#and have the same person writing everything

[certifiedarchivesposts]

Our friend here is making a useful point, but is putting too much emphasis on the meaning of "archives". As the saying goes, ze's a little confused, but ze's got the spirit.

An archives is a place for preserving and providing access to documents.* What kind of documents? It could be anything!—but it depends on the particular archives. A government or corporate archives will preserve and give access to records from its parent organization; an archive devoted to a certain topic or group will collect on that topic or group. The type of material a specific archives collects or accepts is known as its collecting scope. These really can vary widely—there are women's suffrage archives, national archives, church archives, punk archives, sex work archives, artists' archives. I don't actually know of one, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn about an archive of children's drawings. So AO3 is a *fanfiction* archive—its collecting scope is fanfiction, that's what it intends to be a repository of, that what it wants to preserve and make available. Any of the genres OP names could be appropriate for the right kind of archives (if someone believes they have enough enduring value to merit long-term stewardship), but AO3 isn't the one.

Why do archives have collecting scopes? Basically, long-term preservation takes resources, whether physical space you have to pay to heat and cool, or servers you have to pay to run or rent, or labor to describe the material so people can actually find it to use it. If absolutely everything went into an archives, it would run out of space/resources really quickly. So, the typical archives tries to be a little choosy with what it takes, and puts more effort per-item towards preserving them. This is part of the purpose of the topical collecting scope; we know that we aren't the only archives out there, so we're going to focus on collecting this one specific area, and let others collect their areas.

Now, the other piece of collecting scope, besides topic or origin, is type or value of material. Basically, we don't want to waste our long-term preservation resources on things that don't have enduring value. That monthly bank statement? Not necessary when the same information will be recapitulated in a quarterly or annual statement. Your grandmas bible, which, while very meaningful to you, is basically the same as a million other bibles? Not of enduring value.** The first draft of something for which you also have the finished copy? Probably not of enduring value, unless mayyybe you're Salman Rushdie or someone.

So, to recap, if I'm reading them right, our friend is saying that AO3 is not an appropriate repository for personal journals, chat logs, RP requests, and placeholders, because they are not within its collecting scope or do not have sufficient enduring value for long-term preservation.

* I say "documents" for brevity. Many archivists talk about working with records in particular, but that doesn't feel like the right word for the contents of AO3, which preserves literature (somewhat unusual for an archives). In any case, we're really talking about information resources (writings, images, audio and video recordings, data) of which few copies exist and which usually weren't formally published.

**Yes, someone should probably keep a copy of that edition of the bible, but they print a lot of those things; some institution probably already has one.

say it with me now:

ao3 is an ARCHIVE.

no, you cannot post placeholders, RP requests, personal journals, or "chatrooms" on it.

yes, other people are allowed to post things you might find disturbing.

if this upsets you, go somewhere else.

[yumeka-sxf]

You know we finally have a Twiyor chapter when I immediately start writing an analysis post 😅

First off, for those of you who read my thoughts on the last chapter, I feel like I kinda predicted what this one was going to be about 👀 (snippet below)

Yor wanting to know Loid's true feelings about the whole marriage arrangement makes the most sense at this point in the story. She already knows how she feels about it - not just in past chapters but she flat out says in this chapter that she wants the marriage to continue forever (and not for the cover-up reasons). And Loid has told her that Anya loves her as a mother...but what about his feelings? When they last had a similar conversation on the park bench, Loid had said that he would like her to continue playing the role of his wife. That was enough for Yor at the time since she simply wanted to know that Loid had no intention of replacing her with Fiona as his wife. But this time is different. She already knows he's fine with her playing the role of his wife and Anya's mother...but is that all he sees in the relationship?

We also have to remember that, unlike Loid, Yor doesn't have to hide her true personality/feelings. Loid has to do this because being cold and calculating makes for a good spy. But while Yor has to keep her identity as Thorn Princess a secret, she doesn't have to create a fake persona for herself or suppress her true feelings. Because of this, we've seen her feelings progress throughout the series: she started out robotic but quickly grew to love the Forgers, eventually realizing in the post-bar date and cooking lesson chapters how happy the family made her, and then resolving to keep fighting to protect them in the cruise arc. This is why she no longer has to visit the "quiet spot" anymore - she used to go there and watch people passing by to remind herself that this is what she's protecting (her country, as part of Garden). But now she doesn't have to because, as she said, being with the Forgers is what's most important to her and gives her all the resolve she needs to continue her Garden work.

Now she's at a point where she acknowledges these feelings but doesn't know what hope there is to hold onto if Loid doesn't reciprocate. If, after all this time, he still only sees her as "the role of his wife" then that indicates their marriage probably won't last. This is why she begins the conversation with asking him how long the marriage will continue.

Looking at Loid's character development in comparison to Yor's, it's obvious that, outside his realization at the end of the mole hunt arc that he's slipping up slightly, he has no understanding of his true feelings or the feelings of those closest to him. He still sees everything from a spy perspective and assumes that, like him, other people always have ulterior motives and he needs to just focus on how things can benefit his mission.

Even when he finally realizes that Yor is trying to tell him that she wants to continue the marriage, the concept of her falling in love with him doesn't occur to him at all. He just assumes her reason is the same as before - keeping the cover-up going, just like him. Interestingly, romantic feelings did occur to him back at their bar date, but then he pushed that thought aside by misinterpreting her kick as a rejection.

Whether that's the reason he's still assuming even now that she couldn't possibly have feelings for him, or whether it's a defense mechanism for himself so he doesn't have to confront such complicated feelings, is hard to say. But it's clear that Loid is one of those people who's amazingly talented and smart when it comes to his job, but is a total idiot when it comes to other things like understanding and sensing human emotions 😅 Even when she directly asks him how he feels about the marriage, he just says he'd appreciate it. His cluelessness is even more apparent in the Japanese version, where a more literal translation of his reply is "that would be helpful to me, too."

But wow, what a bittersweet ending to this chapter. It's still a bit ambiguous whether this arc will continue next time, but I feel like it might considering that Yor's coworkers now think that she's cheating! But whether that will be addressed directly in the next chapter, or whether it will be like Anya's confession to Damian and be saved for later, has yet to be seen. Either way, now that Yor thinks Loid may not have any deeper feelings for her besides their original contract, I wonder how this will change their dynamic going forward?

[sillygoose067]

hi!! can you write anything for lewis pullman that gives off vibes of “home by edward sharpe & the magnetic zeros”? 🧎‍♀️

Hey precious nonnie! Of course I can — or at least I can try. Here's what my attempt looked like...

———————————————————————————-

Home

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You’re not built for the spotlight.

You never learned how to smile like you mean it when you're being looked at, or how to enter a room like you're supposed to be there. You're not polished. You're not curated. You’re the kind of person who leaves a coffee ring on the table, who laughs too loud at the wrong parts of movies, who still doesn't always know what to say when someone compliments your shoes.

But then came Lewis.

And he didn’t try to change you. He never asked you to shine brighter, speak less, dress up. He just… saw you. The way you are — and maybe the way you've always hoped someone would.

Lewis lives like someone out of time. Half in this world, half in an older one. He’s got the soul of a front porch and a rusted mailbox. He collects things with stories — not because they’re valuable, but because they’ve been through something. There's a kind of reverence in the way he turns objects over in his hands. A worn cassette tape. A broken harmonica. A chair that creaks every time he leans back, but still holds.

He doesn't fix things, not really.

You noticed that early. There’s a loose tile in his bathroom he keeps stepping over. A drawer that sticks. The same pair of boots, beaten to hell, that he wears like armor. You once asked, “Why do you keep stuff that’s falling apart?”

He looked up, slow, like he was turning the thought over before speaking it aloud.

“Because they still hold,” he said, that half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth like a secret. “They don’t have to be perfect to be worth keeping.”

And something in your chest broke a little — in that soft, aching way that means something’s being rearranged.

People ask what it’s like, being with someone like him. They mean the fame, the films, the face on the billboards. But that’s not what you think of.

You think of him barefoot in the kitchen, humming something off-key with his back to you while he stirs the eggs. You think of how he always forgets his wallet, but never forgets the look on your face when you’re tired. You think of that night in the gas station parking lot when the car broke down and he made you laugh so hard you cried, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, eating crushed peanut M&M’s and watching the sky turn to bruised lavender.

You think of the silence — the good kind — the kind that fills the space between two people like a warm quilt. You and him, reading different books on the same couch. His feet on your thigh. Your hand in his shirt. Nothing special. Everything that matters.

He doesn’t try to fix you, either.

When you spiral, he doesn’t feed you platitudes. He just stays. He rubs slow circles into your knee. He brings you water. He doesn’t ask you to snap out of it — just says, “You’re okay. I’m here.”

You believe him.

He's never needed a version of you that performs. He fell in love with the parts of you that most people skip past — the mess, the sharp edges, the soft places where you’ve bent but not broken.

You’re not part of the machine he lives in — the glitz, the industry. But you’re part of his life, the real one. The one that starts when the cameras shut off.

You fold his laundry while he scribbles in the margins of a script. You wipe toothpaste off his chin when he’s half-asleep. You bring him thrifted records he never knew he needed. You hold space for the silences between projects, between selves.

He never asked you to glow. And maybe that’s what made you start to.

This love isn’t manicured. It’s not shiny. It’s built of found things. Shared fries. Late-night drives with no destination. Unspoken tenderness. That feeling when your fingers brush his in the middle of a crowded room and suddenly nothing else matters.

He doesn’t need new. Or smooth. Or seamless.

He needs real.

And that’s what you are.

You, in all your chipped edges and unraveling threads. You, with your open palms and too-loud laugh and soft, stubborn heart. You, who still holds.

Because home isn’t where you live. It’s him — pulling you close without words. It’s your names scrawled in steam on the bathroom mirror. It’s falling asleep mid-conversation, your leg draped over his like you forgot where he ends and you begin.

It’s burnt toast. It’s the third voicemail. It’s dancing in the living room with no music and all the windows open.

It’s two people, bruised and human and trying — choosing each other anyway.

It’s the wobble in the table. The drawer that sticks. The love that holds anyway.

That was home.

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ━━ 8 Letters

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 10.9K

❀ ━ warnings: masochism, smut (oral, fingering), like i think that’s it?

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: wowwowow it’s really done… imma actually write the epilogue for this one trust 🙏🏻 thank you guys for the support on this series, i know a lot of you have probably been frustrated for the sporadic updates 😭 but thanks for reading, i seriously, seriously appreciate it. love yall, onto the next !! (also fair warning i am not proud of how i ended the chapter it feels very rushed but writing ending paragraphs/sentences is so difficult)

PAIGE LEANS AGAINST the wall outside Jo's hotel room for far too long.

At first, she doesn't move because she can't. Like her knees won't work right. Like if she tries to walk, she'll fall apart—limb by limb, piece by piece—right there in the hallway. Her throat feels too dry and her face is wet and hot and her head is pounding with everything she didn't get to explain. With everything Jo refused to hear.

But it's not just dejection swirling around in her chest anymore—it's fire, too. Deep and rising. The kind that simmers and stings and coils tighter the longer she just stands there. There's a part of her that still feels shattered—still confused and devastated and aching—but it's getting drowned out fast by the sharp, crackling anger starting to take over.

Because, genuinely, what the fuck?

What kind of person does what Celeste did today? What kind of person looks someone in the eye, smiles all fake and kind, says "I hope you and Jo are happy," and then turns around and nukes everything with a goddam lie?

She should've trusted her gut. She should've slammed the door the second she saw that red hair.

Paige shoves herself off the wall, every step gaining force as she heads down the hallway. Her jaw is clenched. Her fists are balled, short nails digging into skin. There's a buzzing behind her eyes. It's late—probably past 1AM by now—but she doesn't care. Doesn't care if she wakes up the whole floor. Doesn't care if she pisses anyone off. Because there's only one person she wants to deal with right now, and she's behind one of these fucking doors.

It only takes her a few more steps to find it—the number she remembers being the admin's room. Celeste's room.

She pounds her fist against the door. Once. Twice. Three times.

It's loud, unforgiving. Probably too much. She winces for a second, thinking of Alyssa, one of the managers, who she thinks is the one who's sharing the room with Celeste. She's nice, undeserving of this mess. But the thought flashes and burns away just as fast.

Because then the door swings open and there she is.

Celeste Sinclair. Bright green eyes. Wet red curls like she's freshly out of the shower. Face perfectly still.

She blinks at Paige like she's confused. Like she's the one being wronged. "Hi... ?" she says, voice airy, like nothing is broken. Like she didn't just try to break the one thing in Paige's life that actually fucking matters.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Paige spits, stepping forward just enough to make her point. Her voice is sharp and venomous and loud and she wants it to be. She wants it to hit.

Celeste doesn't flinch, her expression unchanging. The only thing Paige can see is something smug behind her eyes now. Like she's been waiting for this. Like she's enjoying it.

"I should be asking you the same question," Celeste says smoothly. That tone—the one that was missing this morning when she was all apologetic and sweet and fake (goddamn theater major)—slides back into place like it never left. "You're the one banging on my door at one in the morning, Paige."

Paige's eyes narrow. She doesn't have time to be anything but blunt, getting straight to the point. "Did you think I wouldn't find out or somethin'? Are you really that stupid to think breaking apart Jo and I would make me want you?"

Celeste cackles. Full-on, grossly amused laughter. Paige wants to punch the wall.

"I didn't do all that because I want you, Paige," the redhead says simply. Her tone is slow, deliberate, like Paige is the dumbest person in the world for assuming so. Like she should've known better.

"Then why the fuck would you do it?" she asks. Her voice is sharper this time, not just angry but confused—again. Because for all her faults, for all the messiness between them, she never really thought Celeste was cruel.

But apparently she was wrong about that, too.

Celeste's answer is cold, dipped in ice water and frozen over. "Because you don't deserve it."

There's a pause. Paige feels her brain stutter like it's prematurely trying to figure out what's going to come out of Celeste's mouth next.

"You know, this semester, I've become friends with a few new girls in my classes," the redhead starts, and Paige scrunches her face a little, not understand the relevance of this at all. "A couple weeks ago, I was hanging out with a bunch of people and literally two of those girls told me that at some point during college, they'd been fucking you and you ended up breaking their heart."

Paige swallows hard, gathering where this is going.

"It hurt them, Paige," Celeste continues, matter-of-fact. "And it fucking hurt me too. So, why is it that you get to be happy when you've hurt all these people?"

That's the part that lands the heaviest. Paige stares at her, silent. Because the thing is—she's well aware she wasn't perfect. Especially not her freshman and sophomore years. She knows she was careless sometimes, flippant. She knows she had a reputation—and she earned it.

But she never lied to anyone. She never led them on.

She always made it abundantly clear: no strings. Just casual.

Yes, people caught feelings. Yes, maybe she didn't handle every exit perfectly. But she never promised more than what she meant.

And with Jo? She's never once played a game. Not once.

Celeste keeps going, like she's been waiting to get all of this off her chest. "I do feel a little bad about Jo. She was really heartbroken. But, honestly, I probably saved her from something worse by doing that. Because God knows you'd end up hurting her the same way you've hurt everyone else."

Paige feels something twist in her gut. It’s like she’s watching someone stab a knife into the version of herself she’s been trying to be. The version Jo sees. The one who loves so deeply it aches. The one who wants to do right.

And she knows that’s who she is with Jo.

But now? Now Jo’s on the other side of the hallway thinking she was just another name on a list. And Celeste is down here acting like Paige’s past is enough reason to steal her future.

Her jaw tightens. Her fingers twitch. She stares Celeste down and tries not to cry again. Not because of her—Celeste doesn’t deserve her tears—but because of what she ruined. What she took.

Joey.

But then, something else ignites in Paige's chest. It's slow at first, but then it's sharp, blisteringly hot. Protective, possessive. Because who does Celeste think she is—saying Jo's name like she knows her, like she has the right to even say it. To even think it.

Paige takes another step forward, towering over the redhead. She hopes it makes Celeste feel as small as she deserves.

"You don't know a thing about Jo," Paige snaps, low and firm, like she's holding back from yelling only by the thinnest thread. "Or what she and I have. So don't fucking talk about her like you do."

Celeste flinches, just barely. Her expression tightens, eyes flicking away momentarily like she knows she's hit a nerve. She doesn't say anything back, though.

"And you're sick," Paige adds, stepping in again, "for trying to ruin something that had nothing to do with you."

Still, Celeste says nothing. Her arms cross over her chest defensively, chin tilting up like she wants to pretend she's not rattled, but Paige can see it in her—how her shoulders stiffen, how her eyelid twitches like she's trying to keep her composure and losing.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. And your friends, too, I guess," Paige says, voice coated in honesty even through the anger. "But you always knew what it was with me. I never lied. I never said I was gon' take you out or some shit. I never told anyone to catch feelings."

The air feels tighter with every word. Paige is breathing hard now. There’s heat in her palms, in her neck, all of it boiling to the surface.

“That’s not on me,” she tells her, quieter now, but somehow sharper. “And I’m sorry that it hurt. But you don’t get to turn around and ruin Jo’s life because of it. You don’t get to do that.”

Celeste’s jaw clenches. She blinks a few times, and Paige sees something flicker—maybe regret, maybe shame, maybe just the sting of being told the truth. But then it’s gone.

That smug smile returns like armor, like habit. She crosses her arms again and says, “Sucks to be you, then. Because you’re gonna have to deal with me for another whole year.”

Paige lets out a laugh. A real one. Bitter and cold and sharp-edged. A laugh she didn’t know was in her chest until it spills out.

“You’re funny,” she says, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“What?” Celeste asks, starting to frown.

“You think you’re gonna be with the team next year?” Paige asks, raising an eyebrow. “That’s funny. You been tamperin' with team chemistry, Celeste. Playin' people against each other. Lying. Manipulating.” She pauses, letting it settle, then says coolly, “You’re not getting the job back.”

Celeste’s face falls like a stone.

“Paige, wait—” she says, and it’s the first time Paige hears it: panic. The beginnings of fear.

That smug little grin drops fast. Her eyes go wide. She starts stepping forward like she wants to plead, like maybe she thought this was all just petty drama and not something that would actually cost her.

But Paige is already stepping back.

“Night, Celeste,” she says flatly, and then she turns, walking away without another look.

Celeste calls her name again, but Paige doesn’t even flinch. She walks fast and steady back down the hallway, back toward her and Aubrey’s hotel room, jaw tight, eyes forward, fists still balled up from everything she’s holding in.

And for a second—for one second—she feels powerful. Just one. It lasts through the hallway, through the keycard swipe, through shutting the door behind her.

But then she’s in bed. And none of it matters.

Because humbling Celeste didn’t fix anything.

Not the hollow space where Jo should be. Not the look on Jo’s face when she told Paige she couldn’t even look at her. Not the panic in Jo’s voice when she said, “I can’t do this.”

So now Paige is curled up in bed, still in the same sweatpants and hoodie she wore to the game, her hair tied back loosely, eyes burning but no more tears left. She’s got Sunny—the little purple dragon plush Jo gave her after the ACL tear—clutched to her chest so tight it hurts.

The hoodie smells like Jo. That stupid expensive perfume Jo started wearing in December. It still lingers in the collar and Paige feels herself curl tighter around the dragon like it can replace her somehow.

It can’t.

And now all she can do is hope—pray—that maybe Jo will give her a chance to explain tomorrow. Maybe Jo will listen. Maybe there’s still time to make it right.

Because if there’s not…

Paige doesn’t even want to think about it.

THE NEXT DAY passes by in a blur, like Paige is stuck inside some foggy simulation of her own life, moving through it without really feeling any of it.

She and Aubrey don't really say much as they pack up their hotel room. It's mechanical—stuffing clothes into bags, unplugging phone chargers, shoving shoes into suitcase compartments they don't quite fit into. Paige doesn't even bother folding anything. It all gets shoved down with zero regard for how wrinkled or tangled it might end up, because she just doesn't have it in her to care. Nothing feels that important right now.

Jo's name sits on the edge of all her thoughts, and her absence is deafening.

Paige doesn't see her all morning—not until the team finally gathers in the hotel lobby, bags in hand, UConn gear on, the usual travel routine underway. Jo doesn't look at her, not once. Not that Paige really expected her to.

The younger girl stands with Caroline, who often jokes about Jo being her "favorite child." It feels a little protective, right now, how close the two stand, how Jo ends up leaning her temple on Carol's shoulder. Paige can't tell if Caroline is doing it to shield Jo from her or if Jo's just using her as a buffer. Either way, it stings. Jo's expression is schooled over, neutral in a way that looks too practiced, like she's working too hard to stay calm and normal. That almost makes it worse—knowing Jo is still mad, still hurt, and all Paige can do is trail behind, wanting to talk to her again but not knowing how.

The ride to the airport is quiet. Paige sits next to Aubrey, staring out the window with her AirPods in. She doesn't even really listen to the music that's playing.

Once they board the plane, Paige drops down into a seat in the very back, glad they're allowed to spread out. Azzi slides into the aisle seat in her row, an empty seat between them like always, for more comfort and space. Azzi pulls her hoodie up and takes out her unicorn neck pillow like she plans to sleep the whole way back to Connecticut.

Paige tries to do the same. Closes her eyes, leans her neck back, pulls her hood over her head, wraps her arms around herself. But her brain won't turn off. Her chest won't settle. Her knee aches a little, probably from all the stress.

She ends up bothering Azzi after about fifteen minutes. Nudges her. Whispers a quiet, "you awake?" even though she knows she is.

Eventually, she pulls Nika over too. Makes her move from the seat across the aisle to the one between her and Azzi. The three of them talk low—soft murmurs in the hum of the plane, almost like they're conspiring.

Paige keeps her voice quiet, her arms crossed over herself, leg stretched out to help the ache. It's cold back here. Or maybe she just feels cold.

She explains everything in bits and pieces—some of it Azzi already knows, obviously, and Nika gets caught up fast. They're both stunned by Celeste's boldness. Not surprised, exactly, but stunned she actually went that far. Paige watches them both react with wide eyes and disbelieving expressions, and it helps. A little. Just knowing she's not crazy. That it really was as messed up as it felt.

But still—none of it undoes it. None of it fixes the look on Jo's face last night.

Azzi tells her to wait. Nika agrees. Let Jo come to her. That it'll happen. That Jo needs time to calm down and process things, especially after the loss. That they live together, so it's inevitable, and when it does happen, Paige will be able to say everything she needs to say.

And Paige knows they're right—but that doesn't make it easy.

Every inch of her wants to fix it now. Wants to walk up to the front of the plane, pull her into the bathroom, and tell her exactly what happened, make her listen. Because the idea of going back to their apartment and pretending like everything hasn't completely crumpled into dust makes Paige's chest feel too tight.

So, when they get back to campus, Paige doesn't go to their apartment. She goes to Azzi's. She drops her bags just inside the door, toeing off her shoes. Azzi, Ines, and Ice all dump their own things back into their respective bedrooms before coming back out to the living room.

All four of them fall into a normal silence, just laying on couches and scrolling on phones. It's calm and familiar.

Eventually, Caroline shows up, probably to specifically hang out with Azzi if Paige had to guess. But she's here and Paige isn't wasting the opportunity.

Paige watches the brunette from across the room. Waits a minute. Then, clears her throat and nods towards Azzi's room. "Can we talk for a sec?"

Carol gives her a look—somewhere halfway between tired and soft—and nods.

Inside Azzi's bedroom, Paige doesn't sit down. She stands by the dresser, fidgeting with the zipper on her hoodie. She lays it all out: how Celeste showed up that morning with the necklace that she stole, how she spun some story about the two of them hooking up, how obviously Jo believed it.

She keeps it mostly factual. The emotion's all there—thick in her voice, tightening her chest—but she tries not to let it show too much. Just enough to prove she’s serious. Honest. Because she knows Caroline first heard this story from Jo, and she needs Carol to believe her, and not let Celeste win anything else over.

Caroline doesn’t interrupt. Just listens with that same unreadable face. And when Paige is finally done, when she exhales and finally looks up, Carol smiles. A small one. The kind that says she’s been waiting for Paige to get this off her chest.

“I know, P,” she says. “I knew you wouldn’t do that.”

It should be more reassuring than it is, but it still makes something unclench in Paige’s chest.

"She's just scared," Carol continues after a moment. "You know how badly Asher hurt her. And Celeste showing up with the necklace—it looked real. It was believable evidence, and I think she just... panicked."

Paige nods slowly. She's already really gathered all of that on her own.

"I was actually gonna go over to be with her in a little," Caroline adds. "I'll tell her to talk to you. Hear you out. I just want you guys to be happy."

She gives Paige a quick hug—just enough to say I've got you—and then they both walk out like nothing happened.

It's late when Paige finally drags herself back to her apartment. She stands in the front hallway with her huge duffle still slung over her shoulder, while carrying her backpack as well, just staring at the space. She turns the lights on—the place is silent.

She walks over to her bedroom, dropping her bags onto the floor. She kicks her shoes off and shrugs off her hoodie. She should probably shower or at least brush her teeth, but instead she finds herself drifting to the end of the hallway.

Jo's bedroom door is cracked just enough that Paige can hear the faint hum of white noise playing from Jo's phone. The sound is familiar; it's what usually lulls her to sleep, too, curled up against Jo's back, her hand under Jo's shirt, their legs tangled.

She reaches for the doorknob before she even thinks about it. She pauses before carefully pushing it open.

Jo's asleep.

The covers are pulled up high, her face soft and tired, eyelashes fanned against flushed cheeks. She always looks young when she's sleeping. Vulnerable in a way Paige doesn't get to see too much because it's usually wrapped over with a smile.

She hates this. She just wants to be with her.

She could wake her up right now. Explain everything. Beg her to listen.

But Paige doesn't.

Instead, she closes the door just as quietly as she opened it and turns to her own bedroom to sleep alone.

JO STOPS, her feet planting hard against the sidewalk as she bends over, hands braced on her knees, chest rising and falling in a quick, heavy rhythm. Cold sweat clings to her skin, stinging in the wind that cuts sharp through her thin half-zip. The sleeves are pushed halfway up her forearms, and her shorts are clinging damp to her thighs, her body caught somewhere between freezing and burning alive. It's barely six in the morning, and the sky over Storrs is still that pale early-blue that always makes her feel a little lonelier.

She tells herself it's just the run making her feel like this—like her body can't keep up with her mind, like her chest is too tight, like her stomach's churning from something deeper than effort. But it's not just the run. She knows that. She's not stupid.

It's Paige.

Even thinking the name makes her ribs pull tight like someone's got a hand clenched around her sternum.

She straightens up slowly, breath still shaky, lips parting as she tries to regulate it. It's too much. She shouldn't have gone out. Not with four hours of sleep and a stomach full of nothing but a couple sips of water. But she needed to do something. She needed to feel something. And pain is easier than everything that's been swirling through her the past two days.

It's just what she does. Masochism at its finest. It's how she coped when Asher cheated and they broke up—run in the dark until her calves cramped and her lungs stung, stopped eating until she could crawl back into bed and sleep without dreams. She went through those motions until Paige put her foot down and dragged Jo out of the habits herself.

Except now it's different because she's here again, because of Paige.

And Jo doesn't really know how to reconcile that.

They got back from Dallas yesterday and Jo barely made eye contact with her. She couldn't. Not without hearing Celeste's words again. Not without picturing Paige's stupid necklace glinting in Celeste's hand.

She'd actually planned on talking to Paige yesterday. Just... talk. Not accuse or yell like the night prior. Just talk.

But she couldn't bring herself to.

Because what if Paige really had done what Celeste said?

What if Paige said something that made it all worse? What if she begged in that sweet, trembling voice, and Jo believed her, and it ended up being a lie only for her to get hurt again?

She's been through this before. The crying, the begging, the gaslighting, the lying once they know you know what they've done. She never thought Paige could make her feel that way, too.

But she's starting to realize that maybe Paige might not have done anything wrong.

Because, last night, Caroline told Jo she talked to her. And that she believes what Paige told her.

And Jo trusts Carol more than almost anyone.

So why can't she let itgo?

Her Apple Watch buzzes with a completed run notification—something minor, meaningless—and Jo groans aloud, dragging a hand through her damp hair. The ponytail is loose and frizzy, clinging to the sweat at the back of her neck. Her body aches in that dull, buzzing way that means she pushed too hard. Her bad knee—the one she tore her ACL on a couple years back—is probably going to be mad at her all day.

It's then that she hears Siri, dull and robotic in her AirPods, saying something about a Snaphact notification.

Jo opens the app without really thinking.

It's a memory; two months ago today.

A selfie—Paige's cheek pressed to hers, her teeth mock-biting at Jo's skin, both of them laughing in the tangled warmth of Jo's bed. Jo can still remember the way Paige's skin felt against hers, the sound of her giggle, the way—just after this was taken—Paige was kissing every inch of Jo's face like there was nothing else in the world she'd rather be doing.

Jo stares at it for a long time. The photo doesn't disappear. Not until she lets it.

She closes the app, eyes burning, and pulls one AirPod out. Her fingers drift to the little waistband pocket of her athletic shorts. She unzips it and pulls out the necklace.

Paige's necklace. Her necklace. Their necklace.

The one Celeste gave to her. The one Jo threw in the trash two days ago and pulled back out.

She doesn't know why she brought it with her this morning. She couldn't wear it—her chest ached too much just looking at it—but she also couldn't leave it in her room.

It felt like abandoning something that didn't deserve to be.

Now, it rests in her palm, the silver catching the weak morning light. Steady glares slightly.

Jo closes her fist around it.

Fuck. She has to talk to Paige.

Not eventually. Not sometime.

Now.

Because this—this sick, hollow ache in her—isn't something she can live with. Not if there's a chance she's wrong. Not if there's even the smallest possibility that Paige is telling the truth.

Jo turns around on the trail and starts running again. Not to punish herself.

This time, she's running to get home.

JO'S HEART is beating way too fast as she pushes open the front door, the quiet click of the lock loud in the silence of the apartment. Her legs are still shaky from the run. Her throat feels dry and her shirt is clinging to her back, damp with cold sweat. It's barely seven in the morning. The living room is dim, shadows stretching long across the floor from the first hints of daylight slipping through the blinds. She kicks off her shoes near the door.

She doesn't know what she's doing, not really. She could still chicken out. Could just head straight to the shower, buy herself another ten minutes, maybe even a whole hour. Paige's door is shut, she can see it from here. Jo doubts she's up—she never is on off days unless she absolutely has to. She could shower, sit on her bed, overthink everything like she's so good at.

But her feet keep moving.

The hallway is cold and narrow, and Jo moves down it slowly, the way you move when you're trying not to wake someone—when you're trying to give yourself time to make a decision before it makes itself.

The bathroom door is in front of her. She could walk straight, could turn the handle and disappear behind the water and the steam and the noise of it, escape for a little longer.

But her head turns toward Paige's door instead.

The light is off. The room is quiet. But something in Jo—something deeper than nerves, deeper than anger or fear—begs her to just open the door. She can't even name it. Maybe it's hope. Maybe it's desperation.

Maybe it's love.

She breathes in. Then out. Then in again.

And she opens it.

The room is mostly dark, a pale stripe of early light cutting across the carpet. Jo's eyes take a second to adjust, but she sees Paige almost immediately—curled up on her side in bed, the glow of her phone casting a soft blue light on her face.

Jo freezes. Paige looks up. Their eyes meet.

Paige jolts upright like she's been electrocuted, like the sight of Jo in her doorway has scrambled her whole nervous system. Her hair is messy, pillow-creased on one side. Her voice comes out higher than usual when she says, "Hi."

Jo stays standing in the doorway, fingers still wrapped around the edge of the frame. "I didn't wake you up, did I?" she asks, even though she knows she didn't.

"No, no, I— I was awake," Paige says quickly. Her voice is all nerves. She's not acting like herself. She's acting like she's afraid Jo might bolt, like she's walking on the edge of something too thin to hold her weight.

Which—fair. Jo's been very distant.

Before she can say anything else, though, Paige's gaze flickers over her frame, brows furrowing. "Were you out running in that?" she asks softly, her voice lined with worry. She gestures vaguely to Jo's shorts, her half-zip.

Jo glances down at herself. "Yeah."

"Jo, it's freezing, you're gonna get sick again—" Paige starts, like she's personally wired to make sure Jo stays as healthy as possible.

"Paige," Jo says, gently but firmly, cutting her off. She needs to say what she came in here to say. Paige quiets instantly, mouth pressing shut, like she knows it, too. "I wanna talk."

Jo steps fully into the room and closes the door behind her with a soft click. It's quieter now. LIke the whole room is holding its breath. She walks to the bed, slow and hesitant, and sits on the very edge of the mattress. She doesn't look at Paige, but she feels the movement as Paige shifts up beside her, both of them now sitting upright—but far apart. Too far. It's jarring, the space between them. They're usually curled into each other, arms and legs tangled, Jo's fingers in Paige's hair or Paige's hand on Jo's thigh. Now, there's a chasm. An ache in the space between.

Jo presses her lips together. Her fingers move back to the zippered pocket of her shorts. She unzips it slowly. Her fingers close around the cool metal of the necklace. She pulls it out. Looks at it for just a second.

Then, she gently reaches for Paige's hand.

It feels like a risk. A bigger risk than anything else she's done this week.

Jo places the necklace in Paige's palm and then sets her own hand on top of it. The metal sits cool and weighty between their skin. Paige doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

Jo finally lifts her gaze, meeting Paige's eyes. She hasn't done that in days. Hasn't looked at her like this—directly, intentionally, like she's searching for something. Her eyes already sting. Her throat tightens.

"Tell me what happened," Jo says softly.

And she means it. She’s ready to listen. Ready to really listen. Because she needs to hear it from Paige. Needs to believe it, not just feel it. She wants to believe her. She thinks she already does.

But she needs to hear it in Paige’s voice. Right here. Right now.

Jo watches Paige take a deep breath, her pretty blue eyes scanning every inch of Jo's face like she can't believe she's even sitting right next to her right now.

She shouldn’t even be in here—sitting on Paige’s bed, still in her freezing sweat-soaked running clothes, her pulse too high and her stomach too tight. Jo feels jittery, the way she vets before a game she's not sure she's ready for. But this isn't a game. This is... them. And it could be the end of them. She's not even sure what "them" is anymore. All she knows is that the second Paige sat up in bed and looked at her like that—like she still wanted her—something sharp and painful wedged itself behind Jo's ribs and hasn't moved since.

"Okay," Paige says slowly. It's tentative, gentle. She looks like she's thinking a thousand words, weighing each one before she lets them out. Jo understands. She really does.

But then Paige blinks and says, "Actually, 'M sorry—can you—can you please tell me exactly what Celeste told you first? I wanna know exactly what you think happened, because I'm still a little... a little confused."

Jo looks at her for a second. Paige's eyes are wide now, soft and earnest and a little panicked, like she's begging Jo to hand her the map before she can explain how they got lost.

For a second, Jo considers holdng it all in.

Not because she wants to hurt Paige or make her guess or punish her, but because—god—it’s so ugly. She doesn’t want to repeat it. She doesn’t want to admit, out loud, that she believed any of it. That it sunk so deep into her she started to think maybe Paige was just another person who didn’t actually mean what she said.

But Jo’s not good at holding things in. Not when it comes to Paige.

So, she shifts on the bed, gaze falling to the floor. Her hands curl into one another on her lap, fingers twisting. She doesn’t watch Paige anymore, doesn’t meet her eyes. She’s not ready for that. Instead, she focuses on the blank TV, on the way her socks are uneven, on anything but the weight in her chest.

"She came to my room right before breakfast that morning," Jo starts, voice quieter than she means it to be. "Like, early. Right after I finished braiding my hair."

She swallows. "She looked... nervous. Like, almost scared, or—or guilty? I don't know. I thought something was wrong, so I let her in. She was quiet for a while, and I just kept asking her what was going on. And then she pulled out the necklace."

Jo pauses. The memory makes her insides twist. She still feels sick when she thinks about it—the sudden rush of cold that spread through her chest, the way her heart practically stopped when she saw that little piece of silver glinting in Celeste's hand.

"And I just... I didn't understand how she had it. Like, I knew you wouldn't just lose it. You're careful. And I didn't want to think anything bad, but—she looked so serious."

She lets out a breath. Her hands are shaking now. She presses them tighter together to hide it.

"She told me you came to her room that night. Around 12:30. Said you told her that you and I had broken things off, for the better of the team. She said you apologized to her. That you said you wanted to make things right. That you gave her the necklace because it didn't mean what it used to mean anymore."

Jo's voice falters a little. She blinks quickly, eyes burning.

"She said the 'steady' was for her now."

She doesn't realize how much she's shaking until she reaches up and wipes her eyes. Her knuckles come away damp. She bites down hard on her bottom lip.

"And she said you slept with her."

It comes out small. Like saying it too loud will make it more real.

Jo doesn't say anything for a long moment after that. Her hands drop into her lap again. She stares at the floor. She doesn't want to cry anymore. She's cried enough.

And still, there's more to cry about. Always.

She knows how crazy it all sounds now. But in the moment—when she was tired and hurt and already spiraling from the loss, from the stress of the Final Four, from the fear that maybe she and Paige were too good to be true—she believed it. Or maybe, she didn’t believe it, but she was too scared not to believe it. Because then she’d be the idiot who let herself get her heart broken again.

It was easier to believe that Paige had turned into someone else. Some version of herself Jo didn’t know anymore. That maybe Celeste had just come at the right moment and Jo was the one who had misread everything.

But now, sitting here beside Paige, Jo doesn’t feel righteous or justified. She feels small. And tired. And like she’s been carrying a weight that was never hers to carry.

She hears Paige shift beside her, quiet and tentative.

Then, soft enough to break her heart all over again, Paige murmurs, “Jo? Can you—can you look at me? Please?”

Jo doesn’t move at first. Her lungs feel stuck.

But then she turns her head, slow and reluctant, and lets herself look. Really look.

Paige is right there, eyes glossy and wide, her whole face filled with a kind of careful desperation. Not like she’s trying to convince Jo of something—but like she’s trying to show her the truth. Jo feels something break open inside her at the sight.

Tentatively, Paige reaches up to cup Jo’s cheek, her fingers warm and steady against skin that still feels cold from the run. Jo doesn’t flinch. But she doesn’t lean into the touch either. She just… watches her. Through the wet blur in her eyes, through the pounding in her chest. Watches the way Paige looks at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world—like she’s still worth touching gently even after everything.

Paige keeps her hand there, soft and unmoving, thumb just barely brushing at the tear tracks on Jo’s cheek.

“Jo,” she says, voice thick with something that sounds like truth, like a vow, “I swear on everything—everything—that none of that happened.”

And Jo—God, Jo wants to believe her. She wants to let that be enough. Wants to shove the past three days into a box, light it on fire, and never think about them again. She wants to fall forward into Paige and sob into her hoodie and let it be over.

But it’s not. Not yet.

Jo sucks in a shaky breath, staring straight into Paige’s eyes. “Then how did she get the necklace?”

Because that’s still the thing she can’t explain away. That little silver chain with steady engraved on it. Something so personal, so real—so theirs. That’s what made the whole thing so believable. What cracked Jo open in the first place.

Paige takes a breath. A big one. Like she’s bracing herself. Her hand is still on Jo’s cheek, grounding them both.

“She came to my hotel room that morning too,” Paige says slowly. “Really early. Like, right after I got out of the shower.”

Jo’s brows furrow, heart thudding as she listens.

“I’d taken the necklace off because I didn’t want it to rust. I never wear it in the shower. I’d just changed into my clothes. I was about to put it back on, and then she knocked.”

Jo is still, listening. Not moving. She can picture it—Paige in their hotel room, steam on the mirror, necklace resting on the counter like it always is when she showers. She’s seen it herself. A little routine Paige never strays from.

“I answered the door. Obviously, I was confused. She had my UConn ID. Said she found it downstairs in the conference room where we had dinner. She seemed… normal. Like, actually genuine. I took the ID, I thanked her for bringin' it to me. And then she said she was sorry. For how she acted when she found out about us. Said it was immature of her. And then she just... left.”

Paige pauses. Her voice cracks just slightly when she adds, “And a few minutes later, when I looked over at the counter by the door—where I left the necklace—it was gone. I thought it dropped or something. I was freakin’ out about it. But clearly… she took it.”

Jo swallows, and the sound feels too loud in the room.

And the thing is—it makes sense. Every part of that story fits perfectly into place with what she knows of Paige. The ID thing, the timing, even Celeste’s strange apology. It sounds real. And more than that—it feels like Paige. The way she’s telling it, not trying to over-explain, not pleading, just honest. Like it’s breaking her heart to have to walk Jo through it piece by piece.

Jo feels the tears come again, and she hates it. Hates that her heart still feels like it’s trying to climb out of her chest. But this time, they’re not tears of betrayal. Or confusion. They’re just exhaustion. From hurting. From doubting. From being scared of losing someone she’s so, so in love with.

But even now—there’s still one thing.

Jo clears her throat, voice small. “But the night before that… after I gave you the necklace, you didn’t go in the direction of your room.”

She feels Paige’s grip tense slightly, just barely.

Jo continues, quiet and cautious, not accusatory—just… scared. “You went the opposite way. Toward hers.”

She watches Paige closely, sees the blonde’s eyes narrow slightly in confusion. Like she’s flipping through memories trying to find what Jo’s talking about. And then—Jo sees the shift. Realization washing over her face like a wave. Paige blinks, and her brows knit together as she speaks.

“Jo,” Paige says gently, letting her hand drop from Jo’s cheek and slide back into Jo’s lap to hold her hand more fully, “the vending machine was that way. I got Aubrey and I each a bottle of water before bed. I didn’t go to her room.”

Jo doesn’t know why this is what finally breaks her open. Not the necklace. Not the story. Not even the quiet, sincere way Paige walked her through every little detail to help her make sense of something that’s been chewing her alive for the past three days. No, it’s this—this simple sentence, this explanation about the vending machine. The honesty in Paige’s voice. The clarity. The way she says it without hesitation, without defensiveness, like it’s just the truth, plain and simple.

Jo believes her.

God, she believes her.

And somehow, that realization doesn’t bring immediate relief. It brings more tears. They sting behind her eyes and spill over before she can stop them. A choked little sob catches in her throat and she bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying to keep it together, but she feels her chest heaving with every breath like her body is trying to catch up with the emotional whiplash.

She doesn’t even realize she’s shaking until Paige is suddenly not beside her anymore.

Jo blinks through her tears and looks down, and Paige is on the floor, on her knees, still holding Jo’s hands. Their fingers are laced together and Paige is staring up at her with eyes that are as glassy and broken and desperate as Jo’s feel.

And Jo’s never been looked at like that. Never. Not in all her life.

Not by Asher, not by anyone. It’s like Paige sees every single broken part of her and still chooses her. Still wants her. Still loves her.

The tears come harder.

Paige lifts their joined hands to her mouth and presses a kiss to each of Jo’s knuckles, soft and reverent. Then, still crying, still holding her hands like they're the most delicate things she’s ever touched, she leans in and kisses Jo’s knee—then the other. The one with the scar, from her ACL. She kisses it with this tenderness that makes Jo feel like her heart is going to rip straight out of her chest.

“Joey,” Paige says, voice shaking as much as Jo’s is. “Jo. Josephine. I—God, I would never hurt you. Never, baby. I swear. All I want is for you to be safe and healthy and happy. That’s all I want. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Azzi and Aubrey and Nika knowing. I knew it would make you anxious and I just… I just wanted to take any pressure away from you that I could.”

Jo’s hand clenches slightly in Paige’s. She doesn’t mean to, but she’s holding on so tightly now, like if she lets go, any of this might slip away again.

Paige sniffles, wipes her face with the back of her arm, then keeps going.

“Jo, I’m in love with you,” she says. “I am so in love with you. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more and I’m not sure how exactly to handle it, but I want you. I want to be your girlfriend, for real, and I want to take you on dates, and I want the whole team to know about us, and I want us to meet each other’s families as girlfriends, not best friends or teammates or roommates or anything else. I want you in any and every way possible. Please, Jo.”

Jo can’t take it anymore. Her hands are trembling as she untangles their fingers, reaching out instead to cup Paige’s cheeks. Her thumbs brush over the tears there, over skin that’s warm and soft and familiar. Paige doesn’t resist. She leans into the touch like it’s all she’s ever wanted.

Jo pulls her up. She doesn’t say anything at first—just holds Paige’s face in her hands and brings her forward until their foreheads are touching, both of them crying, both of them shaking, both of them breathing the same air again for the first time in days.

“I want you, too,” Jo whispers. Her voice cracks halfway through, but she doesn’t stop. “I love you. So much. And I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you before. I’m so sorry. But I do now. I believe you. And I want to be your girlfriend. I want you to be mine.”

And it’s like the second she says it, everything inside her comes undone. Not in a bad way—no, it’s like letting go of this massive weight she’s been carrying since the moment Celeste knocked on her door. Like exhaling after holding her breath for three days straight. Her arms wrap around Paige’s shoulders, and Paige’s wrap around her waist, and then they’re clinging to each other.

Jo buries her face in Paige’s neck, and Paige’s hand finds her hair, her back. The sobs shake them both but neither of them tries to stop it. It’s messy and raw and real and them.

“I was so scared,” Jo whispers into Paige’s skin.

“I know,” Paige whispers back, kissing the side of her head. “Me too.”

Jo pulls back just enough to really look at her.

Paige’s face is a mess—her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, the tears making them even more impossibly blue, cheeks streaked and flushed like she’s been crying for hours. But her mouth is pink and parted and she’s breathing like she just ran a mile, and she’s looking at Jo like she’s the only thing that’s ever existed. Like nothing else matters. Like Jo hung the goddamn moon.

Jo can’t help it.

She leans in and kisses her. Hard.

It’s not soft, not tentative—there’s too much built up in her chest, too much that’s been swelling and festering and clawing at her from the inside since that morning in Dallas. And God, God, she didn’t think she’d get this again. She wasn’t sure if Paige would even want to kiss her again after everything she said. After the way she looked at her in that hotel room, like she couldn’t believe Jo wouldn’t even let her explain.

But Paige does want it. She kisses back instantly, like she’s been waiting for this just as desperately, and Jo feels her whimper against her mouth, hands sliding up into Jo’s hair with the same kind of urgency.

Jo reaches blindly, grabs at Paige’s waist and guides her up, tugging her gently by the hips until Paige is shifting back on the bed. They fall together—half-tangled, the movement awkward but natural. Jo ends up half on top of her, hands braced on either side of Paige’s face, legs tangled with hers, mouths never parting.

It’s like the past few days didn’t happen. And yet they did, and that’s what makes this worse and better all at once.

Because Jo knows she fucked up. She knows she did. Paige didn’t do anything wrong, not one fucking thing, and Jo still let herself believe that Paige was like Asher. That she was just another person Jo would fall stupidly, completely in love with only to have it blow up in her face. That she wasn’t special. That none of this had ever really meant anything.

And that’s what makes Jo’s chest ache with guilt now.

Because this—Paige—has always meant everything.

Paige’s hand slides under the hem of Jo’s shirt, fingertips grazing her lower back like she’s trying to memorize the shape of her all over again. Jo kisses her harder, her body melting into Paige’s, and they’re pressed so close now it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. And maybe that’s how it’s always been between them. Maybe that’s what scared Jo so badly in the first place. How much of herself she gave to this girl without even realizing it.

Jo pulls back only for a second, just long enough to breathe, just long enough to look at her again. Paige’s lips are swollen, her skin flushed, and her eyes—those eyes—are still locked on Jo like she’s the sun. The way she’s looking at her, even now, after all of it... Jo doesn’t feel like she deserves it.

“I’m sorry,” Jo whispers, forehead resting against Paige’s. She can still taste the salt of Paige’s tears. Or maybe her own. “I’m so sorry, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I got scared. And I didn’t want to be the one getting hurt again, and I didn’t even let you talk, and that was—”

“Jo,” Paige breathes, hand curling around Jo’s wrist, grounding her. “It’s okay. You were scared. I get it. We're okay now, promise.”

Jo closes her eyes. Tries to believe her. Tries to let go of the weight she’s been carrying since that knock on her hotel door. Since Celeste’s voice. Since the way it all cracked apart without warning.

“I love you,” she says softly. “So much.”

Paige’s thumb brushes against her cheek. “I love you too.”

Paige leans back in to kiss her, mouth parting. Jo lets out a little noise, kissing back. Her fingers reach down, curling into the hem of Paige's t-shirt. Paige lifts her arms, already helping her. The shirt slides up and over and then it's gone, tossed to the side of the bed, forgotten. Paige doesn't sleep in a bra—Jo knows that. But the sight of her still knocks the wind out of her a little.

Because she's beautiful. God, she's so beautiful. And she's letting Jo see her like this, even after everything. Even after being accused of something she didn't do. Even after Jo all but shut the door on her.

Jo feels like her hands are shaking. Not from nerves, not exactly. It’s something heavier. Something deeper. Guilt, yes, but more than that—gratitude. Relief. A kind of love that scrapes up her throat and catches in her chest and makes it hard to speak, hard to breathe. She doesn’t try to put it into words. Instead, she just leans in, kissing Paige again—slow this time, and soft. Not asking for anything. Just there.

And then Paige reaches down and pulls Jo’s half-zip off for her, exposing the thin black sports bra underneath. Their chests press together and Jo thinks she might actually combust from how warm and real and close this all is again. She’s missed this. Missed her. Missed being them, even if it hasn't been that long.

Jo's mouth moves instinctively—along Paige's jaw, her pulse point, the delicate slope of her neck. She kisses over the places where Paige's skin is warmest, where her breath catches, where Jo can feel her heartbeat pulsing just beneath the surface. Each kiss says something: I'm sorry. I love you. You're real. I'm here.

She trails them down slowly to Paige's collarbone and then further, her lips brushing along Paige's breasts, lips wrapping around one of her nipples. She feels Paige's hips twitch slightly beneath her and hears the quietest noise escape her throat—something soft, something vulnerable—and Jo pauses, letting her forehead rest against Paige's sternum for just a second.

Jo's hand slides downward, gently, and she presses her lips to Paige's ribs, just above the waistband of her sweats. Paige's breath hitches again, and Jo glances up to check with her eyes, but Paige doesn't say anything—just nods quickly. Jo hooks her fingers into Paige's sweatpants and boxers at once, sliding them down slowly, slowly, kissing her knee when it bends to help, kissing her thigh as the pale skin of it is revealed.

Jo settles between the blonde's legs, watching as Paige exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut, hand instinctively finding Jo's hair, threading through it. Jo dips her head, kissing gently first. Soft, warm presses of her mouth to Paige's clit. She takes her time, letting herself settle into a rhythm.

And the way Paige reacts—the way she opens under her, hips twitching slightly, breath catching—makes Jo feel emotional all over again. The trust, the closeness. The way Paige is whispering her name in that shaky voice she has during this kind of thing, gasping out tings like, "baby... fuck, Jo..." like this is love and this is home and this is everything they nearly lost.

Jo's more focused than she's ever been. Careful, present. She doesn't rush like she used to a couple months ago, when she first started. She remembers being clumsy, nervous. So unsure of herself, Paige guiding her through all of it. But now, it's different. Now, she knows Paige. She knows what makes her tense and what makes her fall apart. She knows how much pressure to give, how long to hold, when to pull back.

"Baby," Paige whimpers as Jo's lips wrap around her clit, sucking. "So good. Fuck—I love you. Love you so much, Jo,"

Jo closes her eyes at that, humming softly in response, tongue swirling and flicking quicker, Paige's hand tightening in her hair. Jo keeps going, steady, until Paige's legs are trembling beneath her palms and her voice is a breathless, repeating litany of Jo's name and please and don't stop.

It doesn't take long.

Paige comes with a, "Joey, baby, I'm gonna—" and then a broken, choked moan. Jo works her through it slowly, tongue easing its pace.

She doesn't even get a second to say anything, though, before Paige pulls her in by the back of her head, kissing her like she means it. Like she’s trying to tell Jo something with her mouth that she doesn’t know how to say otherwise. Jo melts into it immediately, lets herself be kissed, lets herself get swallowed up in the heat of it. Paige tastes like sweat and sweetness and something Jo can’t name but wants to drown in.

Then, her bra is being tugged over her head, and Jo lets it happen. She lifts her arms and watches it join the growing pile of clothes. She sucks in a sharp breath when Paige shifts on top of her, and then she's the one underneath now, and it's Paige leaning over her, staring down, blue eyes practically twinkling.

Jo's stomach flips.

Paige dips her head and starts kissing across her chest, slow and unhurried. She takes her time. Her mouth is warm, wet, sucking softly at one nipple and then licking over the other. Jo makes a sound in the back of her throat that surprises her. Her hand slides into Paige's hair without thinking, fingers tangling in those messy blonde strands. Her eyes flutter closed as she arches into the touch.

"Paige," Jo whispers, barely audible, more breath than voice.

Everywhere the older girl's mouth touches sends a little shockwave straight to Jo's core. It’s not even just the physical part—though that alone would be enough—it’s the care. The attention. The way Paige isn’t rushing anything. Like she’s memorizing her, just like she's done a million times over.

Soft at first, Paige's fingertips glide across Jo's stomach, featherlight. Jo's muscles jump under the contact. She swallows thickly, heartbeat picking up. The anticipation coils tight inside her.

Paige's hand slips under her waistband, slow and careful. She moves like she's checking for permission even though Jo hasn't said—and won't be saying—no. Her breath catches as Paige's fingers slide beneath her shorts and underwear, finding slick skin and sensitive heat.

Jo opens her eyes again, finds Paige looking right at her.

She nods.

It’s small, barely perceptible. But Paige sees it.

And she smiles—this quiet, understanding thing—before leaning down to kiss her again. Not hurried. Just real. Just theirs.

Jo feels Paige’s fingers dip lower, between her legs now. She gasps, one hand tightening in Paige’s hair, the other curling against the sheets beneath them. She’s already wet—has been since she made Paige fall apart a few minutes ago—and the first touch is almost too much. She’s hypersensitive. Every nerve in her body feels like it’s tuned to Paige.

"You don't—" Jo starts before cutting herself off with a gasp. "You don't have to be so gentle—"

"I want to be," Paige murmurs, her voice low and raspy right in Jo's ear. Her fingers move slow and steady over Jo's clit, just the lightest circles. Jo can't breathe right, can hardly think straight.

The brunette's lips part like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Just a sharp inhale and a soft whimper. Her hips tilt without permission, chasing Paige's hand, chasing more. Always more. But Paige stays patient, almost maddeningly gentle, like she’s not in a rush to get Jo anywhere fast. Like she wants Jo to feel every second of it. And she does. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

Her breathing’s ragged now, and she doesn’t even realize she’s right up in Paige’s ear until she hears herself—these little shaky exhales that are barely words. Her fingers are still twisted in Paige’s hair, holding on like it’ll keep her grounded, but it’s not working. Nothing’s working. She’s already coming undone.

“Mm, Joey,” Paige murmurs, soft and affectionate. Jo shudders under her.

The nickname lands different when Paige says it like that, her voice low and rough, mouth brushing Jo’s neck like a whisper. There’s something about it—something real, something tender—that makes Jo’s stomach flip and her chest ache at the same time. Paige isn’t even looking at her right now, but Jo feels completely seen. Like she’s being held open, emotionally and physically, and Paige isn’t flinching.

And then Paige’s fingers slip inside her—slowly, carefully—and Jo’s whole body jerks.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, voice cracking with it.

Her legs twitch. Her back arches slightly. Her grip on Paige’s hair tightens just enough to make Paige hum into her neck again, the vibration going straight through her.

It’s not even the stretch—it’s the feeling. Of being filled. Of Paige inside her. Of how fucking gentle she’s being, even though Jo’s already a mess.

Paige kisses the side of her neck, right below her jaw. “You okay?” she murmurs, fingers still, waiting.

Jo nods fast. Too fast. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah."

She doesn’t even recognize her own voice. It sounds wrecked. Desperate. Real.

Paige pulls back just enough to look at her, just for a second, and the way she’s looking—eyes half-lidded, hair a little wild, face flushed—it makes Jo’s stomach clench. Paige looks at her like she’s the only girl in the world.

Jo swallows hard. Tries to hold her gaze, but it’s too much. She looks away, cheeks burning, even as her hips roll up to meet Paige’s hand again.

Paige moves her fingers slow, deep, and steady. She knows exactly what Jo needs—enough pressure, enough rhythm, but still that soft touch that makes Jo feel like she’s being cherished, not just fucked. It's just what she wants.

Paige continues pumping her fingers as she shifts downward slightly, her hair dragging across Jo's chest. Paige is moving lower, kissing her way down, mouth trailing heat and intention. And for a split second, Jo thinks maybe she should let her. Maybe she should just stay quiet, let it happen, let Paige do whatever she wants.

But then that flicker of something—hesitation? vulnerability?—cracks through the haze, and Jo tightens. Not because she doesn’t want it. God, she wants Paige all the time, wants her in every version of every possible way. But right now… right now it's not what she needs. She doesn't need more sensation. Doesn't need more heat. She just needs Paige.

She reaches out without even thinking, slipping her arm around the back of Paige’s neck, fingers brushing lightly at her nape. Paige stills immediately, head tilting up.

“Wait,” Jo whispers, voice still wrecked, hoarse around the edges. She swallows and clears her throat, eyes searching Paige’s. “Can you just… stay up? Wanna be close to you.”

It comes out a little shakier than she means it to. A little too soft, like the words were waiting somewhere in the center of her chest and just fell out. She hopes it doesn’t sound weird. Doesn’t sound like rejection. She doesn’t want to push Paige away, not again, she wants the opposite really—she wants her here.

Paige pauses, hovering above her, the dim light catching the edge of her profile. Her face softens instantly. Something shifts in her expression, something gentle and open, and Jo swears she could cry from how easy Paige makes it feel to be honest.

“Yeah, baby,” Paige murmurs, and she leans back in, pressing a kiss to Jo’s mouth like she never left. No hesitation or confusion, just genuine understanding.

Jo’s fingers tighten against the back of Paige’s neck, like she’s scared she might slip away if she doesn’t hold her close enough. But Paige stays right there, kissing her slowly, her weight settling over her again. And even though her hand doesn’t stop—doesn’t stop moving between Jo’s legs, fingers still deep and steady—somehow it feels less about sex now. More about them. About the feeling of being known. Which is all Jo ever feels with Paige.

Jo isn’t sure how long Paige keeps touching her—how long her fingers move slow and deep inside her, how long she whispers into her mouth and kisses her through every breathless high and trembling exhale—but time has stopped mattering. The only thing Jo can register anymore is this. Paige’s weight on top of her. Her body surrounding hers like a blanket. Her hand between Jo’s thighs, slow and steady and so fucking tender it makes Jo want to cry.

It’s not just the pace, either. It’s the care. Paige listens—every time Jo’s hips shift, every gasp she lets slip out into the warm space between them, every twitch of her legs—Paige listens. Adjusts. Presses deeper. Circles tighter. She speeds up just slightly when Jo starts breathing faster, moaning against her mouth. She goes back to slow when Jo arches like she’s too close, like she needs to calm down before she loses it completely. It’s all so—attuned. Like Paige is playing her. Like Paige knows her body better than Jo ever has.

Jo can feel it building, low and hot and dizzying. The kind of orgasm that creeps up on her until it’s too late. And her body is already starting to fall apart, little tremors moving through her legs, her stomach, her chest. She’s soaking. She knows it. She can feel it with every drag of Paige’s fingers, slick and shame-free.

"You're doin' so good, baby," Paige whispers, her lips brushing the skin of Jo's ear between words.

Jo whimpers, her head falling back, neck arched, mouth open and useless. "P..."

"Mm, I know. I know, Joey." Paige kisses the edge of her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "Just breathe. I got you."

And then Paige curls her fingers just right and presses her thumb with a little more pressure on her clit and Jo breaks.

The orgasm hits hard—fast and unforgiving—and Jo cries out, a sharp, breathless sound that feels like it comes from somewhere buried under her ribs. Her thighs lock up around Paige’s hand, legs trembling, chest heaving. She clutches at Paige’s back with both arms, desperate and wordless, just trying to anchor herself.

“I got you,” Paige murmurs, her voice calm and close and steady. She slows down again, working Jo through it, kissing her softly, over and over. “I got you, I got you."

And Jo just nods. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth against Paige’s neck. She holds on until her muscles finally give out, her body limp and shaking in the aftermath.

They stay like that for a while—no rush to separate, no need to fill the silence. Paige eventually slips her hand out, wiping it gently on the blanket, and Jo doesn’t flinch when she touches her stomach. She doesn’t even look away. Just breathes, lets her heart slow down, lets her chest rise and fall against Paige’s, feeling her own body come back to itself.

Later—she doesn’t know how much later—they’re lying on their sides, tangled up in sheets that don’t quite cover everything, skin warm and still a little sticky from sweat and each other. The lights are low. The room is quiet in that safe way, where nothing has to be said unless they want to say it. And Jo doesn’t want to talk. Not yet. She’s never felt like this before. Not just sated, but… settled. Like everything that used to rattle around inside her has finally found a place to rest.

Paige’s fingers are tracing gentle lines along her back. Slow, meandering. Like she’s drawing her own version of a map, just for Jo. And Jo lets her. She keeps her eyes closed, her forehead pressed to Paige’s collarbone, one leg hooked lazily over her thigh.

She doesn’t know how to explain what this feels like. Just that it’s not scary. Not anymore.

“Still with me?” Paige mumbles after a while, voice rough with sleep.

Jo hums. “Mmhm.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jo whispers. Then, after a second: “You?”

Paige shifts just enough to kiss the top of her head. “Yeah.”

Jo opens her eyes slowly, blinking at the soft shadows on the ceiling. Then she tilts her face up, finds Paige already looking at her. Their eyes meet in that quiet way—no dramatics, no swelling music, just two people staring at each other like maybe they’ve figured it out. Maybe this is the part where things stop running from them.

Jo brushes her thumb across Paige’s ribs, right over the place her breath moves. "I love you."

Paige grins down at her, as real as anything Jo has ever seen. "I know."

[yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere]

yes I was in middle school or maybe even elementary school(?) and one of the books to read for school was The Greek Mythology the ONE the long the most not-for-kids this young I believe. All the Greek myths were there. I was OBSESSED. so obsessed that I reread it plenty of times (still have the book in my library at 25!) and then when I was 11yo I won a contest between three entire schools for a kid who would write the most interesting Greek Mythology inspired story. I won 1st place. And only THEN I discovered Percy Jackson books I believe in middle school when I was around 12 or 13.

Nothing beats watching disney Hercules as a kid and then realizing how awful Zeus was in reality or how not disney-ish the real mythology was and is (Huge reason why I appreciated PJ Series so much) tho.

also fun fact looking back as a bisexual person who figured my queerness in my 20s... I was googling LGBTQ+ Greek gods before I even FULLY knew what being gay meant. And before I met the icon Nico Di Angelo. So...

Greek Mythology slaps so hard babe.. at least for my neurospicy brain ALWAYS HAS.

And I'm AWARE that most queer and neurodivergent kids got into Greek Mythology so deeply because of PJO or other books/movies. I simply watched Hercules as a kid and then I decided I wanted to go to THE SOURCE. the one for the adults only. And the adults were like 'nah, these aren't so fun' and I was like 'i wanna read them all'. And the rest is historyyy

(for anyone concerned about my Young age while reading it all, I was reading since being like 5yo, obsessively. Reading everything. I was going into my mom's books library and taking full adults books, same with my local library when I was so small I had issues with going up the stairs (memories of that are hilarious) or reaching up shelves that were half of the entire length of the whole wall.(Not even the top shelf). I have never been denied access to anything really. Free curious babyy yay! I also never read anything that I didn't like or what I was bored with. For ex, I was always skipping adults having sex because that didn't interest me until my late teens when I was writing my own stories & needed to read others' writings. I had certain teacher in elementary school actually! who went to my mom and told her that it's inappropriate for me to read adult books and I should stick with children ones. Which sometimes I was still reading at that age(but only if those were chosen family + adventure + brilliant interesting fantasy plot) I wasn't reading books for children about idk a cat that got lost and then came back the same day. I was done with those by the age of 4. No thank you. but I'm so glad my mom never did hide any books from me(I would probably fight to read those asap as a curious kid) because the journey I had with reading taught me critical thinking and more about the world than the majority of kids around me knew. Sure I was an outcast because of that and sure children didn't really know what to make of me but I was so happy with SO MANY fictional worlds.)

people who learned about greek mythology due reasons that DONT involve having read percy jackson at 12 freak me out, like what the FUCK was going on in your life that you found out that zeus turned into a pigeon to woo his wife like HOW

[emeraldserenade]

Protective!bob x thunderbolt! reader where they have finally started to let bob go on mission with the rest of the team. But what happens when you get attacked one day.

-🐞

Part of The Job ~ Robert "Bob" Reynolds

synopsis: You get hurt on a mission and Bob's not happy about it

tw: fem!thunderbolts!reader, reader get's hurt, Void makes small appearance, reader's dad died when she was young and she blames herself, Bob gets mad at himself for not protecting reader, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Hi, 🐞!! I'm always so worried to write about Void and Sentry because I know they are Bob but it's just not something I'm used to. It's different in the shame rooms because we see Void as a seperate entity so I wrote it like that, but in normal day to day actions, they are the same person. I'm just so used to the whole Bruce/Hulk thing I guess.

➽──────────────❥

Bob was proud, but not as proud as you, he could control The Sentry without falling into his low as the Void. Small missions, ones where if he did fall into a low, it wouldn't be as wide spread as the New York incident. Small missions that you were there for, you had to go if Bob was going.

It worked well, you'd be able to help reassure Bob that whatever he was being told was wrong. That he wasn't useless or not enough for the team. But then you got hurt, you sent Bob farther away from you than normal. You wanted to be able to say it wasn't too bad, that you were fine. But your vision was blurry, you could feel the blood pooling around you, and the tear in your skin.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea in retrospect to send you, the one person Bob loved the most, into missions where you could get fatally hurt with Bob right there. You didn't have time to dwell on it, not when you saw Bob let go and completely embrace his powers as The Sentry. You knew that with his intense highs came his intense lows, and you knew you were in no place to help him with his low.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Your head was fuzzy and you felt like you had been hit by a train. The blinding lights of the room were familiar, too familiar. You pushed yourself off the floor and automatically went to hold a hand against your side, but the wound wasn't there. "Bob?" You called into the room, you could still feel your body slipping away.

"Bob's not here," you turned and saw Void.

"You are Bob, maybe not in here, but you are out there," you countered. "Let him go, please," you softened the edge of your voice. You ignored the desperate wails of your mother behind you, the ones she let out when she realized your dad was not getting better.

"Let him go? Why?"

"Because he's not alone like you say he is. Because I love him and he loves me and you're keeping us trapped here when my mortal body is out there bleeding to death," you explained, ignoring as the room looped again. The way your mother wailed before blaming you, the way younger you sobbed and tried to apologize. You noticed how he was unmoving, the way his white eyes were trained on the scene behind you. "If you let me die, he will never stop repressing everything. You won't get what you want, maybe in the beginning, maybe when in those first few months. But he'll hate you, repress you until you have nothing let," you stepped forward but stumbled until you were back on the floor. Bleeding out and hurt with Bob just outside of your reach.

"I got you," Bob whispered, shaken but more focused on helping you. His arms slipped under you and lifted you up effortlessly, you groaned as your side bloomed in pain. There were still enemy operatives around but Bob kept you cradled to his chest as he waved them away. Their bodies being thrown to the walls before one of the others got to them before they could get back up.

"Bob, are you ok?" Your eyes were trained on his face, his jaw was set but his eyes shined with worry and unshed tears.

"You're bleeding out and you're asking if I'm ok?" Bob asked incredulously.

"Yeah I am because I love you and worry about you," you told him, trying to suppress the wince of pain you had.

"I'll be better when you're not hurt," he said, the tears still brimming his eyes.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Bob refused to leave your side the entire time, even when you told him he didn't have to be there when they were giving you your stitches. They offered you a wheelchair but Bob scooped you up into his arms and carried you to the elevator. Bob didn't put you down until you were safely in your room, even then, he only put you down on your bed.

"Bob?" You called his name softly as he turned to leave. "Will you stay?" You asked when he stopped walking.

"I'll be back," he told you. "I'm just going to get your meds from the medical level," he added on before leaving.

You were left thinking everything over, you could tell he didn't want your relationship to end by the way he hovered, but he was being distant. You would blame it on the pain in your side, but you started crying. Not sobbing, just the kind that fall without permission or knowledge. Bob walked in to the sight, you laid out on your bed with your blanket wrapped around you and silent tears running down your face. "Are you mad at me?" You managed to ask him.

"What? No," Bob reassured you.

"Then why are you acting so distant?"

"I'm mad at myself, I couldn't protect you like I promised I would," Bob admitted lowly, setting your meds down on your bedside table. "I didn't mean to make you upset, I'm just upset at myself."

"It's not your fault though, you weren't the one who sliced me open," you told him, running your fingers through his hair.

"I know, but I told you that I would protect you in the field. If I had been right there, I could have stepped between you two. Then you wouldn't be hurt," Bob told you.

"I'm the one who sent you to the other side of the room," you countered. "Don't blame yourself, I know you would have done everything you could have if you were right there," you reassured him. "And you don't need to be mad at yourself, accidents happen. I promise to be more mindful and not send you away from me next time, ok?"

"Yeah, ok," Bob nodded.

"Will you lay down with me? We can watch movies together," you offered, shuffling on your bed to lay out on your back.

"Only if you let me hold you hand the entire time," Bob accepted the offer, knowing you would let him hold you however he wanted, as long as it wasn't hurting your stitches.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[senhoraisadora]

✩ diary of an invisible girl

summary: a student at hogwarts lives a quiet life… until james accidentally borrows her diary. he starts to fall for the girl behind the words — without knowing who she is.

oneshot.

james was, once again, out of his dormitory after curfew. at least, beneath the thin fabric of the invisibility cloak, he didn’t have to worry about filch catching him and adding even more weeks of detention — which had already been piling up since his first year at hogwarts.

being alone was dull. that was why he didn’t like the early hours of the morning, and yet, he still found himself wandering the corridors at that time. maybe he’d grown strangely comfortable with the feeling of loneliness, even while constantly surrounded by people. he was so used to being the centre of attention, so used to the noise, that the silence of being alone sometimes hurt.

james sat down on a bench in the courtyard, glancing around.

as the feeling of solitude deepened with each passing minute, he sighed heavily and stood to return to his dormitory. the breeze was sharp against his face, sending a chill down his spine. then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a notebook — or rather, a pink diary — lying beside where he had been sitting.

james tried to ignore it, but felt his curiosity twisting inside him. he gave in, picking up the diary reluctantly. judging by the cover, he expected it to be full of silly things from the life of some third-year girl — but instead, he found words he identified with, deeply.

feelings he’d never had the courage to share — but the diary’s author had put them into words. he didn’t notice when he sat back down on the bench and lost himself in the writing.

he needed to know who the owner of the notebook was. who was the person who shared the same thoughts he had? james was hesitant to finish reading the whole diary in a single night, so he took it back to his dorm and tossed it into his trunk. then he collapsed onto his bed. reluctantly, he eventually fell asleep.

the following weeks were a torment. the only thing he was sure of was that it belonged to a girl — because of the handwriting.

so, every time a girl passed him in the corridors, he turned his head so fast his glasses slid down to the tip of his nose, trying to decide if she looked like the sort of girl who would keep such a vulnerable diary. sirius mocked him relentlessly for it. and he certainly wasn’t about to go around asking who owned a pink diary with ribbons on it.

until, one night, he couldn’t sleep from thinking about the owner of that bloody diary. in the middle of the night, he got up, angry, and went to his trunk where he kept the diary after reading it. he grabbed his invisibility cloak, promising himself he’d return it to the bench and pass the “curse” along.

but when his hand touched the doorknob, all his certainty and frustration vanished. that was when james finally realised. he didn’t want to know who the diary belonged to — well, he did — but more than that, he felt a wave of hesitation and fear wrap around him. the diary was his connection to the author. the only thing linking their similarities.

when james realised he’d fallen for words — or rather, for the girl behind them — he felt like an idiot.

he threw the diary back into his trunk, this time piling all his junk on top of it, as if that would stop him from picking it up again. he tried to distract himself the entire week, training for quidditch like a maniac, but even during matches, his mind would wander, wondering if maybe the author was in the stands, watching him.

he was lost. trapped in a constant fog, he searched for her in every face, in every hallway—but everything remained blurry.

[natsswife]

dating nat hcs!! (pre crash tl)

cw: brief cigs n drugs mention, fluffy

notes: kinda self indulgent in the cigs n drugs part cuz i dont do any of those and i know nat wont do it around you<33 also i wanna write something inspired in california from chappell but idk what plot or what to write ksolcisafujkfjkdjfjm HELP

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆˚

༘⋆ i def see nat as the one who fell first and harder, always being the tough one, but under all that she had a soft spot for you

༘⋆ type of girlfriend who LOVES being taken care of, inside door, in the privacy of your rooms there's nothing she loves more than you playing with her hair<33

༘⋆ she is def touch starved, not having a good relation with her mom, everything that happened with that dickhead of a dad made her build a cold shell to avoid getting hurt all over again, but everything changed when you came to her life, first as a friend and now as her secret lover<3

༘⋆ thats why she loves when came with whatever that involves you taking care of her, wanna paint her nails and do a whole manicure un her? hell yeah, wanna try your hair stylist skills on her which means she will get you playing and messing with her hairs for a good hour? she’s all in, you read in one of your moms magazines a little tutorial on how to make back massages like a professional? she will gladly be ur guinea pig, especially because this kind of massages always ends up in a hot make out session<3

༘⋆ loves complimenting you after a match, doesnt matter if u didnt try hard enough just know nat will be there telling you how good you did in this one, she never got someone being all proud for her and knows how it feels, so if theres an opportunity she will let her inner cheerleader out just for you

༘⋆ fast makeout sessions in the locker room after a match, cuz the adrenaline and her being all sweaty, with a messy ponytail, manspreading in the bleachers while drinking water does wonders inside you!!

༘⋆ loves taking you out either for eat or to some parties, will save enough money for it because you’re not paying anything on her watch!! ofc if she sees that u start to get annoyed because you want to invite her she wont stop you! anything but see you angry because that would ruin her night

༘⋆ if you’re not into cigs (and drugs) Nat would do her best to not do it in front of you, she can't promise that she will stop it for good because at the end they’re are a little escape of her reality at home, but if she knows it makes you uncomfy she’ll try her best<3

༘⋆ loves when your invite her over to sleep, you know about her situation and the less she spends at home the better, so sleepovers that turns into horror movies night and being awake till 4 a.m arent uncommon, because for nat you are her favorite person, and a night with you with means a lot of heal for her heart

༘⋆ in your anniversaries she’ll gift you anything you want, no matter how dumb ur request is, your wish is her command. got problems with some maths exercises and the due date is near? no problem! nat is there to ask the smart person of the class (more like force them) to  do it for u, she will pay for it (gives them a price n they have to run with it cuz either way there will be problems)

༘⋆ and last but not least, will always reassure you that she's there for you, no matter how rough things get Nat is there to help you with anything, and won't let you make stupid decisions, because if there’s something that hurts her more than anything is seeing you feeling trapped and would do anything to brush that feeling away, because only Nat knows how many times you’ve been there for her, when her mom, when her dad, when life gave her the worst time and you’ve been there to wipe her tears, and the least she can do is do the same for you<3

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Do not translate w/o permission, copy or use for ai training, train your useless brain instead<3

[nights-at-crystarium]

Okay this's a long post, but I'm BEGGING you to slow down and read the above stuff. The general sentiment's bleak and depressing, though, whether you're a creator or a reader, we're all stuck in this current reality.

In our xiv corner, I noticed that some people actually begin to look up to my work as an inspiration and a success story. While this "success" keeps being shaky and uncertain, I have to keep promoting my work like cursed in order to stay in the same place, I AM able to work on Fragments full time and have a home and eat, so I guess that qualifies as success these days. I hope this doesn't come across as bragging, in face of horrors I simply want to provide a positive example, to acknowledge how lucky and privileged I am that, despite everything, there are still enough people that love and support Fragments.

I'm in my 30s, but I've never had any real comic aspirations, no ocs that I dreamt of since I was a child. So, while I emotionally resonate with the jaded creators in this post, my story's a bit different. I'm forever a fanartist, a fandom dweller that tried making something out of pure love, and it happened to be in a fandom large and active enough to pick up.

It began in 2022, in the hellish post-apocalyptic socmed landscape that I've been able to navigate only because I have a decently analytical, "seller" mindset, and a lot of spite for the evil that took away MY internet. They shit all over my home, now I'm fighting tooth and nail to keep the tiny island that keeps shrinking every year (the censorship, the algorithms, the conservative and purist idiots). Audience becomes more and more shallow, hard to please (the oversaturation, everyone's an artist now), hard to grab (everything has to be FLASHY!!!!! Bite-sized, instant gratification), trained by twitter and tiktok to consume without giving anything back.

Making a comic (or fics, or regular art, anything) isn't hard. It's nice and fun. It's more accessible than ever now! But getting it out there? Will you have enough mental fortitude to keep pushing your work, day after day, for months, for years? If you stop showing up on people's feeds, you're forgotten. But what if there isn't enough new material to show? Not everyone can churn out a new art every day. Recycling old stuff? A part of you dies whenever you do that. Creators are also scared to interact and support each other due to the cancel culture, so everyone's on their own now. At least I am. I write, I draw, I publish, I promote. To say it's exhausting is to say nothing.

You have to conform. To make attention-grabbing visuals, to sterilize what words you type (unless you're on tumblr, bless) so that your post isn't dumped to trash by algorithm for having "support" or "dead" or "fuck" in it. Even if you jumped through all of those hoops, there's still a risk that people don't care for some reason. Try again.

One of the above posters expressed that to make comics is to be punk again, and boy does it resonate with me. I have so much anger and frustration and spite in me, I'll fight and retaliate until it literally kills me. My way of fighting is holding onto the one good thing that I have in my life, working on Fragments and then being a freak about it with my readers. Fragments is a mature work, it has the ~problematic~ shit that'll make the tiktok-brainrotted people clutch their pearls. Good. It doesn't even conform to the classic comic/manga layout, it's something else entirely, not even because I'm so desperate to be original, but because I do what works for me, what's easier to draw, what brings me joy. The entire comic's punk as hell in every way imaginable. And yet, it managed to find enough other punks that love it just the way it is. It's been 3 years, and I'm still blown away.

I'm a confident person, I know what I'm doing, I LOVE what I'm doing, I HAVE FUN (until I have to promote the goddamn thing again). My work's unusual and it'll probably never stop being niche. However, it's got just enough vibe to attract my tribe, for which I'm grateful. Just wanted to say don't give up, random person thinking of making a comic, be yourself, do whatever the fuck you want, prepare to endure a lot and then some more, but it might just work out for you even in 2025.

P.S. One last thing!! Never give in to the perfectionism. Done is better than perfect. Draw and move on, even if you feel dissatisfied with it. Chances are, you're your harshest critic, and no one else will notice the thing that drives you crazy. Don't get caught up in the loop of doom where you wanna redraw/rewrite what you've already published. MOVE THE FUCK ON. KEEP WALKING FORWARD.

In your view/experience. is the rate of "incompleteness" among webcomics more or less the nature of online personal projects as a whole? Or is there something specific to webcomics like laboriousness, audience expectations, relative medium infancy or whatnot?

well for one thing webcomics has changed significantly in the last ten years. it used to have a much lower barrier for entry, just get a smackjeeves account or set up a website with a wordpress plugin. starting a webcomic when i started my webcomic vs starting a webcomic now are totally different experiences.

so i can only speak to people who started their webcomics roughly ten years ago. and roughly ten years ago a lot of us were a whole lot younger with a lot more time and energy to spend on a comic for free. this part is probably still somewhat true for new artists.

but then you get older. your ideas change. your skill develops and the old stuff isn't as good. or you don't have as much time, you got a day job. unless you're one of like five people on earth your webcomic is not paying your rent. you need to make money. your shoulder hurts. you're 30 now. you're struggling to make updates on time between whatever else makes you happy and what else you need to do to live. you wrote this story when you were 21, you don't relate to it anymore, you have different ideas, you've grown up, your audience has noticeably dropped off from the peak, social media managing is hard, you have to go to work, you're so tired, all the time.

it's a lot of things.

[sheepispink]

The Presence of Another

supersoldier!reader x ltghost (+ tf141)

part 9 of Weaponised Series Masterlist

a/n: all relationships are platonic, prolly some ooc who knows

part one previous next

-----------

You sleep surprisingly fine without the stuffed animals, and you wake up around twenty minutes after Ghost does. It’s not much of an issue, since you both get to the mess hall in time to sit opposite the two sergeants, who seem awfully indifferent to the fact you had passed out yesterday. Or perhaps they really didn't know, because they just spent the whole time debriefing you about the mission they went on whilst Ghost would occasionally signal them to cut out parts he didn't want you knowing— more specifically the men who had died in your place.

Thankfully, duties had called them away before they could talk your ear off and now the two of you were headed down to the smaller gym which is always emptier and so far quieter.

 “So, how long do you usually run?”

“Five miles? 20 laps usually.” 

His brows raise for a second before he shrugs it off, writing something down on the clipboard he has. It’s somewhat amusing to you, even for a split second, seeing Ghost holding up a clipboard like that. Maybe you’ve been hanging around the sergeants far too much, but he really does not look like the type of guy to even touch one of them. “Oi, pay attention.” His pen taps the corner of the board, rolling his eyes when he sees that dazed look, and you sheepishly shake your head to snap out of it. “At what point does it start getting painful?”

“Well, my vision gets a little hazy around the fourth, but it’s only painful half a mile after.”

Hearing you talk about your struggles so casually will never be normal to him, but he knows that if he tries to address it now, it’d only cause more problems— right now, he’s on thin ice. 

“Right. We’ll start with just four miles every day now—”

“But I always do five. I’ve done five for months now.” For once, you interrupt, features twisting as he reduces your laps just because you felt a bit off. For you, it didn't matter all that much— the pain was part of this life— so you didn't understand the need for it.

“Well, clearly you’re not in the same state as you were last month when you could do it, hm? Remember those pills you didn't take? The seizure?” His reminder is slightly harsh, but it’s true— you weren't the same person anymore. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, he definitely wasn't the same person he was before he met you, nor was he the same person when he started the force. Though, he can understand why it might feel that way for you. The only way you’re supposed to move is forward, never backwards. Thankfully, you seem to have got the memo when you don't argue any further. 

“Good. How about your arm and leg workout then?”

He’d be a liar if he didn't find it somewhat amusing when you’d get a little riled up at each of his decisions. You can't stand changing from routine, that’s clear, but even the slightest change for your own health has your brows furrowing and cheeks puffing. Though, you do end up agreeing to all his plans by the end of it, especially when he promises to only trial it for two weeks. Now you’ll take a break after three miles, run the next mile and, depending on if you get dizzy or not, you’ll run the next half mile too. As for the workouts, he has you on very basic warmups to begin with, stretches are a must since you tend to skip them in your haste; you even promised that you’ll drink at least half a litre between each workout now. 

Part of the reason you agreed was only because he had promised he’d find something to occupy you in exchange for everything he cut out. He didn't want to give you something too slow, since he knows that it’d just allow your mind to easily consume and eat at you again, so he has to think smarter— he has to think in your shoes… This might take a while.

————

You’ve noticed a few changes in your schedule ever since you requested to be in Ghost’s room. 

First of all, the sergeants are pretty adamant in feigning anger at you for not picking either of them, giving you a playful nudge whenever you complain about Ghost not letting you do things and insisting they would. It had horrified you the first time, after Price’s reaction you had thought they were being serious and almost panicked. Ghost had scolded them after that. Now you roll your eyes as Gaz pretends to be hurt by the ‘blatant favouritism’ as he calls it.

Another thing is that post workouts are a lot different. Your schedule has changed massively since you had been the perfect soldier, starting with meals with the team and their doting. Now, instead of eating whatever scraps there are for dinner and scrubbing yourself raw as fast as you can in the communal shower rooms, you take long warm showers in Ghost’s bathroom. Apparently he’s had a budget allocated for you by the higher ups for some time, and it’s racked up to a big amount after the months it wasn't put to use. Not that you would’ve really asked for anything if you knew, but now you get some nice smelling soaps— never lavender though.

Ghost did keep your ‘bedtime’ roughly the same, after he figured out you even set yourself one.

“You get tired awfully early.” He had stated when you yawned during an evening walk with him. It was the fifth day of this new regime, and you didn't really think it was that big of a deal. “I used to always sleep at eight thirty—that was my usual time.” 

“Eight? Why?”

You blink, not really thinking much into your self-proclaimed bedtime because when things worked, things worked. You didn't need to question further, did you?  

“I.. It started after the second week I came here, I think.” Now that he’s got that train of thought running, you can’t help but question how it even came to that early, or maybe it was only because you really had nothing else to do.  “I wasn’t eating all that much, so I relied on sleep for energy instead. At least, that’s how I made the decision I think. Plus, that’s when I'd get startled by nightmares, so I had to give enough time for me to wake up every night and then fall back asleep whilst still getting a good amount of it.”

He stops walking and cocks his head, gesturing for you to sit and the wood creaks when he finally settles too. Nights are still cold, so you have his flimsy hoodie protecting your arms, and he’s bundled in a warm jacket. The both of you are quiet for a little, your eyes focusing on the forest where you had hidden in only a month ago now. Sometimes you still wait, listening for the small yips, a rustle of the bushes or the slightest flash of orange— any sign of that little fox. 

“You know it’s fine, right?” 

“What?”

“Don’t go believin’ every word you’re told. You don't need to push yourself to run five miles. You’re allowed, and should stop when it hurts.”

Ever since that evening you’ve believed his words, in fact you’ve believed everything he’s said to you. It was more than the Captain had ever said to soothe you; it was even more than what that medic had promised you. It wasn’t pity, nor was it even comfort— it was cold hard truth, a command if anything. Weirdly enough, that made your stomach settle, and you didn't doubt it for a second, choosing to just nod and listen. 

So, you stopped arguing, stopped complaining when he gave you a proper breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You definitely didn't complain when he nudged you to bed at eight thirty because, for every day in this strange new regime, you’ve been working just as hard as before and not once have you ever felt that crushing pain.

———————

It’s been a week and a half, and you stumble in at eight o clock as usual. Sometimes Ghost isn't here, and sometimes he is, it really depends on the day. The others have all their differing schedules, and you’re okay with it really— you kind of like the alone time you’ve got now that they’re not coddling you anymore. Price has also kept a fair distance ever since he got angry with you. He did in fact talk to you mildly about it, but after Ghost told him that he’d handle your overexertion he’d dropped the matter quickly. Now you rarely saw him, apart from the occasional uncomfortable breakfast, but the sergeants made sure that the silence never grew too awkward. 

You change into your pajamas, which happens to just be one of Ghost’s old shirts, and then the one pair of joggers you own. One thing you discovered after staying in his room was that you could get away with practically anything just by the excuse of your wellbeing. Maybe Soap was rubbing off on you just a tad.

Now you wear his shirts to bed, because you still haven’t bought me anymore, you say, and he rolls his eyes, begrudgingly letting you take them. Sometimes when he comes to bed he finds you sprawled out like a starfish, taking up as much space as you can just so he grunts, pushing you to the side easily. When he asks about it in the morning, you just shrug, refusing to believe that you even do any of that. He doesn't pay too much mind to your little antics, quickly reminding you that you’re still on punishment for what you pulled and that he can make you sleep on the floor if he so wishes.

You climb onto the bed with a sigh, feeling strange without the usual weight in your arms, nor the softness of your old duvets. Ghost’s weren't bad, no they were comfortable, but you had got too used to your old ones, and now you were regretting pulling your little escapade in the first case. Well, you suppose that was the point of the punishment, to make you regret your actions.

With a soft huff you push your face into the pillow, forcing your eyes shut so you don't think too hard about how quiet this room sounds without him, or how cold the bed is. There are things to do tomorrow— you need to stop caring.

————

Your fingers curl into fists, the sheets rubbing against your skin as you squirm and push your head further forward, trying to push through the haze that seems to attack you with every blink. 

Nothing happens, no light greeting you even with how far you’ve run, and so for once you stop, swallowing sharply. You thought you could handle this, the visions, they never got this bad, and Ghost never noticed anyway— but this was different. Slowly, you take deep breaths, try to concentrate on the whispers swirling around, the flashes of colour that never quite linger for a second longer.

Your hand snaps to the side, grabbing something— or someone— by the neck. You don't dare look, already recognising the cruel voices of the petty soldiers who tried to kill you. Well, they’d be the ones to die this time

Releasing your grip, the body dissipates between your fingers, mere dust as your chest pumps harder, something pushing you further. The deep breaths don't settle the race this time, only tingling your nerves as something looms, towers over you. Not this time. Never again.

Your arm shoots out, the figure right there for you to grab, but you miss, grabbing at the air. Though the figure still overlooks you, threatening as it leans closer and closer. You steady yourself, desperately trying anything and everything to grasp the heavy pressure weighing down on your chest, the monster tearing into your throat. Every night it worked, so why not this one? Why not this time? 

——

So many unanswered questions contaminate your brain, but the second the light finally fills your eyes all you can think of is “What- what’s going on?”

You’re pressed against the floor, pain rumbling through your middle with the heavy lamp rolling away from you on the hard floor. Two hands lock your wrists still, brown eyes staring back at you in the dark of the room. “A nightmare.” Ghost breathes out and, if not for his pale nose huffing out in relief when he lets go, you would’ve thought this was still the dreamscape.

Slowly you push yourself up onto your elbows and then to finally sit upright, nose twitching at the pain in your abdomen before you just swallow hard and finally look around. Now you notice the lampshade has been knocked far away, a small crack also running up the base of the lamp itself. You must’ve fallen off of the bed in your haze and, similar to other experiences, grabbed onto the lamp which landed directly onto your chest. Well, that explains the pressure you were feeling.

He watches you for a few moments, as your breaths heave, and then you eventually steady yourself, eyes locked on your hands like you’re searching for the usual marks left behind. “This the first one you’ve had?” Recently, anyway. He doesn’t say it, but you know it’s lingering as he stares down at you, your eyes tracking every crease as his lips move, every twitch of his brow and bob of his throat. You shake your head, and he nods, understanding, and his eyes roam over your body yet again, watching the way your fingers curl against the hardwood floor. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

Somehow his voice sounds softer, even if it's at the exact same volume, and you slowly shake your head, his brow furrowing just slightly at your words. You know he wants you to tell him; it’s not like you’ve never talked about them before, in fact you have plenty of times. The scientists never allowed you much privacy.

“Can’t tell you. I don't even know what happened myself.”

Your answer is vague, and honestly a little suspicious. Though, he just locks onto your eyes for a few moments, slowly looking over your features before eventually reaching forward and giving his hand out to help you up. You take it, his large hand tightly pulling you upright before he leans down to pick up the lamp and its shade, placing it back on the counter. “I knew my duvets were pretty bad, but I didn't think you’d rather fall off the bed than be in them.” He mutters, acting like he hadn't just tried to joke with you so casually, before kicking some slippers over to you. “C’mon.”

You follow him down the corridor, down towards your room where he slides his key in and opens it. The room isn't how you remembered leaving it, covers thrown on the floor, drawers, and the closet opened wide and even clothes cluttered on the floor. “Price ordered some soldiers to search your room.” He gruffly states, and you just nod, more taken aback that he had willingly given up that information to you.

“Why?”

He shrugs, pulling your duvet off the bed and tucking it beneath his arm as he reaches for your pillows as well. “Must’ve been searching for something. He didn't find anything, at least not that I know.” You nod slowly, and pick up the two stuffed animals, turning them over in your hands. The soft fur warms your cold hands, making you forget about the sweat trickling down your neck as he heads towards your closet, peeking through the mess made. “Huh, you really don't have any clothes. Well, apart from the uniforms I moved over.”

“Told you.” You murmur, eyes still locked onto the stuffed animals before you finally tuck it beneath your arm, turning over to where he looks at the name engraved into one of your old uniforms. “Maybe he thought I got another gun.” It slips out and, for some stupid reason. you snort at the thought of that gift box on your dresser again, the note inside and the gun laying there so pristine. Some part of you does find it wildly amusing thinking about what Price’s reaction would be, especially after everything you now know. Maybe you could play bingo with whatever fake words he’d spew this time.

“Hmm, you’re not shaken up enough that you can't joke, so do you really need those?” He smirks, gesturing to the plushies in your hands.

“What? You’re the one who forced me to buy them.”

“No, that was Price. I was planning to knock you out every night; pretty good technique I'd say.”

You can’t believe his audacity, to openly say he’d punch you to sleep after he had been the cause of so much that had happened recently. It’s such a wild thing to say that you immediately laugh, a smile breaking out on your face. “Guess you’re speaking from experience then.”

“You’d never know, mask hides it all.” He plucks one of the stuffies out your hands, stealing it from you and squashing it beneath his arm with the duvet. “We better get back before you fall asleep standing up.” He strides out of the room before you can retort, making you jog slightly to keep up with his longer steps– almost like he’s trying to escape your wrath.

“I don't even need sleep– I’ve told you like a million times, and you don't believe me.” He looks straight at you and rolls his eyes before pulling the black balaclava off, closing his room door behind you. “I can withstand many hours awake!” He’s replaced his blankets with yours now, your softer pillows rather than his flattened ones. 

“And you still drool all over the pillows.”

Your face scrunches up, unbelieving as he continues to get even more cocky with his words.  Before you can muster up a response, you’re ushered into bed, beneath the covers with the two stuffed animals tucked right beside you. The mattress dips as he slides in, his face just barely visible in the dim light. 

“If you don't sleep, I will lock you in this room for the whole day. Some poor soldiers will have to guard the windows too.”

You swallow, not wanting to be sitting still any longer than you want to be. The insistence to not sleep was nothing more than empty complaints, just to get on his nerves a tad, but you hadn't realised he’d go that far. That is, to threaten you into sleeping. It’s not exactly like you don't deserve the threat either— it’s for a good cause, that being your health.

The adrenaline of the dream has died down now, finally leaving your heart in its usual steady rhythm and the cold sweat disappearing. However, a little bit still lingers, the reason why you’re still awake now. Even as you hold one of the plushies close to your chest, hidden beneath the duvet, you can't help but be a little worried it’ll return. You’ve seen worse, known worse, but there’s something about him witnessing it first hand that gets you.

“Y’alright?” He asks, reaching over to fluff your pillow a little, but you snap out of and nod quickly, turning over to hide your face away. “Yeah.. Getting comfy, that’s all.”

His eyes still linger on your back that now faces him, your behaviour leaving a worrying feeling settling in his gut no matter how hard he tries to push it down. How had he not noticed the nightmares before? How many had you experienced right beside him? 

“Cold? I can warm it up if you want.” He reaches over your arm to gently pinch at the stuffed animal, before leaving his hand to linger on your upper arm, making you turn back slightly to meet his eyes again. 

“It’s okay, the covers are warm enough.” Your voice lowers to a whisper, the quiet worry in your gut controlling you. 

“Alright. Let me know.” He waits for you to nod before finally turning over, his back now facing you. 

For a while you settle into the haze between awake and asleep, listening for his breaths to slowly even out as a sign of sleep. Though, even with his mask off, it’s impossible to read him. Everything about him is so controlled, disciplined and contained, though just slightly ripping at the seams. You were the same, until you burst that is. March is still cold up north, and the window is a crack open. Goosebumps cover your arms, sending a chill down your back and crawling up to your face. Still, even as you toss and turn, the cold settles on your back like the nightmare did, persisting through all your desperate attempts. Your eyes droop, exhausted, and you know for sure that it’s too late to ask him now for that warmth– even pressing your nose into the plushie does no good for you. 

As you blink again, you watch his shoulder twitch, then again, until he rolls over slightly in his sleep. He settles on his back, chest rising quietly before falling once more. But you’re not thinking about that, more so how warm he is from how his leg had accidentally bumped your knee. You soon fall into a deep sleep with your head on the corner of his pillow, your arm conveniently grazing his and your nose brushing dangerously close to his shoulder. What you didn't know was that your little eagle and wolf would end up discarded to the floor, no longer needed when something else kept you far more grounded.

------------------

buy me a kofi!

previous next Series Masterlist

a/n:

lmk if you guys prefer longer chapters bcus this would've been over 7k words but i didnt want you guys to wait even LONGER. so the next one is prewritte, yes, and i will release it after editing which shouldnt take long. urm do i need to announce anything else... oh yeah i did well on my exams so the break did pay off, now to grind fanfics for the whole of summer :p

Taglist:

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[wolfofcelestia]

"you need encouragement, not a scolding" in response to "I made a mistake" is a line that hit way too close to home

and I think someone on the writing team is definitely drawing from personal experiences growing up in a strict Asian family where feelings take a backseat to results

All the comforting things that the boys say are really all... Not realistic in terms of culture in Asian men so things like this really launches them into fantasy territory, but they really are everything that women want in men. Or at least, I feel like the writing team knows how to touch hearts who have been through the same shit that they have

As stupid as this sounds, he's right though. I could use someone like him. I just wish they'd stop laying on his "evil" gimmick so thick lately because it's strange hearing him call himself that

[shotofstress]

Regardless of whether we find this funny or not, it is time for a history lesson.

Can we expect that a twittering twat, who wanks off writing about elven supremacism, will sit to understand this, Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty, or anything else, for that matter? I don't think so. Less so that he has a sense of humour and is able to be serious and ridiculous at the same time as well as making original character designs and not all looking generic like elves.

People often think that Kojima's character names are obvious, yet they always have a twist. At first glance, or for those who haven't played the game, or who have played it but don't grasp the themes or history of Yankee imperialism, 'Fatman' might seem like a fatphobic name. While one could criticise fatphobia in the Japanese and global gaming industries, in this case, 'Fatman' is not a fatphobic choice of name because he's fat. The same applies to other names in his games where we assume the meaning is literal and not linked to the story or themes. This is a common mistake, but it is still indicative of the fact that, in general, we do not know everything we should about the Empire.

"Fat Man" (also known as Mark III) was the design of the nuclear weapon the United States used for seven of the first eight nuclear weapons ever detonated in history. A Fat Man device was detonated over the Japanese city of Nagasaki on 9 August 1945. It was the second and largest of the only two nuclear weapons ever used in warfare. It was dropped from the Boeing B-29 Superfortress Bockscar piloted by Major Charles Sweeney. Its detonation marked the third nuclear explosion in history.

The US killed at least 80,000 people in Japan with this bomb. This destroyed the territory, as well as wiping out everything in it: people, plants, animals, buildings, archaeological sites, knowledge and memory. The atomic bombs are the ultimate expression of America's hatred towards life, memory and history.

And the MGS saga is about the crimes the US has committed and how its ideology and its very existence are a crime against the world. Fatman was also called Emperor of Explosives, his suit protected him from explosions, and he manufactured an atomic bomb when he was 10 years old.

The drink and the rollerskates simply highlight his personality and gringo culture, as well, if u ask me, how the world sees usa and its imperialists.

Besides, who doesn't want to make fun of the empire? Rollerskates and alcohol for one of the enemies bc he thinks he can do whatever he wants and this things of pleasure are that, things of pleasure bc he also takes great pleasure in killing and making bombs.

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

“Sunflowers.”

Synopsis: You thought she was just a pretty girl who liked flowers. But one visit to the hospital changes everything.

Word Count: 2,616

H2H Jiwoo X Male Reader

a/n: I have no actual storyline for this piece, just thought of “oh what if Y/N just can’t resist letting jiwoo pay the normal price and always gives her discounts?”but no! my brain keeps adding plot twists.

Your dad always said the flower business was a sacred thing.

It’s a language. A love letter in color. Don’t mess it up.

So naturally, you were messing it up.

Not intentionally — you just… weren’t built for it. You didn’t know the difference between tulips and peonies most days, and the only “language” you spoke fluently was sarcasm and mid-tier K-pop fancams.

The shop was warm, bright, and smelled like nostalgia and pollen. Sunlight streamed through the old windows, dust dancing in the beams. Somewhere, your dad’s ancient pricing chart was pinned to a corkboard — hand-laminated and triple underlined.

You were supposed to be memorizing it.

Instead, you were scrolling through edits.

Damn, you muttered, staring at a slow-mo of some idol doing that eyebrow lift thing. When can I get a girlfriend?

The universe, apparently, was listening.

Because that’s when the bell above the door jingled, and your whole world tilted.

She stepped in like a walking sonnet — sunlight caught in the lace of her hat, dress soft and fluttering like petals in spring. She had a basket looped at her forearm, and a smile that felt like it bloomed just for you.

Excuse me, sir?

Her voice was warm honey. Her eyes sparkled.

You forgot how to breathe.

Do you have roses by any chance?

You stared.

Not at the flowers.

Not at the basket.

Straight at her.

And then — THUMP — you fell backward off your chair.

Are you okay, sir? she asked, clearly trying not to laugh.

YEP! you blurted, popping up like an unhinged jack-in-the-box. ALL GOOD. ROSES, RIGHT? YEP. FLOWER STUFF. FOLLOW ME.

You shoved your phone in your pocket like it personally betrayed you, practically tripping over a bucket of baby’s breath on the way to the cooler.

She followed with a curious smile.

So… are you the owner?

Me? No. Well. Sort of. My dad is. I’m the uh—assistant-slash-prisoner. You know. Family business.

She giggled. Giggled.

You could write novels off that sound.

That’s cute.

You were going to lowball the hell out of these roses.

How many are you thinking? you asked, unlocking the cooler. We’ve got single stems, half dozens, full dozens, chaos bundles—

Just one, she said, voice soft. It’s for someone special.

Your stomach did a thing.

One rose it is, you said, grabbing the freshest one you could find. On the house.

Oh, no—how much?

You opened your mouth to say six dollars like the pricing board demanded.

Two-fifty, you said instead.

Your father groaned in the spiritual realm.

Are you sure? she asked, tilting her head.

Yup, you said too fast. Family business discount.

But I’m not family…

Not yet, you mumbled.

She blinked. You blinked. The air froze.

I mean—not like that! Just—like, customer loyalty! I say weird things when I’m around beauty. I mean… people. Around people.

She smiled like she was used to people falling over themselves for her.

And worse — like she enjoyed it.

Well, thank you, flower boy, she said, handing over a crisp bill. I’ll be back.

Cool, you said, even though you meant please come back tomorrow and every day after that until I die.

She left with the bell jingling gently behind her.

You stood there for a full minute.

Then.

…Shit.

You had no idea who she was.

But you were fully prepared to bankrupt the shop trying to impress her.

She came back.

Of course she did.

The next day, and the next, and the day after that — same basket, same soft smile, different dress each time like she was handpicked from a garden catalog. Always buying just one flower.

A daisy.

A tulip.

A gerbera.

And you?

You kept lowballing every single one like your dignity depended on it.

That’ll be… one dollar.

Two-for-one special today. Even though you’re only buying one. Weird, right? Haha. Take it. Please.

Every flower she chose left you wondering: Who is he?

The rose — classic love.

The daisy — innocent affection.

The blue hyacinth — sorrow and forgiveness?! Who hurt her?! Do I have to fight someone?!

You started Googling flower meanings at night like a madman, scrolling through articles titled “What Does It Mean If She Buys ONE Flower A Day??” like they held the answers to life.

She always paid in cash.

Always smiled.

Always thanked you.

He’s lucky, you wanted to say.

But instead:

Here, I wrapped it a little extra today. Hope he likes it.

Who?

You blinked.

She asked it so casually, tucking the bloom into her basket.

You always say ‘he.’

Your heart practically choked itself.

Oh—just—figured. With the one flower thing. Thought maybe you were giving it to… y’know. A boyfriend. Or something.

You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling about as smooth as a cactus.

She tilted her head, curious.

You think I’m buying these for someone else?

You froze.

You’re not…?

She shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not. You never asked.

Your brain flatlined.

She turned toward the door again, humming softly.

See you tomorrow, flower boy.

And just as the bell jingled—

Wait!

She stopped.

You swallowed.

I never asked… what’s your name?

She smiled.

Jiwoo.

It bloomed in your chest like a wild thing.

I’m Y/N.

I know, she said with a grin, walking backward through the door. You keep writing it on my receipts.

She left.

You stared at the empty doorway for a good five minutes, hand still half-raised like you’d forgotten how time worked.

Jiwoo.

Jiwoo.

You said it once.

Twice.

Then sighed, picking up your phone.

No edits today.

You had flowers to learn

You didn’t mean to care this much.

But there you were — behind the shop counter at 9:17 a.m., typing “flower meanings for hopeless romantics” into a search bar like it was going to save you.

Lilacs for first love.

Sunflowers for admiration.

Baby’s breath for innocence.

You even made a chart.

You never made charts.

Not for school. Not for taxes. Not even for your dad’s pricing board (which, by the way, you hadn’t looked at in two weeks because Jiwoo kept getting the “love interest” discount).

You told yourself it wasn’t a crush. You were just… curious.

Curious why she kept choosing one stem at a time.

Curious why she lingered by the counter.

Curious why she laughed at all your dumb comments and tilted her head when she looked at you like she was trying to memorize something.

It’s just routine, you told yourself.

She’s just a customer. A very… pretty one. With nice hands. And a really good smile. And great fashion taste. And—

You were spiraling.

So you started prepping for her visits.

Just a little.

Arranged the front cooler more neatly. Swept the floor before she arrived. Read up on flowers so you could casually say things like, Did you know bluebells mean gratitude? and act like it wasn’t something you’d learned at 1 a.m. while lying awake thinking about her voice.

And every day — right around 10:43 a.m. — she showed up.

Like clockwork.

A new flower.

A new smile.

Sometimes a soft hum.

Sometimes a compliment.

Sometimes she asked how your day was going, and you answered too fast, because her asking made it good.

It became your favorite part of the day.

Until it didn’t happen.

The door didn’t jingle.

No floral dress.

No basket.

No Jiwoo.

You checked the clock.

Then the street.

Then the cooler — like maybe she was hiding behind the lilies, waiting to jump out and say Surprise! Just kidding. I’d never miss a day, flower boy.

But she didn’t.

You waited until lunch.

Then dinner.

Then closing.

You even made an extra stem bouquet — just in case she showed up late.

She didn’t.

The shop felt colder somehow.

Smaller.

The silence pressed in like a heavy coat, and even the scent of the flowers couldn’t shake the ache blooming in your chest.

You weren’t sure what you missed more.

Her voice.

Her smile.

Or the fact that, for the first time in a long time, you’d been looking forward to something without realizing it.

You closed the shop that night slower than usual.

One light at a time.

Lingering.

Hoping.

But the bell never rang.

And for the first time since she walked in…

…you really, really hated flowers.

Seven days.

That’s how long it had been.

Seven mornings of checking the time.

Seven almosts.

Seven times you rearranged the daffodils just in case today was the day.

You hated how much it affected you.

Worse, you hated the dream you had two nights ago — Jiwoo, smiling at some faceless guy who picked her up in a silver car, handing her a bouquet you didn’t wrap. He kissed her cheek and she giggled and said, “I don’t need to go to that flower shop anymore. I’ve got what I need.”

You woke up pissed.

At the guy. At yourself. At your brain for giving you an imagination that could invent heartache.

By day seven, you’d accepted it:

She was gone.

You were just a stop on her map.

A blip.

A dumb flower boy who gave discounts for daydreams.

So when the bell above the shop rang at 10:42 a.m., you didn’t even look up.

Not until you heard her voice.

Hey, flower boy.

You froze.

She stood in the doorway, same basket, new dress. Same spark in her eyes. But this time — her shoulders looked a little tired.

Jiwoo.

It came out too fast. Too relieved. Too much.

She tilted her head.

You look like you saw a ghost.

You disappeared.

She blinked. You blinked. You hadn’t meant to sound so… jealous? desperate? boyfriend-y? You didn’t even know.

I— you rubbed your neck. I was just… wondering. You always come by. And then you didn’t. For like a week. I thought maybe…

You trailed off. Couldn’t finish that thought.

She looked at you for a moment.

And then walked toward the counter, eyes soft.

I didn’t mean to worry you.

You said nothing.

She set the basket down and reached into it, pulling out a small pin — a silver brooch in the shape of a lily.

I work as a nurse. At Seongwon Hospital.

She smiled, a little sheepishly.

I host this little thing every day with patients who’ve received… hard news. Prognostic stuff. Things they’re scared to talk about. So I bring them a flower and we do a small ‘Show & Tell.’ They get to hold something beautiful while the world feels like it’s falling apart.

You stared at her.

That ache in your chest shifted — softened, bloomed into something warmer.

The flower’s not for a boy dummy~, she added. It’s for whoever needs it that day. Just one stem. Just enough to remind them there’s still softness in the world.

You swallowed.

And last week…?

We moved hospitals.

She sighed, resting her arms on the counter.

There’s a flower shop closer to the new location, but—

She glanced at you, smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

I like it here.

Your breath caught.

You came all this way… just for a flower?

Not just the flower.

Silence.

You didn’t know what to say.

So she reached into her basket again, pulled out a small bento box, and handed it to you.

You looked like you haven’t ate breakfast yet.

You took it. Warm. Heavy in your hand.

Like her showing up.

Like your chest, still reeling from that explanation.

You’re really something, Jiwoo.

She grinned.

Took you long enough to figure that

Days pasts, frequent visits happen and so is your heartrate frequency going ballistic.

It started with a joke.

Need help delivering one of those?

you asked, casual but hopeful.

You meant the flower.

She meant everything else when she said:

Actually… yeah. Come with me.

You didn’t expect to walk the pale hallways of Seongwon Hospital and feel the air change when Jiwoo entered a room — how it shifted from clinical to calm, from sterile to safe.

You didn’t expect how quiet everything went when she spoke.

“Good morning, my loves.”

That’s what she called them — the patients.

There were four in the room: two teens, a child, and an older woman seated furthest from the door. IV poles and machines surrounded them, beeping softly. No one smiled at first.

But Jiwoo did.

Not in a performative, cheer-up kind of way — but something gentler. Worn-in. Like she’d practiced this warmth until it felt real again, even when it cracked at the edges.

She pulled one flower from the bouquet you brought: a sunflower, petals wide like open arms.

She knelt next to the child first — a little girl who clutched a lion plush to her chest like it was armor.

This one’s called a sunflower. Do you know why?

She didn’t wait for the answer.

“Because no matter where it grows, it turns its face toward the sun. It looks for light. Even in hard places.”

The girl blinked up at her, wide-eyed. Jiwoo handed her the bloom like it was a wish. The girl held it like it was the first good thing she’d touched in days.

The boy beside her — tall, pale, trying not to look scared — got a gerbera.

“You said red was your favorite, right?”

He nodded, biting his lip.

Then, Jiwoo picked out a lily.

And you watched her walk toward the farthest bed.

The woman sitting there looked older than her years, hair graying, a silk scarf tied around her head.

She didn’t smile.

But her eyes — they flickered when Jiwoo approached.

Jiwoo knelt again, slower this time. Almost reverently.

“Hi, Mom.”

You froze.

You didn’t breathe.

Jiwoo said it like a prayer. Like it ached to say out loud.

The woman tilted her head. Weakly brushed Jiwoo’s hair from her face.

“You’re late,” she rasped.

Jiwoo smiled — not her usual kind. Smaller. Sadder.

“I stopped at the flower shop as usual.”

Her mother chuckled, barely. But her hand trembled as it reached for the lily.

“What does this one mean again?”

“Purity. Renewal. And… a reminder.”

She didn’t finish the sentence. But her mother nodded, as if she heard it anyway.

You had to look away.

The hallway spun for a moment.

Not because it was loud — but because it wasn’t. Because Jiwoo said so much with so little. Because the girl who lit up your flower shop every day was lighting up this place instead — one stem, one patient, one smile at a time.

Because she didn’t just buy flowers to be soft or romantic or whimsical.

She bought them to hold the weight of people’s worst days.

To remind them something still bloomed, even now.

And that woman — that tired, beautiful woman in the bed — that was her reason.

Her beginning and her end.

When Jiwoo returned, her eyes were glassy, but she smiled like she always did. Soft. Brave.

“Sorry you had to see all that.”

You shook your head.

“No. I’m glad I did.”

She looked at you — really looked — and for a moment, she wasn’t the girl who wandered into your life asking for roses.

She was the reason you wanted to keep every flower alive in the shop.

You reached into your coat pocket.

Pulled out the single sunflower you’d wrapped earlier. Just in case.

“This one’s for you,” you said. “So you don’t forget where to look.”

She didn’t answer.

She just took it carefully, like it was something sacred.

And you watched — quietly, achingly — as she held it close

[stlllle]

"Secret Love: Stray Kids x Reader Headcanons "

📌 Disclaimer: This is pure fiction made for fun, with lots of love for STAYs who like imagining secret (and later public) romances with the boys. None of this is real, of course.

---

💌 Author’s note:

Another headcanon because I just felt like writing something about them. I was thinking about doing something else for them (separately) but honestly… I have zero ideas right now 😔

If you like this and want to request something, feel free to! My requests are open 😃

Masterlist – [link]

Bang chan:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Bang Chan has always been known for keeping his personal life under wraps. As Stray Kids’ leader, the weight on his shoulders was double what most people realized. When the two of you first got involved, it happened naturally — and far from the public eye.

In the beginning, there wasn’t even a label. It was an intense friendship, heavy with glances that lingered too long and touches that lasted a few seconds more than they should. Messages came in at midnight, when sleep wouldn’t come and the ache of missing you hit hard. Chan was the type of guy who couldn’t hide his feelings, but he could hide his actions. He smiled on the inside when he saw you but kept a straight face so no one would suspect.

He’d text things like:

“Did you get home safe?”

“I heard a song and it reminded me of you… but I acted like it didn’t.”

“I want to see you so bad, but I can’t. Just needed to say that.”

Meetups were, of course, in secret. He’d pick you up in a staff-rented car after practice, or you’d sneak away to late-night cafés on the outskirts of town. Chan was obsessed with protecting you from the world, terrified that the pressure and judgment would destroy whatever fragile thing you two had.

Stolen kisses in empty hallways, hands brushing under the table, whispered conversations in the bathroom at parties the group attended. That was your love story: intense, forbidden, and urgent.

Behind the cameras, the leader of Stray Kids was just a boy in love, desperate to keep his person safe.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

The fear was constant. Chan was paranoid about cameras, suspicious glances, fans who knew a little too much. He’d triple-check every message before sending, change your contact name to something like “Production Hyung” or “Delivery.”

He laid down clear rules:

“If anyone asks, say we’re not that close.”

“Never post anything from the same place as me.”

“Turn your location off.”

But at the same time, he wanted to scream your name to the world. It physically hurt not being able to hug you in front of everyone when they won an award, or post that dumb selfie of you two goofing around in the studio. Chan carried guilt and love in equal measure.

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

He made playlists filled with songs that reminded him of you. No matter how exhausted he was, he’d cook for you just to see you smile while eating. Chan loved laying his head on your lap while you ran your fingers through his hair.

Your talks ranged from silly nonsense to terrifyingly deep fears:

“If everything falls apart… would you still be here?”

“I’m scared I’ll hurt you by accident. Scared I’m not enough.”

He was needy, insecure, and head over heels for you. In the dark of the room or out on the balcony at 3AM, he confessed everything he couldn’t say in daylight.

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

There was a day when Chan nearly told the company. He wrote an email, rehearsed the conversation, but never sent it. He knew the weight it would carry — for both your careers, and your lives. When he told you, he cried. Apologized for keeping you hidden, for not giving you what you deserved.

But you understood. And he fell even harder for you because of it.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When it finally came out — whether by leak or because he chose to stop hiding — Chan faced it head-on. He protected you, publicly asked the fandom for respect, and even stood his ground with the company.

He made it crystal clear he loved you.

If before fear ruled everything, now he held your hand in public. He posted subtle photos, talked about you in interviews in careful, proud ways. The intensity from before didn’t fade — it only grew.

The fandom, of course, was divided. Some adored you, others didn’t. Chan hurt for you, but never left your side. He built a safe space for you inside his chaotic world. Took you to rehearsals, introduced you to trusted idols.

The love became lighter, no longer needing to hide. Yet Chan remained your protector, still watching over you like a shield against anything cruel.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was urgency, fear, longing. Coded messages, stolen moments, whispered promises. Chan was love in silence.

After: It was safety, ease, and pride in finally being able to show you to the world. Chan was love in full volume.

Where once he slipped “I love you” notes into your jacket pocket, now he’d look you dead in the eyes across a room full of people and say it without a word. Same love, now with room to grow.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Chan made it his mission to shield you. He publicly asked for boundaries, cut ties with invasive fans, and distanced himself from toxic people.

He never let you read hate comments. He constantly reminded you how loved you were — by him and by those who truly mattered.

The more mature, kind-hearted STAYs embraced you. The rest? He ignored.

Chan would never give you up. Ever.

---

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

Overprotective to a fault.

Deeply attentive and affectionate.

A boyfriend who writes songs about you.

Who leaves little surprise notes around the house.

Who includes you in his future plans.

Who listens to you, respects your moods and boundaries.

Bang Chan would be the kind of man who made you his priority, who apologized when wrong, who constantly made sure you knew just how much you meant to him.

If he loved you in secret before, now he’d love you for the world to see.

Lee Know:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Minho had always been reserved about his private life, but when it came to feelings, he was almost unreachable. You and him grew closer slowly, at a pace only the two of you understood. It started with dry jokes, teasing, and glances that only the sharp-eyed would catch.

Lee Know wasn’t one to show much, but with you, he created small, silent rituals: sending cryptic KakaoTalk messages, always sitting next to you when possible, or leaving random little gifts like cat stickers and snacks.

Your meetups were planned like secret missions. Distant cafés, old video stores, or nighttime walks where no one would think to look for two idols. He never directly confessed, but his actions spoke for him. A longer touch on your shoulder, a note scribbled with “don’t disappear, idiot,” or waiting for you outside work without a word.

It was a relationship where silence said everything, and he saved every one of your smiles in his memory.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

Minho was afraid, but he coped differently. Instead of paranoia, he used irony and coldness to cover his nerves. He’d save your contact under something like “Vet” or “Video Editor” and set up codes only you two understood.

He laid out strict boundaries:

“Don’t look at me when others are around."

“If I ignore you in front of the staff, it’s not personal.”

“If anyone follows you, tell me.”

Minho also kept an eye on your social media and location indirectly — not out of jealousy, but to make sure you were safe. If anyone suspected, he’d switch plans and lay low for a few days.

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

In private, Minho dropped every wall. He was playfully affectionate: sticking his cold feet under your legs, making you watch terrible movies, and laughing at your reactions. He loved secretly recording random videos of you — dancing badly, napping on the couch, or talking to his cats.

Serious talks happened in the kitchen or during late-night walks:

“You know I suck at words, right?”

“If I hurt you by accident… kick me. But stay with me.”

He showed love through little things: fixing your hair, pulling you away from the street, bringing you food when you didn’t ask.

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

One night, Lee Know picked you up at midnight just to say he wanted to make it official. He was tired of hiding, but the company’s pressure and fan reactions kept holding him back.

“I just want to hold your hand in public without worrying.”

He fell silent after that, his head resting on the steering wheel while you held his hand. The decision stayed in limbo, but the feeling didn’t change.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When the relationship leaked, Lee Know was furious. Not at you, but at the situation. He was the type to face things head-on, defending the people he loved with sharp words and bold actions. If the company hesitated, he’d draw clear lines.

In public, he stayed discreet but didn’t dodge the topic. He admitted having someone important in his life and insisted it didn’t change his love for STAYs. Little by little, things eased.

He started posting cat photos where your hand could be seen, or sharing funny stories about "someone" without naming you. It was his way of including you.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was all teasing disguised as mockery, late-night messages, and rough affection that never failed. Minho was love in disguise.

After: It was partnership, comfort, and a lightness he never thought he’d find. He brought you to rehearsals, taught you choreography, and made it known — to those who mattered — that you were a priority.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Minho was cold with toxic fans. He made a point of protecting you and cutting off anyone who crossed the line. The respectful, supportive fans he treated kindly and thanked.

He wouldn’t let you read hate comments, and if you did, he’d make jokes to ease the sting:

“If someone talks trash, tell me. I’ll send my cats after them.”

---

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

Sarcastic and protective.

Affectionate in his own quiet way.

Would leave you snarky notes.

Secretly record random videos of you.

Take you to secluded places for just the two of you.

Make future plans without realizing.

Call you his "favorite kind of chaos."

If before he teased you just to see your reaction, afterward he’d do it because it was his way of saying "I love you" without needing words.

Changbin:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Changbin has always been intense in everything he does, and love would be no different. You started out as friends who understood each other with a glance, laughed at the same dumb jokes, and supported each other through heavy days. But it quickly became obvious to him that what he felt wasn’t just friendship.

He disguised it with over-the-top jokes and silly teasing, but his eyes gave him away. They always lingered a little too long, always checking if you were okay. When he realized he was falling, Changbin panicked — not just about the public, but about himself.

The relationship grew naturally: late-night talks, texts during practice, random little gifts. He’d send you voice notes singing or rapping absurd things just to make you laugh. Meetups were always far from busy spots: empty studios, parks after 11 PM, or his apartment balcony.

Changbin was a secret boyfriend who’d do anything to see you, even for five minutes.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

Changbin’s biggest fear wasn’t for himself — it was for you. He knew how cruel people could be and was terrified you’d suffer hate or stalking. So he built strategies straight out of a spy movie:

Changing contact names to emojis.

Leaving phones in separate rooms.

Scheduling meetups no one would suspect.

He was paranoid about security, checking for cameras and getting tense whenever interviews mentioned relationships. But it was hard for him to hide when it came to you. His eyes sparkled, and smiles slipped through.

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

In private, Changbin was completely different. He hugged you like the world might end, rested his head in your lap, played with your hair, and laughed at your dumbest jokes.

He loved cooking for you, even if it turned into a disaster, and treasured watching you eat. He recorded silly songs with your name in them, called you ridiculous nicknames, and was fiercely jealous of your friends.

Serious talks always came late at night:

“If this ever hurts you, promise you’ll tell me.” “I never wanna hurt you… even by accident.”

He was intense, a little possessive, but always full of heart.

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

One night, after a tough session in the studio, Changbin showed up at your place, dead set on telling the company. He was exhausted from hiding. But the second he saw the worried look on your face, he backed down.

“It’s not worth it if it puts you in danger.”

He held you tight and promised things would be different one day.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When the relationship became public — whether by leak or choice — Changbin reacted with bravery. He faced the public, rumors, and the company head-on. He asked for respect online, thanked supportive fans, and ignored the haters.

He started including you in his lyrics more openly, dedicating performances, and dropping subtle messages in interviews.

Life together became easier. You joined him at rehearsals, trips, and hangouts with trusted friends. He made a point of holding your hand in public, even if discreetly.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was urgency, longing, hidden notes, and late-night voice messages. Changbin was love smothered in secrecy.

After: It became freedom, pride, and public displays of affection. He spoke openly about how much you meant to him.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Changbin didn’t sugarcoat anything. He publicly defended you and made it clear that anyone disrespecting the relationship wasn’t welcome. He ignored rumors, blocked hateful comments, and thanked the mature, kind-hearted fans who supported you both.

He’d never let you read hate comments, and if you did, he’d crack jokes to lighten the mood:

“If anyone talks trash about you, let me know. I’ll send my cats after them.”

---

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

Overprotective and affectionate.

Intense and a little jealous.

Would surprise you with songs written just for you.

Take you to random, out-of-the-way restaurants.

Include you in everything he could.

Send ridiculous voice notes just to hear you laugh.

Dream big and put you in all of those plans.

If before he loved you in backstage shadows, afterward he’d love you on stage, in the crowd, and in every word he spoke about the future.

Hyunjin:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Hyunjin has always been intense with his feelings but incredibly cautious about who he lets close. You two slowly grew closer through conversations about art, music, and frustrated dreams. He looked at you like he was trying to figure you out, and little by little, you became irreplaceable to each other.

In the beginning, everything was a little confusing. Hyunjin was too affectionate to be just a friend but kept too much distance to be something more. He’d send you random pictures of the sky or paintings that matched your mood that day. Long midnight messages, hidden notes in your pocket whenever you met up.

Your dates were always discreet: empty museums late at night, tiny hidden cafés in the city, or sketching together at his place.

Hyunjin was a silent, poetic kind of in-love. And you always knew.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

Hyunjin was suffocated by fear, and unlike Chan or Minho, he couldn’t hide it well. In public, he was restless, avoided eye contact, and only got close when absolutely sure no one was watching.

He’d ask you not to post anything suspicious, made sure you never appeared in the same place as him, and sent you messages like:

“Wish I could hold your hand right now. But I can’t.”

Still, sometimes his feelings leaked through: lingering glances at events, knowing smiles, little gestures only you two noticed.

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

Hyunjin was a hopeless romantic behind closed doors. He made playlists for you, sketched your face in his notebooks, and wrote down his feelings.

He loved taking you to places no one knew, dancing with you in the middle of his living room to old songs, and spending hours in comfortable silence.

The deepest talks came when his head rested on your lap:

He was intense, dramatic, and completely in love.

“What if people find out and hate you?”

“I’m terrified I’ll hurt you.”

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

One night, after drinking a little too much at a gathering, Hyunjin sent you dozens of messages saying he wanted to tell the world.

“I’m done hiding you. I love you. For real.”

The next day, he apologized and admitted it wasn’t possible yet. But that moment said everything.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When it all came out, Hyunjin was devastated by part of the public’s reaction. He blamed himself for exposing you and went days without showing up on live streams.

Little by little, though, he found strength. He asked for respect publicly, defended you fiercely, and learned how to navigate it.

He started including you in things: mentioning "someone special" in interviews, making videos with you subtly in the background, and posting photos only you two knew the meaning of.

The relationship got lighter, and Hyunjin grew more confident.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was stolen glances, hidden notes, and whispered confessions. Hyunjin was poetic, quiet love.

After: It became security, discreet public declarations, and fearless moments together. He learned to love you without hiding.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Hyunjin struggled a lot at first. He was affected by comments but made sure to protect you.

He replied to hateful messages with poetic indirects, thanked those who defended you, and made it clear no one would take you from him.

Little by little, the more mature fans embraced it, and he felt relieved.

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

---

Flood your phone with late-night texts saying how much he loved you.

Extremely affectionate and dramatic.

Would write you letters.

Dance with you at home.

Sketch you in every notebook.

Take you to art galleries.

Make you part of every single dream he had.

If before he loved you in backstage shadows, afterward he’d make sure to place you in the light.

---

Han:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Han has always been the type to hide everything behind a joke, and it was exactly like that with you in the beginning. He made a point of teasing you, calling you silly nicknames, and making up ridiculous stories just to hear you laugh. But his eyes gave him away.

Little by little, the late-night messages increased. He’d send you voice notes saying:

“Look at this lyric, it sounds like you.”

Your hangouts were chaotic and secret: random studio sessions, fast food runs at 2 AM, or anime marathons in his dark room.

Han tried to act like it was just friendship, but his jealousy gave him away. If another idol complimented you, he’d get visibly annoyed and cover it with a joke.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

Han was terrified but also terrible at hiding it. He was paranoid about cameras and sharp-eyed fans, changed your contact name to something ridiculous like "Shrek" or "Corn Vendor Uncle" so no one would suspect.

He had a whole list of rules:

No pictures together.

No suspicious likes.

Pretend not to know you at events.

And still sent you messages like:

“Wish I could hug you right now, but I’ll just insult you in my head instead.”

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

When alone, Han became a different person. Sweet, clingy, unfiltered. He loved laying in your lap, stealing your food, and laughing until he cried with you.

He’d record silly songs with your name, make up ridiculous dances for just the two of you, and plan the most impossible things:

“When I’m a billionaire, I’ll buy an island for us and all the dogs.”

Serious talks came when he was feeling soft or exhausted:

“I’m scared of hurting you… or people hating you because of me.”

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

One random day, Han pulled you aside and said:

“I wanna post a picture of you. I wanna hold your hand in the street.”

Then immediately went quiet, cracked a joke, and changed the subject. It was his way of saying he loved you.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When everything leaked, Han panicked. He was terrified about you getting hate and spent hours sending you apologetic messages.

Once things calmed down, he faced it head-on. He asked for fans’ respect, did a live explaining how important you were, and that he wasn’t going to give up.

He started slipping you into lyrics, dropping cheeky hints in interviews, and posting stories with inside jokes only you two would get.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was made of jokes, hidden messages, knowing looks, and teasing disguised as flirting. Han was chaotic, secret love.

After: It became security, public jokes, and real plans. He started including you openly and made protecting you a priority.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Han would be sarcastic about it. He’d respond to haters with witty comments, defend you publicly, and make jokes out of uncomfortable situations.

He’d be endlessly grateful to supportive fans and show everyone how genuinely happy he was.

---

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

Playful and super affectionate.

Would write you silly songs.

Post ugly selfies of you just to annoy you.

Take you out for junk food.

Send memes at 4 AM.

Dream big and make wild plans.

Make you laugh even on the worst days.

If before he loved you behind jokes, afterward he’d make the whole world laugh along with you.

---

Felix:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Felix has always had a huge heart and a warmth that lit up every room. With you, it was no different. From the start, he was attentive and sweet but careful, knowing exactly how risky it was to get involved.

He’d send you soft messages like:

“I saw a dessert at the store that reminded me of you.”

Your hangouts were calm, full of soft laughs and knowing looks. Hidden cafés, night walks, and video game sessions at his place.

Felix was the kind of person who fell in love while smiling. And you could tell.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

Felix was terrified of you getting hurt — not by him, but by the public. He was the most cautious of them all, changing your name in his phone, avoiding even mentioning you to friends who didn’t know.

He asked you not to post anything suspicious and even set up secret signals:

“If I run my hand through my hair, it means you should leave the room.”

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

Felix was pure affection in human form. He hugged you so tight you’d lose your breath, baked you cakes even if he burned them, and made silly videos just for you.

He loved hearing your voice, resting his head in your lap, and calling you the most ridiculous nicknames:

“My little cookie.”

He’d tell you secrets, talk about his family in Australia, and plan impossible trips:

“One day, I’ll take you to stargaze in my mom’s backyard.”

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

Felix was the one who considered going public the most. After a hard night, he hugged you and said:

“I just wish everyone knew how happy you make me.”

But he backed down out of fear of putting you in danger.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When it happened, Felix led with his heart. He cried during a live, asked fans for respect, and thanked those who supported him.

He started slipping you into his songs, posting photos of the cakes he baked you, and mentioning "someone very special" in interviews.

Your relationship became light and filled with quiet, public declarations.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was hidden hugs, sweet messages, and longing looks. Felix was gentle, protected love.

After: It became security, subtle public gestures, and obvious happiness. He loved you out loud.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Felix was kind, patient, but firm. He ignored hate, thanked every supporter, and protected you with everything he had.

He respected fans but made one thing clear:

“If you love me, you have to respect who I love.”

---

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

Affectionate, protective, and endlessly sweet.

Would bake you cakes.

Send you kitten videos.

Hold your hand under the table.

Plan impossible trips.

Involve you with his family.

Take care of you on bad days.

If before he loved you in hidden smiles, after he’d make sure the whole world saw it.

---

Seungmin:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Seungmin was always known for being calm, sarcastic, and hard to sway. But with you, it was different. He teased you more than anyone, but there was a quiet kind of care in everything he did.

Your conversations were full of irony, but underneath it, genuine concern:

“Go home before someone kidnaps you, idiot.”

Your hangouts were always simple — coffee shops near the dorm, grocery runs, empty parks. Nothing flashy. That was Seungmin’s way of keeping you safe.

He watched you more than he spoke. Little gestures — like dropping a jacket over your lap or sliding you chocolate without a word — said more than a thousand declarations.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

Seungmin was the most discreet and strategic. He was terrified of causing problems for you, so he avoided mentioning you, staring too long, or even being in the same room with you when others were around.

Your name in his phone was saved as "Tech Support," and any soft messages were quickly deleted after reading.

"You’re not posting dumb stuff, are you?”

He was practical but affectionate in his own way.

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

When alone, Seungmin dropped the tough act. He became a sarcastic, clingy boyfriend.

He loved watching trash TV with you just to complain about it, stole your food without asking, and teased you endlessly just to see your annoyed face.

He gave you the dumbest nicknames and warned:

“Keep whining and I’ll kiss you.”

The serious talks came at night, when he got soft:

“If this blows up… will you hate me?”

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

After a big performance one night, Seungmin pulled you aside and whispered:

“I wish everyone knew it’s you.”

But quickly pulled back. Seungmin was always rational, and fear won that time.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When everything got out, Seungmin handled it with the most maturity. He publicly asked for respect and made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate hate.

He was calm and direct in interviews, standing up for you with quiet, unshakable confidence.

He started posting photos of places you went together, mentioning "someone special" in subtle ways, and made sure you were part of his important moments.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was teasing, discreet looks, and sarcasm hiding affection. Seungmin was careful, restrained love.

After: It became security, subtle declarations, and constant protection. He loved you with intention.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Seungmin would be firm. He’d ignore hate, reply with sarcastic humor, and make a point of appreciating anyone who respected you.

Big public declarations weren’t his style, but he’d show his love through actions.

“If you care about me, you’ll respect who I choose.”

---

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

Sarcastic, caring, and protective.

Watch bad shows with you.

Tease you nonstop.

Make jokes about your habits.

Involve you in his routine naturally.

Send you dumb memes.

Show love through simple, thoughtful gestures.

If before he loved you with silence and sly comments, afterward he’d protect and love you without fear.

---

Jeongin:

📌 Before the Serious Relationship — When Everything Was a Total Secret

Jeongin was always the guy who hid his feelings behind shy smiles and silly jokes. With you, it didn’t take long for something special to spark. He got flustered around you, made up dumb excuses to hang out, and blushed every time you touched him.

Your dates were simple: ice cream runs, video games, or park walks during odd hours. Jeongin made sure nothing looked suspicious, though his eyes always gave him away.

He’d send you messages like:

“Found a dumb puppy video and it reminded me of you.”

And then anxiously wait for your reply.

---

📌 How He Handled the Fear of Getting Caught

Jeongin was a mix of nerves and excitement. He was scared of the fandom, the hate, but deep down he just wanted to show the world he was in love.

He was paranoid about pictures, stories, and even places you went together. He saved your number as "TV Maintenance" and deleted any soft messages the second you read them.

“If anyone asks, say you’re my cousin.”

---

📌 The Moments That Were Just Yours — When the World Didn’t Exist

Jeongin was all affection. He loved clinging to you, watching anime cuddled up, secretly taking pictures and sending them to you later.

He’d hum songs softly just for you, and invent dumb challenges to see who could eat the most fries.

The serious talks always happened late at night:

“Do you think I’m good enough for you?”

He was honest, sensitive, and endlessly loyal.

---

📌 The Day He Wanted to Make It Official (But Couldn’t)

After one birthday party, Jeongin got emotional and almost posted a picture of you two. He didn’t only because Felix snatched his phone at the last second.

Deep down, he just wanted you to feel proud of being with him.

---

📌 After the Relationship Went Public — By Choice or Through a Leak

When everything came out, Jeongin freaked out. He sent you a million texts asking if you were okay, if you wanted to disappear, or if he should deny it all.

Once things settled down, he handled it with surprising maturity, asking for respect and making it clear he wasn’t letting go of you.

He started subtly mentioning you, posting soft photos, and saying he was the happiest he’d ever been.

---

📌 The Difference Between Before and After

Before: It was shy smiles, funny texts, and hidden affection disguised as jokes. Jeongin was innocent, secret love.

After: It became security, open affection, and careful, thoughtful gestures. He loved you out loud.

---

📌 What Life with the Fandom Was Like

Jeongin would be sweet but firm. He’d thank supportive fans, ignore haters, and constantly show how happy he was.

He’d say:

“If you like seeing me happy, respect the person who makes me happy.”

---

📌 The Kind of Partner He Would Be Officially

Sweet, shy, and affectionate.

Send you goofy photos.

Take care of you in little ways.

Call you by weird nicknames.

Share playlists with you.

Take you out for junk food.

Be your best friend and boyfriend at the same time.

If before he loved you behind jokes and flustered glances, afterward he’d love you publicly — and with undeniable pride.

--

[onlypinkslut]

‼️⚠️REQUEST ANNOUNCEMENT | PLEASE READ THIS FULLY ⚠️‼️

i didn’t want to write this. but i need to. because lately, the energy in my inbox has changed and not in a good way.

when i first opened requests, it was exciting. i loved hearing what people wanted to see from characters like toji, sukuna, nanami ideas that were dark, filthy, twisted, full of tension, trauma, manipulation, guilt, obsession. some of you sent the most creative prompts and it genuinely pushed me to write better. to dig deeper. to create scenes that felt personal, raw, and real. this was supposed to be interactive. collaborative. fun.

but recently… it hasn’t felt like that.

it’s just been kink dumps.

full paragraphs. no greeting. no context. no theme.

with nothing else. no warmth. no thought. just a dump.

and here’s what hurts:

i don’t even kink-shame. like, at all.

i write cnc. i write piss kinks. i write incest, pregnancy, obsession, degradation, lactation you name it. i write what people are scared to even say out loud. this blog is built on taboo, on crossing lines. so don’t get it twisted:

this isn’t about the kinks. it’s about the disrespect.

you treat me like i’m just here to write whatever crosses your mind, and i’m not.

you treat me like a kink dispenser, and i’m not.

you don’t say hi. you don’t ask. you don’t consider whether what you’re sending even matches my style or tone. you just dump it and expect a thank-you.

and the truth is, i’m starting to hate opening my inbox.

so i need to set things straight again.

❌erectile dysfunction

❌ trauma about infertility

❌ eating disorders (i don’t care if you “fetishize skinny” or “praise starvation”)

❌ body shaming (reader or characters this includes fatphobia, flat-shaming, or mocking natural bodies)

❌ age-based misogyny (like mocking older women to uplift younger reader)

❌ “i want a story where reader is ugly and desperate and still gets fucked” not happening

❌ humiliation that feels mean-spirited or rooted in hate

❌ anyone being reduced to a stereotype for someone’s ego fantasy

❌ full paragraphs of your unfiltered fantasy with no greeting, no explanation, no basic decency, spamming

so from now on?

✔️ say hi

✔️ include a theme, not a full fantasy

✔️ speak like you’re talking to a writer, not a bot

✔️ don’t spam me with five versions of the same unhinged thing

✔️ check your tone and kink does it fit my style? does it fit what i already post? if not, don’t bother

i’m not here to make anyone feel bad for their tastes. i’m not judging you for your kinks. but if you can’t treat me like a person a writer who puts in time, detail, and heart into everything i post then don’t send me anything at all.

but i can’t take requests that feel careless. or worse, demanding. this is something i do out of love. out of passion. and i can’t let it keep draining me.

so yes: i may close requests soon if this continues. and i say that not out of anger, but just exhaustion. i want to protect the space i’ve built and make sure it still feels good to be here.

to everyone who’s been respectful, creative, thoughtful, filthy in the best way possible thank you. you are the reason i keep going. you’re the reason i care so much.

and to anyone i may have offended with this post, i truly apologize.

it’s not about judgment. it’s not about superiority. it’s just about limits. i can’t please everyone. i can’t write every idea. and that’s okay.

i hope you understand.

thank you for being here. thank you for reading. and thank you for caring, even if we don’t always see things the same way.🎀🎀

onlypinkslut

[lenaboskow]

lord okay i wasn't in the mood to debate today but here goes:

first you've only been on tumblr for *checks notes* two hours and in that time you've been answering anons that all sound like they've been written by the same person so i'm not entirely convinced you've watched the entire show start to finish so--

required reading before we start (this wasn't updated for s8 because i've been busy, but the point stands because nothing changed)

more required reading

and even more required reading

starting from the top, most of the "complexities and nuances" of his character you talk about are deliberatly shown to compare to eddie. whenever they did manage to give tommy a sprinkling of personality, it was so that they could say how much he and eddie had in common. muay thai, basketball, classic cars, army vet, etc.

everything else?

him being a terrible human being (please see first required reading, as well as remember he broke up with buck because he was scared of getting his feelings hurt by a grown man and only went back to him because he thought his "competition" was out of the way, knowing that buck probably only slept with him because he was upset about said competition leaving. he also got buck lakers tickets for their six month anniversary despite buck canonically hating basketball and made sexist comments about abby hooking up with a "himbo half her age" despite him doing the exact same thing (with the same person!! see required reading three for math on tommy's age))

onto the next point, "internalized homophobia" isn't actually all that insane despite eddie telling a priest he's straight when you consider that they would not have had eddie call himself straight without doing a hard shutdown in multiple interviews (instead of vague responses about how "if it goes there it goes there", even the existence of one of those interviews proves it's a possibility) if they weren't going to circle back to it.

you say there's been no mention of him lying about his sexuality, but there is in fact interviews where ryan talks about how eddie doesn't know who he is (when talking about confessions!!). see the below quote for reference

"[ryan guzman] said that his character has never quite known who he is without the labels he's attached to himself. He talked about the beginning of Eddie's journey into self-determination and awareness--" (x)

keeping that in mind, i suggest you listen to the song good luck, babe! and do some research on comphet. it's also worth noting that TOMMY doesn't think eddie's straight (his reaction to buck calling eddie straight during the post hookup scene, i would get the timestamps but honestly i couldn't be bothered)-- you know, the same person you said supposedly had the same ptsd and internalized homophobia i was talking about?

that brings me to my next point, tommy has never been stated to have ptsd. not saying he doesn't, but if you're going to use it as an example at least make sure it has basis.

for my final point, i figured i would give you a bullet point list of (almost) all the times eddie diaz has been hinted at to be gay, so buckle up:

only married shannon because she got pregnant, and saying he loved being married to her but not saying he loved her (7x05)

saying he "thinks" shannon is the love of his life (7x09)

when having an emotional affair with the doppleganger of his dead ex-wife, not once did he initiate any sexual contact, even going as far as saying he didn't want that (also 7x09, deleted stills don't count because they're not canon)

was perfectly fine not dating again and playing house with buck (santa visits, building a special skateboard, going to buck with his problems with christopher and writing him into his will, while seeing flashbacks of him with chris when almost dying)

only started dating again in season 4 because he was talked into it by bobby (4x06)

got shot by a sniper but instead of his girlfriend taking care of his son, his boy best friend did it instead, and then called said boy best friend the second he woke up and kicked said girlfriend out of the room, and THEN revealed he left his son to boy best friend in his will in the most love confession coded scene on earth (4x14)

had panic attacks at the thought of ana being his wife (5x01)

was content not dating again until forced to, calling dating a "performance" (6x14)

only called marisol at the insistence of his son (6x18)

i'll leave it at that, because while i could go on all day, i really don't feel like it. i suggest you rewatch the show from the beginning before you start talking about how eddie diaz isn't queer coded again.

i’m just saying if you could choose between the first queer interracial slow burn best friends to lovers storyline on network television that deals with religious guilt, ptsd, internalized homophobia, and coming out later in life while working a stereotypical macho man job or two white men kissing for the millionth time why would you not choose the first one