—seemed to shimmer in the light, its fabric catching every movement, every step. Caleb’s eyes never left you as you entered the venue, and you couldn’t help but feel the warmth spread across your cheeks, knowing how different everything felt now.

You and Caleb had always been close. And now there was a deeper understanding between you two that made every shared glance, every soft smile, feel like something more.

He offered you his arm, a playful glint in his eyes, and you took it, letting him guide you through the crowd in the grand hall the prom was being held at.

You both made your way to the dance floor, and as the first slow song began, Caleb hesitated for just a fraction of a second. You could feel his uncertainty in the way he tightened his grip on your hand, but you smiled up at him reassuringly.

“Relax, Caleb,” you whispered, “I’m right here. i wont melt into the ground”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “I know.” He stepped closer, his free hand settling on your waist, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background. You rested your head gently against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

You could hardly believe this moment was real.

"I always wanted to dance with you," Caleb murmured, his voice low and warm, his breath brushing the top of your head. "But I never thought it would be like this."

You glanced up at him, catching the tenderness in his eyes. "Me neither."

In that moment, everything felt perfect.

The music swirled around you, but it was just the two of you—Caleb and you. Your heart fluttered, every step bringing you closer, both literally and figuratively. You never thought a moment like this could be so simple, yet so profound.

"Caleb," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "I can't believe we're here together."

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with his usual look. "We’ve always been here," he replied softly. "Just had to figure it out."

His hand moved to gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your skin. You closed your eyes at the sensation, the warmth of his fingers on your cheek making your heart race.

And then, just when you thought you couldn’t feel any closer to him, Caleb pulled back slightly, his gaze intense. “I’m so glad you said yes to me,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper in the music-filled room. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”

You smiled, your heart full.

His eyes softened, a mix of relief and happiness painting his face. “We’ve been friends for so long, but this... this is what i always wanted.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You had always known it too, but hearing him say it out loud made it real in a way nothing else could.

“me too,” you whispered back.

The song continued, but in that moment, you didn’t need anything else. The people outside the dance floor didn’t matter. All that mattered was you and Caleb, here together, sharing this perfect night.

And when the music slowed, and the lights dimmed, Caleb leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in the softest kiss.

#lads x reader #lads x you #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #x reader #caleb fic #caleb x reader #caleb x you #lnds caleb

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kaymystic · 13 hours ago

Text

Day 4: The Aftermath of the Kiss

pairing: paige x azzi

wc: 1.3k

---------------------------------------

The early morning light filtered through the soft white curtains, casting long beams across the villa. The heat of the day hadn't fully arrived, but the air was thick with the promise of it. Paige lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, mind racing with thoughts of the night before.

She hadn’t expected it to happen, not like that. But the kiss—that kiss—had taken her by surprise, igniting something in her chest that she couldn’t quite place. It had been like a slow burn, but now? It was a fire, and Paige couldn’t figure out whether she was being consumed or if she had started the blaze herself.

She turned her head, unable to help herself.

There, lying in the bed across from her, Azzi was awake. Her body sprawled across the bed like she owned it, eyes lazily blinking open as if the weight of the night before had already slipped away. Paige could feel her heart pound, but she fought to keep her expression neutral. The last thing she needed was for Azzi to read her like a book.

“Morning,” Azzi murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Paige opened her mouth, but no words came out. Instead, she just stared. Her mind raced. There were so many things she could say, so many directions this conversation could go, but instead, all she managed was, “Morning.” It came out a little too breathless, but Azzi didn’t seem to notice.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re okay?”

Paige blinked rapidly, her fingers tightening around the sheets as her pulse quickened. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Really? Because you look like you’re trying to figure out a math equation in your head.” Azzi smirked, clearly amused.

Paige sat up quickly, frustrated at how easy it was for Azzi to get under her skin. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “Just... tired.”

Azzi’s lips curled into a teasing smile. “Uh-huh, tired. That’s your excuse?” She let out a mock sigh. “So much for deep, meaningful conversations.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “We had one last night. Remember?”

The grin on Azzi’s face faltered for a second, just a slight flicker. “I remember,” she said softly, her voice suddenly serious.

It was enough to make Paige’s stomach flip, that one word, the weight behind it. She quickly looked away, suddenly unsure of herself. Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to steady her racing heart.

Azzi sat up slowly, stretching with exaggerated slowness, her toned muscles flexing in the soft morning light. Paige couldn’t help but watch, her eyes tracing the curves of Azzi’s body.

“You know,” Azzi said, her voice lowering, a teasing edge creeping back in, “I think you just don’t know how to handle all of my charm.”

“Charm?” Paige huffed, fighting a smile. “You mean your smugness?”

Azzi tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Same thing, really.”

Paige felt her lips twitch, but she held it in. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Maybe I will,” Azzi said, a playful spark in her eyes. “I mean, you seem to be falling for it.”

Before Paige could respond, the rest of the girls began stirring, making their way into the kitchen. Paige stood up, but not before giving Azzi one last glance. Her heart was still racing. This wasn’t just playful anymore. It wasn’t just a game.

It was something deeper, and Paige didn’t know how to handle it. But Azzi? Azzi seemed like she was already comfortable with the mess they’d made between them.

---

The villa buzzed with activity by midday. The sun was high, the air sticky with the heat, and the poolside became a battlefield for attention. Paige and Azzi, however, didn’t participate in the general chatter. They stayed on the fringes, exchanging little glances, words wrapped in double meanings and hints, like they were in their own secret world.

“Hey, so... still ignoring the kiss last night?” Taylor asked casually as she dropped into the chair next to Azzi, eyeing her and Paige with an almost knowing grin.

Azzi and Paige both stiffened at the same time, though they tried to mask it with casual shrugs.

“I’m not ignoring anything,” Azzi said smoothly, adjusting her sunglasses.

“Oh, really?” Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Because I swear I saw something last night that looked a lot like a kiss to me.”

Azzi’s lips twitched, but she didn’t bite. She turned to Paige, her eyes softening for just a second. “Yeah, well... maybe that’s the problem. You swear you saw something. But, did we?”

Paige looked down at her drink, the cold glass suddenly feeling too heavy in her hand. The tension between her and Azzi was becoming unbearable, and no matter how much she tried to pretend it wasn’t there, every little moment between them felt like it was fraught with something more.

Jordan, who had been listening from across the pool, suddenly chimed in. “I mean, we all saw it. That kiss? Kinda obvious. And you two have been acting all...soft around each other since.” She leaned forward, wiggling her eyebrows. “Don’t act like we didn’t notice.”

Paige sighed, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “It wasn’t like that,” she muttered, but even she didn’t believe her own words.

Azzi looked at her, the corner of her lips curling up as if she were deliberately toying with Paige’s nerves. “Oh? You didn’t think it was anything? Because I’m pretty sure you kissed me back.”

Paige’s heart skipped a beat. “That was just for the challenge. You know that.”

“Uh-huh,” Azzi said, raising an eyebrow. “Sure it was.”

Paige groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You’re impossible.”

Azzi laughed softly, leaning closer. “You love it.”

Paige was so done with trying to ignore this. She couldn’t. Azzi’s teasing, her words, her touch...it was all too much. And Azzi knew it.

---

As night fell, the villa was awash in the soft glow of the bonfire. The crackling flames and the murmur of the other girls created a symphony of sound, but to Paige, it was all background noise. The only thing she could focus on was Azzi sitting next to her, their shoulders grazing ever so slightly as they stared out at the fire.

The heat from the flames warmed her skin, but nothing was as intense as the feeling of Azzi’s proximity. Every second that passed made it harder to think, harder to breathe.

Azzi turned to her, her expression unreadable. “What’s going on with us, Paige?”

Paige’s heart stuttered. She wasn’t ready for this, not yet. But when Azzi looked at her with those eyes, soft and earnest, it was like the whole world stood still.

“I don’t know,” Paige whispered, her voice tight. “It’s... it’s just hard to figure out. You mess with me and then... I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

Azzi’s hand brushed against Paige’s, just the faintest contact, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through her body. “Maybe we’re both trying to figure it out,” Azzi murmured.

There was a beat of silence, the air between them heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

Then, before Paige could process what was happening, Azzi leaned in, just slightly, just enough to make Paige’s heart race. She could feel the warmth of Azzi’s breath, the softness of her lips so close it made everything in Paige’s body tingle with anticipation.

And just as Paige’s breath caught in her throat, a loud shout rang out from across the pool.

“HEY, YOU TWO! GET A ROOM!”

Paige and Azzi both jumped back as if they’d been burned. The sudden interruption shattered the tension between them, but only for a moment.

As they stood up to join the others, Paige felt Azzi’s fingers graze hers again. The smallest touch, but it felt like everything. Her pulse raced.

Azzi flashed her a grin. “You know, we could’ve kissed by now, but someone keeps ruining the moment.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but her heart was still pounding in her chest. “Maybe next time.”

Azzi leaned in closer, her breath warm against Paige’s ear. “I’m counting on it.”

And in that moment, Paige knew—this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

---------------------------------------

#paige bueckers #paige x azzi #azzi fudd #pazzi #uconnwbb #uconn #uconn huskies #uconn women’s basketball #paige and azzi #pazzi fics

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deceptibots · 1 day ago

Text

“Not Allowed” - Ratchet x Reader

“No, you’re not allowed to smile at me like that.”

Prompt by @/creativepromptsforwriting

Pairings -> Ratchet x Y/N

Warnings -> None

Genre/Theme -> fluff, teasing

Note -> n/a

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

It had been a long, grueling day at the base. The latest skirmish with the Decepticons had left everyone drained, and you were no exception. But as exhausted as you were, you couldn’t help but feel a little satisfaction. You’d managed to pull off something risky on the battlefield—a daring move that helped save Arcee from being overwhelmed by Vehicons.

And, of course, Ratchet had opinions about it.

“You’re reckless, thoughtless, and have absolutely no sense of self-preservation,” he barked, pacing back and forth in the med bay while you sat on the edge of a supply crate, arms crossed.

“I’m also alive,” you countered, watching him with an amused expression.

“Barely!” he snapped, gesturing toward the faint scorch mark on your jacket. “You do realize that if that blast had been an inch closer, you’d be a charred husk right now?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t,” you said, shrugging. “Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

Ratchet stopped pacing, his optics narrowing. “Y/N, you can’t keep justifying your recklessness with results. One of these days, your luck is going to run out.”

His voice carried that familiar mix of frustration and concern, but this time, something about it hit a little deeper. You stood, crossing the room to stand in front of him, looking up at his towering frame.

“Ratchet,” you said, your tone softer now. “I get it, okay? I’ll try to be more careful.”

His optics flickered, his arms crossing over his broad chest. “You’ve said that before.”

“And I meant it,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a small, tired smile. “I’ll try harder this time. For you.”

That gave him pause. For a moment, the frustration seemed to drain from his frame, replaced by something you could only describe as hesitation. His optics softened slightly as he looked at you, and before you could stop yourself, you smiled at him again—warm, genuine, and maybe a little teasing.

His optics widened slightly, and his frame tensed. “No,” he said abruptly, his tone sharper than expected.

You blinked, startled. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, his voice gruff but quieter now. “You’re not allowed to smile at me like that.”

You tilted your head, amused despite yourself. “Why not?”

“Because,” he muttered, glancing away as if the tools on the nearby counter were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room, “it’s… distracting.”

Your grin widened. “Distracting? Really?”

“Yes,” he snapped, though the sharpness in his tone lacked its usual edge. “I’m trying to make a point about your reckless behavior, and you—” He gestured vaguely toward you. “—you do that.”

“What, smile at you?” you asked, feigning innocence. “I didn’t realize it was so powerful.”

“It’s not powerful,” he said quickly, his tone defensive. “It’s just… unhelpful.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, stepping closer and leaning against the counter beside him. “So, let me get this straight. My smile is unhelpful because it distracts you from scolding me?”

He glared at you, though the faint flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t twist my words, Y/N.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you said, your grin softening into something more genuine. “I just think it’s cute that you’re so easily flustered.”

“Flustered?” he repeated, his optics narrowing. “I am not flustered.”

“You kind of are,” you teased, tilting your head. “And honestly, Doc, it’s a good look on you.”

He groaned, his servos dragging down his faceplate in frustration. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said, nudging his arm lightly, “you keep putting up with me.”

For a moment, the med bay was quiet, the tension between you shifting into something softer. Ratchet sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he finally looked at you again.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, though there was no bite in his tone.

“And you’re stubborn,” you replied, smiling up at him.

He hesitated, his optics flickering briefly before he spoke again. “You know… I do mean it when I say you need to be more careful. I…” His voice trailed off, his optics dimming as if the weight of his words was too much.

Your expression softened. “I know, Ratchet. And I promise I’ll try.”

He studied you for a long moment, his frame shifting as if he wanted to say something more. But instead, he sighed and turned back to his tools.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because if you keep scaring me like this, I might actually lose what little patience I have left.”

You smiled again, but this time, you didn’t say anything. Instead, you reached out and rested your hand lightly against his arm. His optics flickered toward you, and though he didn’t speak, the slight relaxation in his frame told you everything you needed to know.

“Thanks for worrying about me,” you said softly.

He huffed, turning back to his work. “Someone has to.”

As you left the med bay, you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder. His back was turned, but you noticed the faintest flicker of a smile on his face.

#transformers prime #tfp ratchet #tfp ratchet/reader #tfp ratchet x reader #transformers prime ratchet #fluff #prompt writing #mini series

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shimmerandink · 2 days ago

Text

Torn between two

Vi x reader

Feat Caitlyn

Slight Angst

Tags: vi x reader, Vi x Caitlyn, past lovers, reconnecting, slight arguing

Summary: Vi and Caitlyn are at a bar where Vi meets her old lover. This meeting awakens a lot of memories and emotions in her.

The bar smelled like cheap liquor and bad decisions, the kind of place Vi used to love, used to call home. Tonight, though, she was just here for a drink. Caitlyn sat beside her, fingers delicately wrapped around a glass of wine, looking out of place in a way that made Vi smirk.

“Never took you for the type to slum it in Zaun,” Vi teased, bumping her knee against Caitlyn’s under the table.

Caitlyn rolled her eyes but smirked. “And I never took you for the type to sip whiskey and brood.”

Vi huffed a laugh, about to fire something back when a voice, your voice, cut through the low hum of the bar.

Her entire body tensed.

It had been years. Years of trying to forget, trying to move on, trying to convince herself that leaving you behind was the right choice. But the second she heard you, it was like no time had passed at all.

She turned before she could stop herself. And there you were.

You were leaning against the bar, talking to the bartender, laughing at something they said. Your smile was the same, but there was something else, something sharper in your eyes, something tired in your stance. Had Zaun worn you down? Had she?

Vi swallowed hard, fingers tightening around her glass. She should look away. She should. But she couldn’t, because then your gaze lifted, met hers across the room.

And just like that, everything she thought she buried came roaring back to life.

One night, you sat across from her, frustration clouding your mind as you tried to get her to talk.

“Vi, what’s going on? You’ve been distant for weeks. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes, usually full of fire, were dark and unreadable.

“I… I can’t do this anymore,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

You blinked, shock stealing your breath. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes flicked to the floor, then back to you, a pained expression twisting her features. “You deserve better than this, than me.”

“No. Vi, don’t—”

But it was too late. She had already made up her mind. Without another word, she stood, grabbing her jacket and walking out the door. You sat there, stunned, as the door clicked shut behind her.

Vi snapped back to reality, her hand trembling slightly around her glass. She forced herself to look away, but the memory lingered, her last words to you still echoed in her ears. You deserve better than me.

But that wasn’t true. It was never true.

Caitlyn shifted in her seat, glancing at Vi, noticing the sudden tension in her posture. Vi cleared her throat and tried to refocus, but all she could think about was you.

She was supposed to be over you by now, wasn’t she? But seeing you again, hearing your laugh, seeing that familiar spark in your eyes, everything she thought she buried rushed back to the surface.

Her heart ached. There was so much she wanted to say, but she didn’t know how. She didn’t even know if you wanted to hear it.

Vi’s hand clenched around her glass again as Caitlyn, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her, continued to chat away.

“So, how long do you think it’ll take for us to finish this mission? I was thinking we could swing by the market afterward. Maybe get a few more supplies for—” Caitlyn paused, noticing the tense line of Vi’s jaw. “Vi? You okay?”

Vi gave her a tight smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, just fine.”

But Caitlyn wasn’t convinced. “You don’t seem fine. Is something wrong?”

Vi exhaled sharply, pushing the edge of her glass against her lips, trying to mask the unease that was eating at her. She knew Caitlyn didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. The last thing she wanted was to ruin their night, but the weight of you being here, the unspoken history between the two of you, was too much to ignore.

“I’m fine, Cait,” Vi said through gritted teeth, a little more forcefully than she intended. “Really, I just… need a moment.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “What, are you upset because of the mission? Vi, you know I can handle it—”

“No,” Vi snapped, her patience wearing thin. “It’s not about the mission, okay? Just… drop it.”

Caitlyn recoiled a little, her brow furrowing in confusion. She hadn’t seen Vi like this in a long time, angry, distant. Normally, Vi would’ve laughed it off, made a joke, but tonight… it was different.

Vi pushed her chair back, standing abruptly. She needed space. She needed to breathe.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” she muttered, walking briskly toward the bathroom. Caitlyn watched her go, still unsure what had set her off but hesitant to follow.

⸻

Inside the bathroom, Vi leaned against the sink, breathing in deep, trying to steady herself. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes filled with conflict, with unresolved emotions that she couldn’t shake. She wasn’t supposed to feel this way. She had moved on. She had chosen Caitlyn.

And yet, seeing you again, it broke something open inside of her.

She cursed under her breath, running her hands over her face in frustration. Why couldn’t she just forget you?

But there was no forgetting you. No forgetting what you had shared, the quiet moments, the way you made her feel alive in a world that so often tried to bury her.

A soft knock on the bathroom door broke her from her thoughts. She stiffened, quickly wiping her face as she turned toward the door.

“Vi?” Your voice was low, hesitant, but unmistakable.

Vi froze. Of course, it had to be you. She hadn’t expected to see you here, and now here you were, standing in front of her, as if fate was playing some cruel joke.

She pushed the door open, standing face to face with you.

You looked the same, but different, more worn, more experienced, as if the years had left their marks. Yet, the moment your eyes met, all of that faded. You were still you, the one she couldn’t forget, no matter how hard she tried.

“I didn’t mean to follow you,” you said softly, shifting on your feet. “But I… I saw you. And I couldn’t just let things hang like this. Not after all this time.”

Vi’s gaze softened, but there was still a hint of caution in her expression. “It’s complicated. You don’t need to be here.”

But even as she said it, her heart betrayed her. She wanted you here. She wanted to hear you, needed to hear you.

“I know,” you replied, taking a step closer. “I just… I wanted to talk. I didn’t expect it to be like this. I never expected to see you again, Vi.”

There was so much left unsaid between the two of you. So much left unresolved. The weight of it all hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Vi opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she reached out, almost without thinking, and grabbed your wrist. She tugged you closer, a quiet desperation in her touch.

“Why’d you leave?” The question was out before she could stop it, and it left her feeling exposed, vulnerable, but she couldn’t help it.

You met her gaze, a long silence stretching between the two of you before you responded, quietly:

“Because you told me to.”

Part 2?

#arcane #arcane fandom #league of legends x reader #arcane x you #vi x you #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x caitlyn

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mutated-green-things · 2 days ago

Text

Stop Me if You've Heard This One Before

Words: 5,189

Pairing: April O'Neil & Leonardo, Leonardo/Usagi

Rating: T

Summary: Leonardo isn’t supposed to be here. He shouldn’t be skulking outside April’s window, working up the courage to knock. He should be healing, should be working on letting go of his self-directed rage, but he can feel the thorny question at the forefront of his mind ripping at stitches, unraveling the progress he’s made thus far. He has to expel the sharp edges somehow or soon he’ll be right back to where he started. And April will get it. April will understand. At least, he hopes so.

There’s more than one part of Leonardo that rebels against raising his hand and knocking on April O’Neil’s window. There will be questions, oh so many questions, and he knows he can only handle so many of those right now.

It’s late too. It would be impolite. He says this to himself like it’s an actual argument, but the sun has really only just set and April is a New Yorker, she too never really sleeps.

And she’s the only one who would understand. He hopes.

So he reigns in the rebelling parts of himself and raps his bulky hand against the glass. There’s a bit of shuffling and then sure enough, she answers. She’s clearly in an outfit that is more comfort than style, but she doesn’t look tired. Less so when she sees Leo’s face. Her eyes widen as they’re filled with sparks of surprise, and for a moment she just stares.

“Leonardo?” She blinks, then squints, like she’s sure she must have the wrong turtle. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a different dimension right now?”

Leo supposes that’s a fair question, but it isn’t one he’s entirely sure how to answer. He waves a hand back and forth and makes a sort of ’ehhhh’ sound. Then when her face starts to turn stern and disapproving, he jumps into his explanation.

“I’m feeling better! I think. I mean, I am. It’s just…” How does he explain this? Does he tell her all of it? He can barely even look at her right now, preferring instead to stare at his scaly, twiddling fingers.

Apparently, something about that is enough. When Leonardo looks up again, she doesn’t look confused or disappointed, instead her face has fallen into a melancholic kind of concern. She opens the window the slightest bit wider and steps back before gesturing Leo inside.

He double checks to make sure no one sees him, that he’s not been tailed. After several months away from New York, he’s glad to see so many of his instincts are still holding up. That, at least, is one small island of reassurance in the racing current of his mind. He doesn’t see or sense any watching eyes or mysterious shadows, so he steps into April’s apartment and out of the early spring chill.

“You can sit wherever. I was just making—“ A kettle whistles from around the corner. She gestures toward the sound, then slips into her too small kitchen to silence it.

Leo doesn’t sit. He’s too amped for that right now and is busy taking in all the little things he missed while in Usagi Miyamoto’s world. Central electric heating. He hadn’t worried about that in a long time, hadn’t thought about it. Not since they’d turned… eight? He remembered worrying about all the wiring work Don was doing around that age, so that was probably right. Maybe nine. Definitely not ten. Only a decade couldn’t be long enough ago, right?

Second Earth had quickly reacquainted him with sturdy iron stoves and the frigid nights without them.

The blazing electric lights in April’s apartment have almost become a wonder too, after being away for so long. Not their ease of use. He had prepared to miss that. In period pieces candles had always seemed… so much brighter, but actually trying to work or write or anything by candlelight was a hellish exercise in absolute frustration. How Usagi managed it without the eye strain headaches he would never understand.

“Is lavender still your favorite?” April calls from the kitchen and warmth radiates from Leo’s chest all the way up to his smile.

“You remembered,” he calls back.

She comes back around the corner with a teapot and two cups in hand almost too quickly. Too quickly for her to have been waiting for an answer on flavor anyway. She has a wry smile on her face. “Of course I remembered, you doof. You’re all so distinct about these sorts of things it’s kind of hard to forget.” As she sets down the pot, she gestures to the couch, insisting that he sit down now.

He finally does, saying very matter-of-factly in his best imitations of Mikey’s ‘I’m choosing to be obnoxious right now’ voice, “I’ll have you know that I have been turned into a jasmine turtle as of late. The flavor profile isn’t as light as I usually prefer but the deeper notes are—“

She throws a pillow at him. He laughs, and gods is it good to talk to her again. Actually talk to her, casually, without everything feeling like a deadly threat or without the world actually about to end. Whether or not she can help him, he’s glad he went to her first. His family— no, his brothers and father— would have been all somberly proud about a recovery he isn’t even sure he’s completed yet.

She still sees it though, still smiles at him with an ease he doesn’t remember from the months before he went to go frolicking across second earth. He even smiles at that thought. That’s how he thought of it before leaving, but his time on Second Earth has been anything but easy.

“You really are doing better, huh? I haven’t seen you this relaxed in…” she takes a deep breath, “I mean. It’s been a while. We all hoped Usagi might be able to help but—“

Leo winces inadvertently at hearing Usagi’s name outside his own mind.

April flinches too, face quickly flickering into a deep frown. “Uh-oh. I don’t like that look. Did something happen? Are you two fighting?”

He laughs at that too, but this is a laugh from before any of the darkness had started lifting. Cold and bitter and absolutely devoid of the warm joy he was feeling earlier. Because really, if only it were that simple. If they were both at fault, then they could just talk things over, could just make amends, but the situation Leo’s in is all his own doing. Or… he tries to reframe it. The fault of someone else who hurt him maybe? Usagi told him the self-blame came from scars unhealed. Maybe that’s the issue. He wants to think so, but when the wrongness is inside him, his body, his feelings, his hurt, he can’t really think of who else could be blamed.

“Leo, c’mon. What’s up? I know you came here for a reason.” She reaches toward him with one hand across the antique coffee table. His eyes dart past her manicured nails to the teapot and cups. The earthenware is immediately recognizable. It’s a gift from Donnie and him, from about three Christmases ago.

“Is it still steeping?” He’s starting to smell the gentle aroma of lavender now. He’s surprised by how much he missed it. Usagi loves jasmine tea and Leo enjoys it enough that he doesn’t argue. He feels a little like he can’t, what with everything Usagi has done for him. With everything he keeps doing.

“You know it is,” April says through a scowl. “What’s wrong, Leonardo? You’re—“

He picks up one of the onyx black yunomi. “Is the set still holding together well?” She’s using his full name and he just— he can’t handle that right now. Not yet. So instead, he traces the veins of gold kintsugi that wind and skitter against the black with a finger.

April sighs and mercifully relents. “Yeah. I only use the cups when I have company, but the teapot is… I mean I don’t have a lot of them. I didn’t drink a lot of tea before I met you four, but it’s still my favorite. I use it all the time and there’s never been any cracks or issues with the bonding.”

“I’m glad,” he replies, and even without the tea the warmth is back in his chest as he continues to trace the golden cracks.

Donnie had been the one to find the set in the landfill. Three cups and the pot, though they’re pretty sure there were originally four. There had been minuscule bits of sharp earthenware scattered all around where Donnie had found it, like a pile of dangerous black sand. None of those tiny pieces matched any of the existing cups or the pot, and there hadn’t been enough to make a full other cup, so they couldn’t know for sure, but really, what else could it be?

The mystery didn’t matter much anyway. Something so quality so intact was always a great find, and Donnie didn’t hesitate to gather it all up into his duffel. He’d planned to repair it as he usually did. Glue and paint to hide any cracks, but Leo had taken one look and demanded it become a joint project

They practiced for weeks, following YouTube tutorials, public library books, on any dish they could get their hands on. They weren’t perfect. Leo can see the little bumps and blips in the gold even now, but they’re still beautiful, stunning really. Gold against black is always such a brilliant contrast.

“Leonardo?” His eyes lift and sees that April’s slight frown is accompanied by a furrowed brow now. “The tea still has a minute left, but if you don’t start talking, I’m going to start pouring.” Her tone is mostly worry, but there’s also the smallest bite of annoyed anger there too.

He sets the cup down, taking in the table as he does. Then he puts as much apology as he can into his smile. “Sugar?”

“Leo!”

“Okay that one isn’t a stall. I really—“

“Ugh! Yeah, I remember that too. Fine then. I’m grabbing it, but only ‘cause it’s still steeping.” She gets up, all forceful and irate, then stomps off to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder as she does, ”I swear to god Leo, if I come back and you’ve done the ninja disappearing thing I am going to be so mad.”

He considers it. He even stares out the window. He still isn’t sure if he’s ready to do this, but then he thinks about the look on Usagi’s face and how fiercely he tried to hide the dejected shadows there. He really does need… no, more important than that, he wants April’s help. He wants to understand exactly what went wrong. He wants to know how to make the clunky weirdness go away. He wants Usagi to smile at him like that again, like all his cracks and flaws and scars have been filled with brilliant, beautiful gold, like he did before Leo’s… everything ruined it all.

So he stays. April comes back with the sugar and a relieved kind of sigh. “Thank you.”

He smiles again, still all shrinking apologies.

She smiles back, and even if the grin is a tight one, it’s clear enough that she’s only this upset because she cares. “Now,” she says as she picks up the pot, “I am going to pour tea and you are going to talk.”

“Is that—“

“Leonardo.” She starts pouring. Her voice brooks no argument. Leo nods.

“Right um… where to start. Well. Usagi— he. I mean, I was sort of—” Leo realizes only now that he’s unsure if he ever actually officially came out to April. She knows. She has to. His brothers tease too much about celebrity and cartoon crushes for her not to. He’s pretty sure she’s even gotten in on it once or twice, but he still can’t quite recall if he ever said the words ‘I’m gay’ to her specifically.

There’s nothing for it now though, and he knows that of all of his family, she isn’t about to judge. Still, he waits for her to finish pouring the steaming hot tea. “We… we kissed.”

Her expression doesn’t even change.

“And?”

“And? And! We kissed! I mean, I— wasn’t even. Really expecting it? Usagi is a good, great friend, but we were gazing at the stars and— why aren’t you more freaked out by this! I kissed someone! My first kiss! With another guy!”

She raises a slim, perfect eyebrow. “Leo, I know you’re gay. You really think I’d have a problem with it?”

“Well! No but… I mean. Usagi and I are really good friends but— I mean that’s kind of all we are and… and I thought this would be a bigger deal!”

She blows on her cup of tea, then begins dropping little teaspoons of sugar into it, responding as she does. “Leo, you’ve had a very obvious crush on Usagi ever since you met him at the battle nexus. I’m pretty sure Raph and Casey had started taking bets on when you’d make your move.” She pauses, another little pile of sugar poised above her cup. “Or was it who would make the first move?”

“Bets…?” Leo murmurs.

“Anyway, you kissed! That’s— well isn’t that a good thing?”

“Wait, what was that about bets?”

“Ask Raph or Casey. Or maybe Donnie. I think he might have been facilitating formal odds or something.” She waves off the idea of a gambling ring based on his romantic status with a flick of her fingers. “Why isn’t this a good thing? You looked downright devastated.”

He opens his mouth to ask about the gambling again. Then shuts it. Later. He’ll be having words with all of them. Later.

“It was a good thing. Or I think it was a good thing. It just didn’t… didn’t feel right.”

She smiles like she understands, which means that she doesn’t. Not yet anyway. “Look, I hate to break it to you, but first kisses are never like the movies. My first kiss was messy. I’m sure Casey’s was too. Noses bump, teeth crack together, heck my sister ended up getting her braces tangled up and locked together with another set! She and the guy were both mortified. I don’t think I’ve seen her face that red since.”

Leo’s nose scrunches up. “Really?”

“Yep. They had to make an emergency orthodontist appointment. But hey! She laughs about it now. Whatever happened, I’m sure in a couple years it’ll probably just seem funny.” Her smile is still all sympathetic understanding, which is sweet, but if this were just about awkward mistakes, he wouldn't have come to her. He probably wouldn’t have gone to anyone. He knows what he wants to ask, but he also knows once the question leaves his lips there’s no stuffing it back in. There’s no pretending like he didn’t know what he meant.

He bites his lip and tiptoes toward the line anyway, hoping he can get the answers he wants without tripping over it, knowing that’s probably impossible. “It wasn’t that. Not really. I mean… it was kinda perfect at first, y’know? He was really gentle with me and…” he goes back to inspecting the teapot. He just can’t look April in the eye when he says, “I mean, he’s soft. He’s a rabbit so that only makes sense. And that was nice. But…”

“Did he push you too far?” April asks.

Leo can’t see her expression. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to. Especially when he shakes his head and responds. “No. I pushed. I shifted and it was all—“ how can he express it without the reality crashing down? If he says the words, if April figures it out, it all becomes real and the barriers, the obstacles, every single potential ‘you can’t’ becomes possible.

Something clogs in his throat. That’s why he came here. Because April would understand, would help him mourn all the impossibilities. He swallows. “He’s older than me. By almost three years. He has more experience, more training. He’s wise and clever and I really admire him. Most of the time it’s like he’s larger than life, y’know? This sword master samurai who for some reason thinks I’m worth being around.”

“Leo—“ he hears the consoling tone in her voice and holds up a hand.

“That isn’t— I’m not done.” He takes a breath. He can guess what she sees, what she’s thinking, and she isn’t entirely wrong. It’s why he doesn’t think his recovery is over. He still hates himself. The reasons have just shifted a bit to the left. “Usagi… he’s also shorter than me. If you count the ears it isn’t by much but even with all that training he’s compact and small. And I’m.” He stares at his bulky, three fingered hand. “I just don’t usually notice it. With the presence he has, with the extra experience and maturity. But I pushed, just a little, and he let me. I had a hand on his cheek and I leaned in and he just folded. Then all I could feel, all I could think about was how— all the ways I’m bigger and clunkier and—“ he clenches his fingers into a heavy wrecking ball. His throat is stuck again, even when he swallows. He knows he wants to cry, but it’s all just lodged and immovable. Another weighty part of him.

April is silent for several long beats, but when she finally does speak, it’s with the horrendous, crushing kind of understanding he’s been so desperate to avoid. “Oh. Oh, Leo…”

He rushes ahead before she can offer anything. Before she can say it either. “How did you know? You know, for sure? That you wanted…” He can’t say it. He can’t speak it into existence. He isn’t strong enough to crush such a fragile, delicate wish. One he’s been holding in his heart longer than he realized. April does it for him.

“That I wanted to be a girl?”

He winces. Then nods. The fear is so horrifically real, but when he opens his wet eyes, he sees that miraculously, the world hasn’t crumbled around him.

April is even smiling at him. She’s reaching out a hand. Now she knows, now she sees, and to Leo’s surprise she doesn’t look consoling or sad like he expected. Her smile is joy and excitement more than anything, genuine and bright. “I think you might already know the answer to that question.”

He swallows. He nods. He brushes away the tears in his eyes before they can finally fall, staining his wrist wraps with salt and despair. “Don’t tell anyone.” He whispers through the heavy thickness in his throat.

April looks confused for a moment, but she nods. “Your secret’s safe with me, but… do you really think your family will care?” Then she pauses, and seems to realize something else. “Will Usagi care? Is that what this is about? Cause if he won’t accept you as a woman, take it from me, he isn’t worth it.”

Leonardo blinks for several moments. He honestly had never even thought about it. Usagi comes from an entirely different culture, one that’s missing over five hundred years of cultural baggage and interaction with western traditions and beliefs. Clearly if he kissed Leo, he doesn’t entirely consider himself straight, but the modern cultural connotations of that word are probably lost on him anyway. Leo hasn’t exactly taken the time to explain the Stonewall Riots to his extra-dimensional, early-Edo-period crush.

“Uh— I don’t. I mean, It might surprise him, but I don’t think… I mean I’m not even sure how odd that would be to him, y’know? He lives in an entirely different dimension that I’ve only experienced for a little over six months. He’s— I’d like to think I know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t— he’d accept— he would be—“ how did he word this?

“He wouldn’t lose any respect for you?” April offers and Leo nods once, sharp and sure.

“Then are you just— I mean if you aren’t ready that’s fine. I shouldn’t judge. I just— I want to understand why you feel that way so maybe I can help.”

The puffing wheeze of air escapes Leo’s lungs before he can help it. It’s not a laugh, not a cough, it’s more pathetic and painful than either of those. “There’s— you can’t help. That’s the problem.”

“I—“ April’s mouth presses into a flat line. Now she looks really confused. “Look I don’t mean to toot my own horn or whatever, but I have kind of done all this before. If you have questions about— about any of it really! Hormones, blockers, make-up. You don’t have to change your name legally so that’s nice, but if you want ideas I already have some rattling around! I don’t know every little thing, but I’m here and I know a lot. I could even like— if you need me for moral support when you tell the fam, or heck even Usagi. I’ve gone to a different dimension before. I can do it again.”

It’s all so sweet and supportive that it makes a couple more tears fall. An inane detail floats up to the top. Something he’s thought about longer than he wants to admit. “I already had a name in mind actually…” Mikey had given him the idea inadvertently while babbling about some comic when they were… eleven? Twelve? Something like that.

His brother had bounced in his seat at the dinner table, telling them all about the superheroine who channeled the sun’s immense power to defeat her enemies. Going from how her supernatural abilities worked, to her armored outfit, to her secret identity and normal human job. He’d asked Mikey to repeat that last one, and then smiled at how something so similar to his own name could be so beautiful and elegant.

Back in the present, April beams at him with the same solar power Leona uses to fight villainy. “Really? That’s awesome! What were you thinking?”

Leonardo’s brain communicates to his body that a dire mistake has been made and he feels every single one of his muscles tense. From the outside it probably looks like a flinch, and he watches as the bright sun of April’s smile dims and then flickers out. She’s faster to recover this time though.

She takes a breath and holds out both hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. I know this is a lot. I’m being a lot and changing your whole life around is already scary. I just— I dealt with the beginning scary bits when I was like thirteen and… well to be honest I thought the whole mutant turtle thing would take the bite out of the whole gender thing.” She waves her hands in a way that hints at sculpting something amorphous.

“But you’ve had your whole life to get used to the shell and scales and weird glowing mutagenic mystery substances whereas this— this is all new. And new is always gonna take some adjustment time. So, take as long as you need, okay? But when you wanna lay it all out, I’ll be here.” She reaches out again, only this time, she bends herself forward, not offering a hand but setting her small delicate fingers on Leo’s own clunky, twiddling digits.

This time, he really does flinch. Away from her.

As April responds with her own flinch back, Leo stands up, shoving himself out of the chair, almost spilling his tea.

“Leo I—“

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” He thought, he oh so foolishly believed she would get it, but her ideas are grandiose, bright hope like Michelangelo might be. Like, Usagi might have been if he’d shared?

His friend had spent the last six months trying to get him to see all the little spots of shining joy in the world. Usagi hadn’t babied him, hadn’t told Leo it would all work out or be okay in the end. He’d acknowledged that fear and failure were simple inevitabilities. But then he’d turned Leo’s eyes to all he’d been missing. The little beautiful sights, sounds, tastes and feelings of the world. He’d urged Leo onward with those, telling Leo that’s how he’d avoided giving into despair years ago, when his lord was killed.

There had always been something out of reach though. A chain around Leo’s heart that he hadn’t fully felt until the other crushing weights had started to lighten in Usagi’s company. He knew Michelangelo wouldn’t see the truth of it, suspected Usagi wouldn’t, but April was a scientist and knew so much more than the little bits Leo had hunted down through the private browsing tabs on Don’s computer at seventeen.

Raph and Master Splinter probably wouldn’t have understood at all, which was fine but not useful. And Donnie would know. For certain, irrevocably. Donnie could, would shatter every fragile hope and dream without even trying to. And that was so painful Leo tried his damnedest to not ever think about it.

He’d gambled on April O’Neil gentle tact not hurting as much as Don’s assured decree and made the wrong bet. Now he had to leave. Right now.

Only his chest is soaking in surprise and what he knows is wrongfully placed betrayal. He stumbles toward the window, but April is already there, hands held out again. Not a surrender this time but a barrier.

“Leo, wait! Please. What— I didn’t mean to rush you or… or try to force things. I’m just trying to help. I promise.”

He swallows. “Move.” She doesn’t get it. He has to leave.

“Leo. Please. Just talk to me.”

Something boils over. He wants the frustration, anger, despair, horror, pain to come out as tears. He wishes it could. Instead, it comes out as words, loud and unwieldy and too deep and too honest. “ Talk to you? What, so you can not listen to me again?”

“What?” April can only manage that one word, quiet and hollow.

“You can’t help April! There is nothing you can do that will magically fix this. I’m not—“ he growls. Doesn’t she see the obvious? It’s right in front of her after all.

“Leo, what are you talking about? There’s all sorts of treatments and exercises and—“

“April, I’m a mutant turtle! I’m an— an anomaly! A fluke! Our bodies don’t work the same as a normal human’s. We have no idea how prescribed estrogen and hormone blockers would affect me. If— if they even would.” He clenches his fists. “Where would I even get it? Am I just going to start stealing it from someone else? In the same dose? Every single month? Like that wouldn’t get suspicious!” Then he splays out his fingers much like she is. “Even if it did work, there isn’t some magical fix for these! For— for who I am. For all the ways I’m too—“

April takes his hands. Grabs them, squeezes them tight for multiple beats before responding, “Leonardo. Is the talking turtle who just came back from another dimension about to tell me her becoming the woman she wants to be is impossible?”

“I…” Leonardo hadn’t ever really thought of it like that, hadn’t really ever compared this to the other impossibilities of his life. His family had experienced some truly astounding things, but getting thrown through time and space, finding the lost city of Atlantis, overthrowing an alien empire. Those had all been dangers, near deaths. All turtle luck, true to form. There are very few things he or his brothers have stumbled into that feel truly miraculous or fortunate, and most of what comes to mind at the moment involves warm pink-red eyes and blue swirling pools of light. He doesn’t expect, can’t imagine, another stroke of luck like Usagi again. That just isn’t how his life works.

“Leo, you have three tremendously geeky science freaks on your side, one of whom is the world’s preeminent expert on mutated turtle biology.”

Leo holds up a finger, and repeats a favorite line of Donatello’s, “I’m an engineer, not a medical doctor.”

“Yeah and we both know that’s bullshit.” Leo blinks at her owlishly, not quite absorbing the fact she just cursed. April resorting to foul language to refute Donatello of all people almost felt like a crime. “He’s kept all four of you alive for twenty years, he’s stitched you all up more times than even he can count, and sometimes he’ll just, casually mention setting an extreme compound fracture or doing an in-the-field blood transfusion. Just because he prefers machines doesn’t mean he isn’t an expert in biology out of necessity. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a file stashed somewhere with regularly updated blood counts and cholesterol levels for the four of you. And Splinter. Especially Splinter actually.”

Leo can’t argue with that. April is right. They both know that Don has done something stupidly tough or miraculous in every field he‘s touched. They also know he’s overly paranoid and has nearly driven himself insane with sleep deprivation when hunting down answers. They call him a mad genius for a reason. Still. “That doesn’t mean he’s about to become my long term endocrinologist April. He has more important—“

“More important things than his big sister’s happiness?”

“We don’t even know—“

“Uh uh uh. Leo. Stop. Would it make you feel better about yourself? Would it make you happy?” She still has a hand on Leo’s cloth wrapped wrists. She squeezes them now.

“I— the hormones?” Maybe? Probably? That’s what the hope is.

“ All of it Leo. The hormones yeah but… dressing different maybe? The she/her pronouns. I noticed you didn’t correct me on those by the way.”

Leo felt heat rush to their face. They thought April was just being kind. Maybe she was.

“Being the older sister instead of the older brother. Being Splinter’s daughter. Being… I don’t know, Usagi’s girlfriend maybe? You don’t exactly have a normal life so…”

Leo loses track of what April is saying for a moment. They don’t use Donnie’s computer that often, but it’s a cobbled together thing they’ve seen blue screen many times. Leo’s pretty sure that’s what’s happening now. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend.

They blink and reset their motherboard, or hard drive, or whatever is the correct metaphor.

“…no matter what you’ll have a huge network of support right there with you.”

“I— I know. I know that. It’s… that is great, but again. Mutant turtle. There’s no guarantee that any kind of…” a deep breath, “I’ve thought a lot about this April and if I’m doing it, I’m not doing it halfway. I know– I know I’d want the hormones April, I just don’t know if—“

April moves her hands from their wrists to their shoulders. Leo looks up into eyes that are all green warmth and kindness. “Will it make you happy?”

Leo’s hand goes to their mask tails, fidgeting with them. They stop to really think about that question. Immediately girlfriend comes to mind again. They imagine Usagi saying it and have to move on before some other metaphorical machinery bursts into spectacular flames. It isn’t just that anyway. Sister. Daughter. She. Her. Leona. She finds the smile on her face more than she makes it happen.

A disbelieving, unsure chuckle leaves her mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it will.”

“Then that’s all that matters. Whatever it takes, we’ll make it happen. Okay?”

There’s something stuck in her throat again. This time it doesn’t feel as heavy. “Okay. Thanks, April.”

#leosagi #katanashipping #tmnt 2003 #tmnt #usagi miyamoto #tmnt 2k3 #leonardo #transgender Leonardo #transgender April O'Neil #transgender #my fanfiction #fanfic

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