#and if i cannot fast for two days or more i’m just not trying hard enough | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 1 month ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc

I N T E R L U D E

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

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

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She swallows, breath shaking.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Silence. Long, awful silence.)

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

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

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

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #2

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

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

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

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

(Another inhale, then a sigh, frustrated.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It helps. It calms me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you like me so much?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(A hint of amusement now, almost teasing.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it's creeping in any way.

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

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

But then—then she started watching.

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

And then Leela started listening, too.

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

She saw herself in that, and she hated it.

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

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

“I don’t want to die.”

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

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

(It's harsh. She means it.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #5

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

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

(She exhales, sharp and strained.)

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

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

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

(A deep breath. Then, suddenly—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But what if I don’t?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m going to fight like hell.”

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She exhales, thoughtful.)

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

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

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

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

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

(A quiet halt. Then, abruptly—)

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

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

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

(A pause.)

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

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

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

(She inhales.)

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

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

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

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

“Sweet, sad man.”

(And then, barely above a whisper—)

“He saved my life without even knowing it.”

(The static runs for a while. Click.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get help.

Joel.

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

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

Too fast. Too fast. Slow down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

“I said fuck off!”

A thundering snarl, slurred and dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She cried out. “No.”

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

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

She couldn’t do this.

She needed help.

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

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

And still, the baby kept coming.

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

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

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

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

And yet—she was.

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

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

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

She had to move.

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

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

Get up, Leela.

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

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

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

Okay. Okay. Think.

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

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

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

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

Another contraction hit.

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

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

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

She was splitting apart. She knew it.

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

She pressed her head to the floor, chest heaving.

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

She had to push.

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

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

“Push,” she breathed.

Another shockwave of agony rolled through her.

Push. Push hard.

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

And she pushed.

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

“I can't, I can't,” she sobbed.

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

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

Push, Leela. Save the baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another cry—louder, stronger. Needy.

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

My baby. Where's my baby?

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

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

So small. So ridiculously, beautifully small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I should look at my baby.

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Leela’s breath left her all at once.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

Instead—there was nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath came fast, too fast.

She pressed the scissors between the cord, hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shouldn’t have done this.

Her breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t come. Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

And then—“Holy shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tommy!” she sobbed.

He was already dropping to his knees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(A wry, breathy laugh, humourless.)

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

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

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

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

“And I—I am—”

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

“I am bled dry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Then, soft—barely audible—)

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

(A deep, shaky breath.)

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

(A swallow. A deep, slow inhale.)

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

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

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

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

“Please, let this get better. Please.”

(Click.)

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #8

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

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

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

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

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

“And now he’s upstairs. With… Maya.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Her voice tightens.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just hope he doesn’t leave soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to keep him with Maya always.”

(Silence. Then, a quiet click.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #1

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re shaking it.”

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

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

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

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

“The hell are you doin’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There's that winning smile. Hi.”

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

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

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

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

(Maya blinks, considering this. Then—)

“Mama.”

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

“No, no, baby—what did you eat?”

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

“Da-da.”

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

“I've got bite marks to prove it.”

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

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

“Booooo-berries.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you, darlin'—”

(Cut to black.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #2

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

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

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

(Off-camera, a quiet laugh.)

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

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

“Hey, get that thing outta my face.”

“But it’s your birthday video.”

“You're two days early.”

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

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

“Fine. Whaddya want?”

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

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

“Just do it.”

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

“Makin’ it to fifty-eight.”

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

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

“My what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All yours. Surprise!”

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

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

“Sounds like a steady date.”

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

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

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

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

“Da-da, comma, comma, comma.”

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

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

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

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

“Happy!” (Maya chirps, delighted.)

“Birthday.”

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

“Da-da.”

“Daaaaa-da.”

“Yay.”

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

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

“Can't wait.”

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

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #241

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But my parents aren’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Click.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #11

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

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

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

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

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

“Pease, gimme, Evie!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel, the Contractoooor.”

(Joel exhales sharply, shooting her a look.)

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

“You’re such an assh—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

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

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

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

(Maya giggles.) “Noooooo!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Da-da, no!”

“Give it back, Joel!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Static. Black screen.)

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, don't be such a sourpuss.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, Leela’s... goddamn smart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Leela hums, quieter now, more thoughtful.)

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ, Tommy—”

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

(The screen flickers. Cut to black.)

L.REED HOME VIDEO #14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oof, Daddy's in a mood again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fair play.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #242

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

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

(A soft exhale—she’s smiling.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It balanced.”

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

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

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

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

(Click.)

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

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c1nna1nmyr0ll · 7 days ago

Text

Leaving You With Something

Yoichi Isagi x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 0.7k

Warnings: making out, some dry humping, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, breeding kink, mating press, and multiple orgasms

Also, maybe consider signing up for the 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦!!

a/n: another old fic!! i'm sorry i keep reposting them btw, but they were just too fun to let go

Yoichi cannot help but rut his hips into yours as you both make out, lying on your bed with him on top of you. Due to several matches, he hasn’t seen you in days, so he’s eager to devour you. You move your hips along with his, moaning into each other’s mouths. He moves his kisses to your neck, and you grip his dark black hair.

“I missed you so much, baby,” Yoichi says between his kisses.

“Mm, me too. Missed you so much, Yoichi,” you reply.

“Baby, I need you,” he moves to look at you. “Now.” His eyes flash his hunger, something you usually only see on the soccer field. You both swiftly strip off your clothing, and he wastes no time attaching his lips to your skin. His tongue traces your collarbones while his hands fondle your breasts. You clutch at his broad shoulders and practically begin to beg him to just fuck you already.

“Please, Yoichi, please fuck me,” you plead.

“You need to be prepped first,” he says. “I will make sure you’re ready for my cock, pretty baby.” He lowers himself to your cunt and uses two of his fingers to rub at your entrance.

“Mm, Yoichi, fuck,” you try to move your hips so that his fingers enter you. His eyes watch you intensely as he lowers his tongue and begins to lick your clit. He thrusts his fingers into your cunt and your back arches. He uses his free arm to hold you down against the bed, so you don’t disrupt his meal. His tongue flicks quickly against your clit, and his fingers stretch your pussy. Just from his tongue and fingers alone, you feel your orgasm is already approaching. Yoichi continues his actions as he sees you begin to show signs of cumming. He doesn’t let up, so you cum on his fingers. He raises himself from your cunt and licks his fingers clean of your essence.

“Baby,” Yoichi says. “I won’t be back for a while the next time I leave.” You’re shocked he’s bringing this up now.

“Huh? You’re not?” you’re still recovering from your euphoria.

“So, I need to make my mark in you,” he says. He places his hand on your stomach. “I need to fuck you full of my cum. Make sure you get nice and pregnant. Making you mine forever.” You couldn’t help how aroused you got from how he spoke about impregnating you—the thought of you having his child excited you and being with him forever.

“Yoi-Yoichi,” you gasp. “Please fill me with your cum.”

He grabs your thighs and pushes them up to your chest. You’re knocked back by his sudden actions. Then, he thrusts his cock into you, bottoming out and making you cry out. He curses before moving his hips back and pushing them back towards you. His breathy moans ring in your ears as his tight grip on your thighs helps keep you grounded. He sets a fast and hard pace making sure to reach you deeply.

“F-Fuck,” he moans. “You feel so good, baby.”

“Yoi-chi,” you stutter. His pace keeps up, and you begin to feel his cock twitch from within you. He throws his head back as he releases his cum into your cunt. He takes a small second to collect himself before he’s right back to fucking you. His cum is getting fucked into your hole, with its warmth filling you up.

“More,” Yoichi says, barely above a whisper you could hear. He doesn’t stop his thrusts and focuses his eyes on you. His eyes are ablaze from how determined he is.

You grip the bedsheets below you, and the pain mixed with pleasure begins to make you feel like you’ll cum again.

“Yo-Yoichi, I’m close,” you moan. Hearing this, Yoichi uses one of his hands to reach down and rubs your clit. You feel yourself begin to pulse and close around Yoichi’s cock.

“Shit, f-fuck,” Yoichi breathes. You cry as you cum on Yoichi’s cock, and he doesn’t stop his relentless thrusts, fucking you through your orgasm. “Just one more.”

He throws back his head once again and cums into you once again. This time his thrusts slow, and he shallowly pushes his cum into you as he removes his hands from your thighs. His hair sticks to his forehead, and his usual demeanor begins to return.

“Are you alright?” Yoichi asks, seeing how exhausted you’d become. You nod. He hugs you and showers you with soft kisses and sweet words. His words about how amazing a mother you’d be made your stomach flutter with butterflies.

#yoichi x reader #isagi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader

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shiningmystic · 8 months ago

Text

Messages from your Spirit Guides PAC 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

─── ─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ───

Welcome friends, to your sprit guide reading whoever your guides may be they always respond to you.

I only call upon the spirits that look fondly upon you and see the being beneath all the judgement and ego, there is just essence. Unconditional love is what I always dip down to even if there are days that I cannot do it for myself, I know it is always present and that gives me much comfort on my worst days. Mental health awareness is real and always check in with yourself especially being chronically honed in on the bad shit that happens around you or is happening. Cultivating slowness is an everyday job for all of us but when we do it we do become thankful. I'm a bit rusty so forgive me if some of my words may be repetitive. Drop a follow to know when I post another general reading!

Pick your Photo:

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Pile I: colors of light 🧚🏾‍♀️

The lovers (rx), 6 of pentacles, 9 of pentacles, the heirophant (rx), 9 of wands (rx)

Back of the deck: ace of cups (rx), knight of swords, 7 of cups

Pile one to begin, your guides sent me images of the sun peering through glass and reflecting rainbow colors which really makes me feel as though you are a deep person but from day to day you may feel dull. Your guides are reminding you, sending you messages of your inner light and how it shines out even if you hide it and reflects back in people places or things. There is a lot about beauty here and how to stay genuine to yourself; your beauty is unique and comparing your beauty to someone else’s is a crime against them and you. If you genuinely don’t think you’re beautiful on outside, then there are always ways to work with what we have when we are ready to tackle it (honestly sometime i need to cry it out). Now on with the card pull:

Wow, I feel a lot going on with so many messages, I’ll try and keep it concise.

First message: you will always be enough is a huge message. It doesn’t matter even if they left you, even if someone who you loved told you that you were too much or even feeling that way towards yourself and your guides do not agree. The more we believe that the more we hurt ourselves and continue to prove it right. Even if you are ‘too much’ there are people out there that would disagree. - huge lesson I’m learning is that two truths can exist at the same space even if they oppose the other. For example, when I talk about my trauma, I feel vulnerable and fearful yet after the fact I feel both emotions, strong and weak. Both fear and strength. You are not to much and even if they couldn’t handle you, your a whole lot of love and light especially from the energy from the image.

Message two: some of you are away from family or your country, things are changing and it’s overwhelming in many ways. There is a lot of choices and a lot of overwhelming feelings towards making them. Your guides are advising you to trust in yourself and ignore the voices around that do not harbor understanding. Trust in your own judgment and believe in what you’re doing because it is your life and your actions that shape it; you will be the one living with it so always believe in yourself, you know what’s best for you and even when we make that mistake, we need a gentle reminder that mistakes are apart of success. if you don't give yourself the space to learn then you will continue to never know what is for you.

Message three: it’s always you pile one that always gets the message to be kinder to yourself; life isn’t a strict fast paced all or nothing (obviously life is very hard now for many.) but your guides are reminding you life will have its downs and if you can’t take time for those downs then they will be crashes. I’m feeling loved ones coming through this pile, so just know your guides understand your struggle and want to remind you as well that they are always with you.

Lots of burn out energy, you are so strong, please believe me when I say you are enough.

To the lovely humans who broke up with someone or let go of a person who you love but was toxic, you did the right thing for yourself, i send you love my love.

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Pile II: Stepping stones ☄️

8 of cups, the hierophant, 7 of cups (rx), ace of pentacles, temperance, the moon

Back of the deck: queen of wands and 2 of cups (rx)

Right now you’re stepping up to the unknown, it’s natural to be fearful of risk. Pile 2 I sense that good things will come to you when you make the choice, even with hesitation don’t doubt the choices you have already made. all we can do is what we know now. the effort you put into your work will pour back into you. I can sense a lot of hesitation but still moving forward and that takes courage! Your guides are proud of you stepping up to the plate.

I can see some people going back to school and graduating scared that they will never find stability. Some of you are taking chances and starting businesses especially creative ones (relatable content). Your guides are supporting you on your financial endeavors and know the future feels scary for many.

It’s very unstable in many places right now so I understand the confusion and the fear but the pendulum always swings back and things always go back into balance again even by force (which we shouldn’t let it to come to an extreme but whatever.) You are strong people but this creativity needs to be grounded in reality when it comes to money; be realistic and continue with your motivated attitude towards your endeavors. honestly some of you are and are focusing to hard on the little details, relax and just do what's in front of you.

Believe in yourself pile 2. You have grown to doubt yourself and abilities at times because of push back and it’s actually super healthy for intelligent people to question themselves but to much self doubt only leaves us frozen. Now is the time to go ahead and shine!

The energy for you is ripe with opportunities your guides are saying go ahead, take the calculated risk, do the thing you want to but just know take time to do it with love and integrity you will succeed.

The moon and the 7 of cups reverse tell me about your doubt, anxiety and not knowing what may happen is the worst but life is all about the mystery and discovering your path. dear wanderer, not all souls who walk a lonely path are lost, maybe you'll run into another.

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Pile III: Glowing mushrooms 🍄

Page of cups, Death, The Emperor, King of pentacles, strength (rx), Ace of pentacles, 4 of pentacles, Page of Swords

Your path to transformation takes determination and strength, but understand the power is within you and how you have gotten far.

Mushrooms are pretty crazy! They grow in so many places and are resilient; I’m not saying you’re a mushroom (even though honestly, it’s a vibe) but your guides are bringing it up. Every photo is connected to the pile it is above and yours is about your strength and resilience (pile 2 as well but it's much more emphasized here).

I mean so many people are keeping it together right now and you’re no different but I feel an extra sprinkle of shit being thrown your way recently or this could be a theme. Keep doing what you’re doing is a message for many but to keep taking the steps to this new life and I mean new life. I don’t mean moving away and starting over (unless that resonates) but you are changing it up, starting new habits and new routines, taking steps constantly at a different pace but never stopping, (it’s a lot that you have been juggling I’m surprised I don’t see the 2 of pentacles) Your guides are like Dang they got this.

Lots are taking big steps in life atm and your frozen on a choice (pile 2 also has some of that energy) there is a message of that you’re only human and sometimes it’s alright to be vulnerable and look back at the good times but the here and now is calling, stay focused and channel your emperor energy guys.

Please don’t neglect your mental health, many of you may be overworking even when you feel like you haven’t pushed yourself hard enough *whacks head* stop! You are working enough it’s just that things in reality are kinda messed up and that’s why there so many of us like this. the world is dysfunctional so of course we will be too. But of course that doesn’t solve the issue of having to keep on when your anxious and depressed, but a minute of your day is all you need to cry, to get a hug from someone, I always recommend self care. You can be strong and vulnerable at the same time and I’m willingly absorbing the information from my therapist on how two truths can exist at the same time even if they oppose the other. Be upset and when you can get up and finish that assignment, project, shipment, sale, you seriously got this but I know this is more about the stress and anxiety all this work carries with it.

Stable energy is present in the spread which makes me feel like your guides are just cheering you on knowing how hard it has been and that you are reaching positive new things especially with Death and this transformation that been going on. Be wary of spending for right now (as i assume you are tbh) but know that finances energetically will grow , just stay on task and carry yourself with pride because you are amazing!

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So those were the messages I picked up on, I hope they comfort and support you in some way, or even give you advice. Stay humble and lovely my friends.

Tarot decks used: Rider-Waite tarot deck

- ShiningMysticTarot ☀️

#witchblr #general tarot reading #shmtarot #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a picture #spirit guides #spirit guide reading #spirituality #tarot #tarot reader

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suzukiblu · 3 months ago

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hi, question for you, have you ever experienced prolonged writer’s block before? do you happen to have any advice for getting a writing flow going again, that you’d be willing to share?

bc i don’t want to get too heavy in your asks, but between chronic illness/fatigue and longterm autistic burnout i haven’t been able to write a single word in several years now, and GOD am i tired of it. it’s like all the stories and words are stuck inside me and i can see it all in my head but the faucet is jammed and i just can’t get it OUT! i have been slowly feeling like the creative embers are maybe starting to spark again but it’s so hard not to get impatient with myself because it never seems to actually transfer to paper (or word document or notes app). any ideas or tips?

no pressure to answer this if you don’t want to of course, regardless i really enjoy your writing and i’m so glad that i can at least engage with fandom through other authors even when i can’t write my own stories! 💛

Oh god, yeah, I DEFINITELY have experienced that, hahasob. I have gone through at LEAST a year or two without, like, putting down a single word or even drawing anything, just total creative block/not there-ness. Like I feel u on that one, bud.

Good news: now if I write less than 2k in a day I think "oh that's kinda low, huh", so like . . . definitely "didn't write jack shit for [ INSERT TIME PERIOD HERE ]" has yet to sink me, and therefore fuck if it's gonna sink ANY of us. We persevere!!

So like, in my experience actually helpful writing advice is just SO wildly "you just gotta try shit 'til something works"-based that I'mma just give you a list made up of a bunch of, like, assorted tips and tricks that I use on myself to make my brain put words down when it's being stubborn about it, though different ones work at different times and obvi YMMV here anyway because for obvious reasons these are all approaches that I have tailored to my own needs, hah, and some of them are a bit facetious and some are also a bit heavy, but absolutely and unironically I reguarly use them all and they have all repeatedly worked for me.

Also, they're all gonna be goin' behind a cut because WOW there's actually a lot more of them than I realized I had, hahaha. The psychiatrist who recently used me as a case study told me I was very self-aware, so take from that what you will, friend.

Get up and do a chore/take a shower/eat a snack/literally just walk through a friggin' doorway, more often than not it'll at least make your brain reorient enough for you to realize you were just beating your head against a wall and need to do [ INSERT DAMAGE CONTROL/HARM REDUCTION BEHAVIOR HERE ].

Track your progress. Write to-do lists and cross shit off 'em. Keep track of your word count when you write; put it in a spreadsheet or a notebook or on a graph on your bulletin board.

Get a NEW way to track your progress. I currently use, like, three different "to-do list" apps to varying degrees in varying ways, not counting just my basic calendar app ( for the record: Finch, Structured, and just a generic notes app, but mostly Finch and Structured and seriously I CANNOT recommend Finch enough, go get yourself a bird buddy immediately. do you want a friend code, I will GIVE you a friend code, I think it gives you a bonus mini-pet or something if you use it. ), and also set myself MANY a phone alarm to remind myself of things that I need to do in case I space out or get distracted by somebody/something/the specific phase of the moon.

Did you take your meds? Take your fucking MEDS, self, good LORD.

Leave the house even if for literally, like, thirty seconds to just stand in some actual natural light. Or leave the house to go eat at a cafe or library or fast food place and just put yourself in a new environment for literally any length of time whatsoever.

Switch pens. Switch notebooks. Get a NEW notebook. Use your laptop instead. Use your PHONE instead. Get a nicer notebook. Get a shittier notebook. Use the scratch paper at work. Use the Procreate app on your friggin' iPad if you gotta, whatever, you do what you want!!

Don't write!!

Seriously just don't, go watch an actual scripted TV show or movie or read a book or a comic or some fic. Feed your brain something you didn't have to make up yourself.

Come up with a convoluted way to trick yourself into being accountable to someone else. Join a writing group. Make a Tumblr post about how you're gonna go write now. Ask Tumblr for their opinion on what you should write now. Ask Tumblr to spin this random wheel spinner game you generated and tell you what answer they got, and then write THAT.

HAVE you had a snack? Did you eat breakfast? Did you eat lunch? Did you remember to move around the house at any point whatsoever during the day? Maybe like, do that. Like, at least the snack part. Maybe a stretch or something wouldn't hurt either though.

Meal prep is so fucking useful and saves you SO much annoying time and also, like, makes you eat actual veggies and fruit and shit, genuinely actually works, the gym bros were not wrong, go figure. Also then you don't have to think about what you're gonna eat all the time and then cook it and then clean up and then--yeah anyway meal prep, god bless it. Once a week I make a batch of pasta salad and roast a pan of good-when-roasted veggies with like, garlic and salt and pepper and some olive oil and add bacon after, and then I portion it all into tupperware and in the morning I add spinach or crack an egg into that day's share of veggies for breakfast and maybe make some toast, and just grab one of the pasta salads whenever I want something lunch-like. It saves SO much time and distraction when you are hurting for free time/focus. So, SO much.

Unfortunately the gym bros were also correct about exercise, if that's doable for you. Exercise does in fact make you feel better and more energized and less depressed, fuck those guys for being right about that shit. Assuming you have enough iron in your blood to actually, like, do it, which admittedly I frequently do not, but the point stands.

Dude why are you even trying to write, you're so tired, go to bed and get up early, you write SO much better in the mornings anyway.

Hey, I know that's how you USED to write, but like, is that actually how you write right now? Is that actually even what works for you anymore? Actually maybe outlines COULD be helpful or maybe you don't need all those worldbuilding notes all at once; maybe your inner architect needs to let the building decay and go back to nature or maybe your inner gardener has developed a taste for trellises, metaphorically speaking and all.

Please eat something. Also please DRINK something. Like ideally water but we'll go for anything that involves a liquid, seriously.

Hey did you know actually if you ONLY eat instant ramen and microwave pizza you'll probably get scurvy and die instead of, like, writing your magnum opus? Like probably?? Put a fucking egg in that ramen, man! Slice up a scallion in that bitch!! EAT AN ACTUAL WHOLE FRUIT or at least, like, buy a smoothie with actual fruit involved somewhere in it on occasional. The whole fruit, unfortunately, is better. I like apples. Apples take a REAL long time to rot if I forget they exist for a couple weeks or whatever. But like, mango smoothies are also the shit, can't turn down a mango smoothie or a good strawberry-banana. Hey did you know the grocery store just, like, will let you just buy one single apple and they don't give a fuck? You're free! The cashier won't remember you in five minutes!! Buy your one single apple and work your way up to maybe two apples next time!! Also now I want an apple!!!!

Don't write. Don't write THAT. Write the other thing. No, the OTHER other thing. No, not THAT other other thing.

The rules are made up and the points don't matter.

Fuck it, we ball.

[ INSERT FULL-THROTTLE STIMMING BEHAVIOR HERE ]

Only God can judge me and I'm still technically agnostic.

God, that's the weirdest fucking idea you've ever had, literally NO ONE but you would read it. So you should write 180k of it and also make it even weirder and yes it will absolutely be the one fic that just about everyone in MCU fandom who knows you exist knows you for, don't even worry about it, this isn't based on a true story at all.

Actually you could probably storyboard this scene to figure out wtf is happening here. Or like just draw literally anything related to this story, a bit of that might work some kinks out of the whole process.

Did you get that snack yet?

Hey go pet your dog, she's very soft and wants attention and also her OWN snack. Pet your dog and eat an apple and idk watch some anime or a weird niche documentary or an even more niche reality show, have you seen Deep-Fried Dynasty yet, it's on Hulu and was surprisingly engrossing.

Why are you even following the rules, we've been over this, they are made up and the points do NOT matter, and also you're not even getting graded for this anyway.

Yeah okay that thing you wrote sucked, but it turns out that Dean Koontz somehow has a writing career and also Twilight happened to all of us, so actually even the suckiest thing you ever write is gonna be better than the perfect ideal of the scene in your head, because the suckiest thing you ever write is something OTHER people can READ. And again: Dean Koontz has a career. Colleen HOOVER has a career. And fucking good for them, they're killing it, they are fucking WRITING!! Who gives a damn anyway, fix it in editing if you're that worried about it, they call it a rough draft for a reason.

Hey if that thing doesn't work you can just, like, delete it. Or rewrite it. Or stick it in your back pocket and do something else for a while. The sunk-cost fallacy is bullshit and you don't have to listen to it.

Maybe drink some more caffeine, that'll calm you down. [ DISCLAIMER: THIS PIECE OF ADVICE TAILORED TO A PERSON WITH MORE ADHD THAN LITERALLY NINETY-FIVE PERCENT OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH ADHD; THAT PERCENTAGE IS ON THE ACTUAL LEGITIMATE DIAGNOSTIC PAPERWORK ]

Seriously you can just write anything you want, nobody can stop you. Only God can judge me and I'm still technically agnostic enough that that's like, thirty-seventy odds at BEST.

God that idea is so niche and weird and niche, better tone it the fuck down to--oh wait no mass appeal means you're writing popcorn and literally no one will remember it in five minutes anyway, stop reflexively censoring yourself for some imaginary audience that will just chew straight through your one-size-fits-all story for The Content(tm) and then immediately move onto the next one without even bothering to hit "kudos" or remember anything about it later. I have written shit so weird that people still remember how weird I was TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER, man, and that is why literally anyone will EVER remember that you exist or wanna read your stuff or follow you to a new fandom where they don't even know the source material, fuck it, they'll wiki some shit. And also who cares anyway, it's YOUR stuff and YOU wanna read it. Your agnostically-possible god did not make you this weird and niche for no reason, don't pussy out now!!

Actually you can just write in the bath/on the bus/while waiting for your roommate to finish up with the guy running this estate sale. You've got your phone, right? Fuck it, pack a notebook. Pack an extra notebook. Pack a smaller notebook. Pack a BIGGER notebook.

It's not stupid if it works. You don't have to do what literally ANYONE else is doing, you just have to do what works.

You can literally just skip to the good part and write that, actually. Nobody's gonna throw you in writer-jail. What are we, cops?? Actually do you even need this lead-up here or do you just need to write this one specific blorbo gettin' laid REAL enthusiastically kinkily and/or maybe having a nervous breakdown sobfest over their perception of their personal self-worth and everything else is kinda just window dressing??

I mentioned the snack thing, right? Also sugar rushes are fake but sugar CRASHES are real so maybe be a little careful on that one, maybe buy some trail mix/jerky/smoked salmon, smoked salmon is SO good, smoked salmon is just objectively delicious.

Go talk somebody's ear off about what you're trying to write about. Bonus points if you can find somebody who matches your freak enough that you write, uhhhhh /checks smudged writing on wrist/ a 60k Overwatch fic in two weeks and also like 280k of Witcher fic in less than a year specifically because they're just a real good cheerleader. Wow. Wow that was a lot more Witcher fic than I was aware I had written. THE POINT IS LOOK FOR A WRITING BUDDY, WRITING BUDDIES ARE THE SHIT.

If the writing buddy doesn't work out though the first time I won NaNoWriMo I did it directly out of spite because someone said they didn't think I actually would. So like, spite is always an option, you can always keep that one on tap if you gotta.

Stephen King did not write "On Writing" because he didn't want you to write. Francesca Lia Block did not introduce you to the weirdest and gayest shit teenage!you had ever read so you'd grow up and be a fucking NORMIE about this shit. SIR TERRY PRATCHETT DID NOT WRITE LIKE SIXTEEN OF YOUR FAVORITE BOOKS OF ALL TIME BECAUSE HE DID NOT WANT YOU TO WRITE WHAT YOU WERE ACTUALLY FRICKIN' INTO.

Clean your room. No, better than that. Okay fuck it just set a ten-minute timer and do what you can in that time, we work with the spoons we've got.

Random number generator. Random color generator. Random "hey followers here's a very oblique poll, don't even worry about what it's about, just click a button please and thank you".

Did you know the internet will just GIVE you free graphs/trackers/bullet journal page designs and you can just print 'em out and do whatever the heck you want with 'em?? Yes my new little "color in the squares every day you do the thing" tracker IS just six daily writing tasks and two daily "just go pick some stuff up in this specific room" tasks and that is MY BUSINESS, MS. SIR AND MR. MADAM AND MX. [ INSERT BUZZER SOUND ]. And also, like, has done much better at getting me to do chores than anything else has in a minute, go fig.

You can actually just do whatever you want forever.

Literally, like just forever.

Fuck, how many times HAVE you done this? You'll never get better for good, it'll always go bad again, you'll always get sick again, you'll always get SAD again, you'll always fucking forget how to even DO this again and have to start all over.

Well yes, obviously, because you'll always have done it again. So do it again. One more time.

( seriously though did you take your meds-- )

#anonymous #rinquiry

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sightseertrespasser · 1 month ago

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Hey!

I think your Odds Of Survival is super super cool and awesome (I’m going batshit insane over it)

I’m really interested in the cybertronian political setup/worldbuilding you’ve been sprinkling in, it being revealed that Prowl and a lot of canon autobots are cons in this universe, mentions of the functionists, hints for whenabouts the quintessons arrived on cybertronian, etc.

I think the world you’ve built is so so cool. Ik you’re probably dripfeeding us crumbs intentionally and may not want to spoil things. But if there is anything you can or want to say, take this as an invitation to lore dump about whatever you want :3

If not then hope you’re having a good day and thanks for sharing your awesome creation :D

Hi!

Thank you so much for the compliment and the ask!

I do enjoy sprinkling in my world building in the stories themselves but I actually quite enjoy getting direct questions like these so I can info dump all the exposition I want. The drip feed is for satisfying narrative pacing, the ask box is for turning on the hose.

The basic premise I built off of was answering this question: If there’s no Optimus Prime, then what would happen to Cybertron?

The short version of what usually happens in most continuities is more or less as follows:

- The Functionalists and/or Sentinel Prime run Cybertron through a horribly oppressive government.

- A bunch of bots get sick of it and ignite a civil war.

- The rebellion “wins” but usually splits between the Decepticons and the Autobots, due to a division of fundamental beliefs. Decepticons are “might makes right” and Autobots are “how about not fascism?”

So what does it mean if Optimus isn’t there? What’s so special about the guy?

I have complicated thoughts on how Optimus, Megatron and their respective ideals interact and I could probably write a small essay about how they both offer Change to their followers in another tangent for another time.

The short answer is Optimus gives people the uncompromising option to Do Good. And backs that stance the fuck up every single time by his own actions. Taking the high road every time is freaking hard, and it takes an extremely stubborn, and most importantly angry kind of hope to not let it go.

Not many folks can do that. Not because they don’t want it, but because they don’t believe it’s possible.

And that’s were a lot of would be auto bots are at.

Everyone hates the Functionalists but they’re also incredibly rich in resources, controlling not just Cybertron but multiple planet spanning colonies. A lot of mechs that would have joined the rebellion in the og timelines haven’t because Megatron kinda puts out Evil Warlord vibes and not everyone is willing to work with that. People like Prowl and Elita still join because they’re the kind to go “Well we have to do something to make Cybertron better and taking the Trolly Off the Tracks isn’t an option.”

So the rebellion doesn’t quite reach the size needed to take out the Council and Sentinel in one fast all out charge. If it wasn’t for the Quintession invasion, the Decepticons would have eventually met a slow demise by attrition.

The Decepticons are low key operating like a pirate army with a very tentative ceasefire truce with the Functionalist Army. Unlike Optimus, Sentinel is a dick that can’t help but start shit with Megatron so there is almost zero collaboration between the two. Right now, the Decepticons are a downright devastating military force but in desperate need of a consistent supply of resources that raiding alone cannot stabilize.

The Lost Light is currently the only crew of the Decepticons that are legitimately trying to establish trade routes with other aliens (which is not going well because 90% of intelligent alien life views Cybertronians as colonist war machines (which is historically correct)) and they don’t exactly have the charming Beacon of Hope and Respect for Tiny Aliens that Optimus usually brings to the table.

Another thing in universe, the Lost Light is essentially considered the Island of Misfit Mechs. The ship is ancient and pretty much everyone on board got there for either “not being good enough” or from getting demoted, as is the case with Prowl.

Elita One was made the Captain because she’s competent enough to make Megatron nervous about her gathering too much influence but still too useful to kill off either. So she gets the rejects from other ships and up to a certain limit gets to do as she pleases.

That’s all I’ll write for now. Thanks again for taking an interest in my writing!

#tf mecha universe #asks

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themoonlitquill · 3 months ago

Text

Whispers Woven in Shadow. (3/?)

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚? 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; 𝖠𝗓𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖮𝖢 (𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅).

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 ; I seriously cannot thank ya’ll enough for ALLLL the love!! 😭 I’m blown away! Honestly. I’m really happy and I’ve been BUZZING. EEEE! So, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It took me a little longer because I wanted to get it just right and I think this is the closest I could. 😬 Also!! I made the visual up above (I made Pinterest boards too PLS FMDKDKKD) and the filter is called ‘tardiness’ by @elliesnovella on Insta! ENJOY. 🩵

𝖳𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ; 𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 (𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳), 𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿-𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗺𝗼𝗶𝗹, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 (𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁) 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝗱.

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 ; 4116.

Two days had passed and Ariadne still hadn’t tried talking to anyone else.

Except for the shadow when it came to check in on her - at least, that’s what she assumed it was doing - and herself, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.

She thought about trying with Nesta first and then quickly took that right off the list when she had stopped by to bring a few books she thought her sister might like, only to be glared at and the stack snatched from her arms with the door slamming seconds after.

Nesta had taken the books though.

And that was something.

Then she considered Elain, who was marked off even quicker than Nesta. Their rooms were connected and when Ariadne had knocked, the door flew open to reveal the eldest Archeron with her blue eyes seeming to glow and had spoken in a tone so sharp that it made her ears ring.

She wasn’t great at lip reading - everyone always spoke too fast - but she managed to catch ‘leave’ and judging by the vitriol in her sister’s expression, she guessed it wasn’t a particularly pleasant string of words; it led to her decision of staying away for a while.

That’s when she found herself thinking of Feyre and how much she missed her.

Ariadne knew that she would be the first to want to try, to actually be able to talk instead of half-relayed messages on paper, and yet, it wasn’t possible. Because Feyre had gone with… What was his name? The High Lord of Spring. Timothy? Yeah, okay. Either way, her sister had left, with no clue as to when she’d be coming back.

It was an ever-present ache in Ariadne’s chest and no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t go away.

You need to get out of this room. You’re suffocating in here and the more you think, the more you’ll drive yourself insane, she blows a huff through her nose, finding she was annoyed with herself, which was worse than being annoyed at someone else in her opinion. Just get up and leave. Go explore! Do something! Anything!

Her thumb and index finger reach up to pinch the bridge of her nose as she releases an exasperated sigh; she stands from the seat by the window and follows her own advice, leaving the damn room and storming off towards the library.

No one would bother her there.

Ariadne throws open the doors with all her strength and strides over to the armchair she always sat in, plopping down with a second huff, brow furrowed. She hated being at war with herself because she couldn’t get away from herself. So, she tended to avoid the things that frustrated her the most, which almost never worked out.

Maybe on a special occasion, if there was such a thing.

But usually, she ended up doing what she tried to avoid and always searched for a place of solitude. The irony was not lost on her; the deaf girl looking to be in an even quieter place, having found comfort in the isolated silence. It would make her laugh if she thought she was capable of it anymore.

And now?

It was like she couldn’t sit still no matter what and she wanted to be around people. She didn’t even care who it was, but it seemed that she was the only one wandering around here since her sisters refused to come out, which limited the available options.

Ariadne closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, willing herself to relax her mind so it didn’t explode from the pressure building; it made it more difficult to focus and all she wanted was for it to go away. She needed to scream and she couldn’t do that, not now, not again.

Deep breaths, Ari. You’re fine. Relax. I promise, she swallows dryly and picks at the skin around her fingers, wishing for any sort of distraction. Feyre will come back and everything will be alright. She’ll listen. You’ll have her to talk to. Even if it isn’t all the time, it’s still something.

She flexes her hands to stop the incessant bad habit and then smooths them over the satin fabric of the pants she wore, the cool texture against her palms paired with the motion actually managing to soothe her.

See? You’re okay. Got all worked up for nothing, Ariadne takes a breath, then another, and tilts her head, the air around her shifting, tickling her skin. A sigh of relief emits from her lips and the opalescent wall in her mind begins to tremble, the doorway appearing more quickly than it ever had.

Everything rushes out of her at once. “I’m glad you’re here, thank that blasted Cauldron! I couldn’t stay in that room any longer. I couldn’t! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you all day!”

Nothing.

Silence.

“You can talk.”

Everything freezes.

That wasn’t the shadow, no, in fact, that was the furthest thing from the shadow.

Her eyes snap open and a soft whoosh leaves her as she stares directly into hazel tinged with gold - rimmed with lashes that even Nesta would be jealous of - and held a mixture of shock, curiosity, and something else that she wasn’t quite sure of.

It was Azriel.

She had just spoken to Azriel.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

Ariadne couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything other than stare. What had she just done? He wasn’t supposed to be the first one she revealed this to! It was supposed to be Feyre - the one person who always cared about what she wanted and what mattered to her - and even if she had to wait to do it, she knew it was going to be perfectly fine and now that was all over with.

It was supposed to be Feyre. This was all wrong!

“You’re a Daemati,” Azriel’s voice rolls in and she’s actually able to hear it inside her head, as clearly as her own. It was low, deep, velvety, and her breath hitches; it wasn’t like the shadow’s whisper at all, instead, there was quiet authority laced in his tone and a richness that reminded her of a thick chocolate, though there was a slight edge that emanated a danger of the lethal kind. It was… It was beautiful.

“Yes,” Ariadne blinks and watches him as he watches her, noting that even in the crouched position he was in, he still remained a respectable enough distance away. “A new one.”

His head tilts and the shadows around his shoulder flourish about excitedly. With a subtle tug, he manages to reel them in and give his full attention to the Archeron sister who had managed to take him completely by surprise, which wasn’t exactly easy to do. “You seem to be doing pretty well.”

She falls silent for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Talking with the shadow hadn’t been hard at all and now she felt like a fish out of water, flopping around and utterly devoid of any semblance of words; she didn’t know what to do.

Azriel waits patiently with his elbows rested on his knees, deducting that this must be even more jarring to her than it was for him. He wasn’t impatient by any means and had no intention to rush her.

“I’ve been practicing,” Ariadne finally responds, a single hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind one of her delicately pointed ears and he tracks the movement without her notice.

“Have you?”

She nods her head, clasping her hands back together. “The basics. Opening and closing the door, some organizing,” her thumb brushes over her knuckles. Why was she so nervous? There was no way she’d ever feel this way if it were Feyre. That had to be it; Ariadne just didn’t know Azriel, if she did, there wouldn’t be any of this feeling. “But no knowledge of obliterating minds. I don’t want to do that.”

The corner of Azriel’s lips twitch. She was different than he expected and it piqued his interest, making him wonder what else there might be. “It would be a good idea to learn regardless.”

“And if I did, who would I ask, Shadowmaster? You? Rhysand? Feyre isn’t here, you know,” she levels him with a look and his eyebrows raise before there’s a deep rumbling in her head, rich, warm, and sending a shiver down the length of her spine. What was that? A laugh? Maybe? If it was, she wasn’t sure why, which brought back the annoyed expression on her face. “What’s so funny?”

He works to suppress the smile struggling to show itself, though the amusement was definitive. “I’m the Shadowmaster now?”

Azriel watches keenly as Ariadne’s narrowed eyes widen a fraction, realization setting in, and she tenses slightly, breath stilling, and he finds himself feeling a sense of relief when she inhales. She sits up straighter and her voice fills his head as it had before; tentative and unsure, then flowing in like a whisper of moonlight, luminescent, gentle and fleeting.

“I mixed up your titles, didn’t I? I did it twice,” a frown tugs at the corners of her mouth and he doesn’t like the way it settles so quickly, appearing too comfortable. “That would make you the Spymaster and a Shadowsinger.”

“I think I like Shadowmaster better.”

Surprise flashes across her face before she relaxes a little, though there was still an uneasiness in the way she swallowed, and how her eyes flitted to him and then to her hands and back again. Azriel wasn’t sure what was bothering her so badly that it was lingering around, but it left a bad taste on his tongue.

“But you can call me Azriel.”

Ariadne blinks, noting the subtle hopefulness that was woven into his tone and finding that curious. Wouldn’t everyone call him that? “Azriel,” his shadows slither towards her, reaching for her ankles when they suddenly retreat and she tilts her head. “Why did you do that?”

His eyes seem to glow a little more golden then and they remind her of the sunrise peeking over a lush forest.

“Do what?”

“Pull them away from me.”

Azriel falls silent and his shoulders move, signifying he had taken a deep breath. Why? He stands from the crouched position and Ariadne leans forward suddenly, which is strange because what was she going to do? Follow him? He turns around and starts walking away, causing a pang to hit her chest, and she digs her nails into her skin. “Wait! I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to assume anything. I just thought that you commanded the shadows and I didn’t want you to think they scare me because they don’t. I actually think they’re very sweet.”

He moves further and her heart drops to her stomach; she had managed to drive away the first person she talked to because she had said the wrong thing.

How could this happen so fast? Was she really so bad?

Ariadne gnaws on her inner lower lip, thinking over how she should have worded it differently or if maybe she was too invasive? The shadows were his and he could do whatever he wanted to with them. It wasn’t any of her business.

If Azriel didn’t want them to touch her, then that was his right.

A flash of black catches her eye and she blinks, head lifting to find that the Shadowsinger had grabbed the other armchair and dragged it until it was only a few feet away from hers, now sitting with his wings lifted up over the back so they wouldn’t be crushed under his weight. His gaze finds hers, brow raising as he leans to the left with his arm rested on the chair and the other at his side, gloved hand on his thigh.

“I do and I don’t. They came to me and chose to listen to what orders I give. Though, I prefer to think of them as requests. They’re smarter than most people think and that actually ends up being a benefit to me and the work I do for Rhys,” Azriel dips his head, a few shadows curling around the arch of his wings, movements fluid as they swirl and reminding her of falling feathers dancing. “They’re meant to be kept close in case I need them. Good to know what you think of them though,” his lips curve slightly. “Does that answer your question?”

It did and it didn’t; there was still the unanswered one of why he felt the need to keep them from her. Surely she couldn’t be that big of a distraction? And if they had come to him willingly, shouldn’t they be allowed to have a bit of leeway too? The understanding of it all was just out of her reach and she desperately wished she could grab and hold onto it.

Ariadne sits back in the chair and pulls her legs underneath her, deciding to keep it to herself. This could possibly be the start of something great and she refused to ruin it, especially when she had never had an actual friend before.

“Yes,” No. She taps her finger on her knee. “What sort of work do you do?”

Azriel watches the subtle shifts in her expression - a twitch of her brow before they came together, the way her bottom lip moved as she bit the inside, and how her eyelashes fluttered across her cheeks like butterfly wings when she seemed to fall into her thoughts - and feels something stir inside of him.

Almost like being asleep for a long time and finally starting to wake up.

“Gathering intel, observing, and making sure that we know everything we can that goes on in other Courts,” his wings stretch outwards a little and her eyes roam over the movement, noting the scars that were littered across the membranes and she can’t help but be reminded of the horror back in Hybern, how he must of suffered in agony with no way to get out of it. “When I can’t be somewhere, I send the shadows and they bring back what they find.”

“Do you like doing all of that?”

“It keeps me busy.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Azriel didn’t know what to say to that.

Everyone in the Inner Circle knew what he did and had to do, but no one had ever pursued the topic any further, having figured if he wanted to tell them, he would.

And here comes this little Fae, asking because she… what? Because she wanted to? The idea was ridiculous and yet, Azriel found himself unsure and it was disconcerting.

He takes a breath, weighing over his thoughts and debating on how to word what he wanted to say. “Sometimes it’s difficult. There are certain things,” flashes of Truth-Teller slicing into flesh, crimson dripping onto the floor, the sound of screams, and his jaw tightens. “That I have to do and a certain way of doing them that isn’t always my favorite.”

Ariadne tilts her head. There was a darkness swirling within the gold that wasn’t there before and it was clear that there was a lot more to it than that. She wanted to know what he had to do that would make him this haunted and she came to the conclusion that it must be awful, which didn’t sit well with her. Did no one bother to ask? Did no one bother to even try?

A part of her wanted to ask Azriel herself, but how in the stupid Cauldron was she supposed to do that? Would it be over-stepping? How should she say it? What if it made him angry? Or upset? She didn’t want to do that to him.

But she wanted to know.

There was something telling her that she needed to and it was yet another thing that she didn’t understand, so she decided to just go with it like she did everything else until she had the answers.

“There are certain things that I don’t like to remember either. Particularly how they made me feel,” Ariadne swallows, using the pad of her thumb to rub small circles into the back of her hand. “Everything else is heightened since I can’t hear in a normal way and that isn’t always a good thing,” she takes a deep breath, skin prickling. “It makes the pain worse.”

Her body shifts and she lifts her chin to find that Azriel’s shadows were whipping around his back and shoulders - movements a bit wilder than they usually were - with the tips refined into razor sharp points; they seemed ready to cause some serious damage and she wished she could smooth her hands over them, if only to calm.

“I do know if I leave it alone for too long, that it’ll be harder for me to deal with when the time comes,” her eyes trail along each obsidian tendril, noting that they were shaking, blurring slightly at the edges. “I’m not ready for it right now, but I’m hoping that one day I will be. Even if it hurts, I know it’s something I have to do,” she marvels at the way they flow through the air, like water down a stream, and a soft hum emits from her throat.

“I think it’s something we all have to do at some point,” Ariadne tears her eyes away from the shadows in search of that golden hue to find that Azriel was already looking at her. She inhales. “No matter if we hate it,” she exhales. “No matter if it isn’t our favorite.”

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

Azriel couldn’t remember the last time someone had stunned him into silence; as a matter of fact, he didn’t think it had ever happened before, which was a complete conundrum and left his mind in a scramble and it was the most unorthodox thing he had ever experienced.

How?

Why?

There was something about Ariadne that was different from her sisters, a secret locked away with a hidden key, and the Shadowsinger wanted to dive into every square inch of her mind until he knew everything that there was to know about her.

He already knew she was intuitive and witty, genuine, perceptive, curious - soft - and probably one of the most intelligent people he’d ever met, which he would be sure to keep from Rhys lest he fall into his usual flair for the dramatics.

But he wanted to know more.

Because as soon as Azriel thought he had a good grip on who he thought she was, the little thing slipped through his fingers and changed direction.

And now he couldn’t form words into a sentence that would make sense of what he wished to say to her, coming up short several times and beginning to get frustrated with the whole ordeal. He wanted to keep the line of communication open and have her presence so near to his, and it seemed that his desire for that was what was making his mind draw blanks.

If this were to happen with Rhys or Cass, he would’ve left the room by now.

Azriel quickly discovered that was the last thing he wanted to do where Ariadne was concerned.

So he stayed.

His shadows had settled and he marveled at the warmth of her honey-eyed gaze and the featherlight caress of her whisper, which seemed to be soothing them and causing their own anger to ebb away like the tide; it took him by surprise - he sensed a theme here - and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

They were an extension of Azriel, every part of them intertwined with him, and no one had ever had such an influence before.

How is it possible? What does it mean? He didn’t have the answers and it made him want to question everything until he finally got them.

“That’s easier said than done,” is what he responds with, tone a bit gruffer than usual.

Ariadne’s expression shifts to a mixture of perplexity and mirth, the corners of her mouth twitching and she purses her lips. “I never said it would be easy, Shadowsinger. You have to put in the effort if you want the results.”

A single brow raises. “You seem to have all the answers.”

“Not hardly, but I can read people fairly well and I can tell that you’ve never considered it before.”

She was right. He hadn’t.

Azriel readjusts his position and leans forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees as the gold swirls around his irises. “You really aren’t afraid.”

Her brow mimics the action of his, the amusement still tugging at her lips, though she manages to keep it at bay. “Do I have a reason to be?”

He tracks the movement and finds himself wishing that she would show her smile, wanting to see how it changed her expression; if it would make her eyes light up as joy filtered through or if it would disappear quicker than a blink and have him eager for the day that he could stop, stare, and admire the beauty of it.

“No,” his wings unfurl to stretch and he stands, having made a decision to keep her in his orbit for just a while longer. “You might change your mind eventually, but we can revisit after.”

Confusion flashes across her face. “After what?”

“We’re going to have dinner. You have to eat, don’t you?”

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

This is bizarre, isn’t it? Ariadne stares at the notebook in her lap, quill poised between her fingers. All of this.

She had, in fact, had dinner with Azriel and she was still reeling a bit; the house had provided soup and sandwiches, along with her usual tea, and even a plate of lemon bars that she actually decided to try, which was a good idea because they were delicious. It was sour and sweet and citrusy, and it made her tongue tingle.

Azriel kept the conversation focused on her and it was strange. She didn’t know if there was a line for how much she was allowed to reveal considering she’d never had to worry about it before, so she tried to pull the detail back in her answers as much as she could, not wanting to overwhelm him or ramble or do anything to offend.

And that was the part that left her utterly confused; he seemed to be disappointed in what she said and it didn’t make sense because why?

Wasn’t polite conversation supposed to be light? Simple?

That’s what she had gathered from Elain over the years and it seemed to work just fine, so what was the problem?

It seems like a balancing act, Ariadne doodles a crescent moon into the top right corner and allows herself to work through it. You don’t want to tell too much because that would be an overload of information and no one wants that, she adds a couple stars. But you also don’t want to give too little because that would be boring and no one wants that either.

She writes her name in the center before boldening the ‘A.’

You need to give just enough so it stays flowing and keeps the interest there. See, a balancing act! Makes sense. It’s okay, you didn’t know. You’re learning, aren’t you? Don’t expect to be perfect the first time around. That isn’t realistic and you know it.

A drop of ink falls from the tip of the quill and soaks into the page, ruining the ‘A’ and she releases a huff as she shuts the notebook and sets it on the bedside table.

Today was a lot. That’s all. You need to try and sleep or at the very least, rest your eyes. Start again tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll feel better about everything then. Maybe. A little bit.

Ariadne leans against the headboard and stretches her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes that were dressed in fuzzy socks and wishing more than anything that she knew the things she was missing. It was a hindrance and above all else, it was annoying.

Stop it. More has happened in the last three days than you’re used to and it’s impossible for you to go through it for the fifth time when you’re this tired.

She finally closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, willing her thoughts to stop running wild so she’d be able to steal a couple hours before the nightmares came.

The questions, the shadow, the knowledge of Daemati and what she could now do, Nesta and Elain, Feyre, and everything else could wait.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ; @ashblooddragons , @rcarbo1 , @waytoomanyteenagefeels , @prettylittlewrites , @tele86 , @missxmarvelous , @herondale-lightworm .

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gars-weaponeer · 3 months ago

Text

Ryloth 21 BBY “Dank farrik! The blaster is jammed!” The clone at his side cried out as he began to hit at his DC-15 with his hand in a futile attempt to make it work again. “Where are your Pistols?!” The clone at his other side asked as he kept firing over their cover.

“Lost them three explosions ago!” The first clone commented again and Iellan cannot help but feel fear rising on his chest.

Separatist forces had overrun the Republic forces on this side of Ryloth and Iellan found himself trapped behind some rocks, accompanied by a couple of clones. Were there more clones around? He could not know, peeking out of the protection would mean losing his head and he wanted to keep it on for a while longer. If you asked him, he would not be able to explain how he got into that situation. The war was chaos as always, and he somehow ended up from providing ammo to the battalions near camp to his current predicament: far, far away from his post. Now one of the clones’ DC-15 blasters had jammed, which left them with only one rifle to defend themselves. Iellan himself only had ammo with him… which was useful, but that didn't change the fact that with only one blaster, chances of survival were slim.

“Get it to work quick!” The firing clone insisted, while his brother kept hitting the blaster as if that would make it work. “I’m trying! Darn thing won't cooperate!” You know how to fix it... Iellan was not allowed to handle blasters in the battlefield only inside the camp, it was part of his parole. However, a desperate instinct kicked in and without a word he took the blaster from the clone’s hands and began to tinker with it. “HEY!” The clone complained. “Shhh!” Iellan shushed him, trying to concentrate. What had his father said about DCs? He took out a small tool and began to scrape the residue out of the trigger area. Clones are required to maintain their own rifles, however after many long days of battle with no rest it was natural for blasters to become unresponsive. “The ammo boy just shushed me…” The clone said, looking at his brother in utter shock. “Well, you are kind of annoying when you run your mouth, Echo.” His companion shot back, concentrating all his efforts in keeping the marching droids at bay.

Click, click, click.

The tinkering sound matched the marching of the battle droids and Iellan could feel his heart beating faster. Try to remember… What came next?

Click, click, click. He tried to work as fast as he could, cleaning debris and fixing the dented parts that were causing trouble.

“What is he doing?” The one they called Echo asked out loud. “You are asking me? You are the one who keeps staring.” His brother says, ducking from some incoming fire to look over at Iellan. “Hey Ammo boy, what are you even doing? this is no time to pl--!” “Shhh!” It was hard to concentrate when both clones kept talking to him. “Heh, you got shushed again.” “Stow it, Fives!”

Iellan let out an exasperated grunt, taking his nearly empty bag of supplies and throwing it at Echo. “There are two grenades left there, use them wisely!” He said, before diving back into fixing the damn blaster. Echo didn’t say anything, he simply nodded his head and took the grenades out, making sure to throw one over their heads at the swarm of droids. That would buy them a little bit more time.

But only a little. Iellan’s hands were almost trembling as he hurried his work. Almost there, he just needed to press a bit harder and--

CLICK.

“DONE!” Iellan yelled, throwing the gun at Echo, who immediately began to fire again. “Hey, it is working!”

Now with a second blaster, things were starting to look up, but only a little. They were still two clones and one weaponless civilian against a seemingly never ending hoard of battle droids and Iellan had just passed the last cartridge to the one they called Fives. Fives? What an unusual name.

The sound of marching mechanical boots getting closer and closer we're starting to make Iellan panic. They were not going to make it. Iellan covered his chest with one hand as he tried to calm his breathing, closing his eyes tightly. He was not supposed to be showing fear, but he had never been at war before. This whole situation was way beyond his comfort zone, but it wasn’t as he could complain about it. He only hoped death was mercifully quick and painless.

However, the sound of a LAAT overflying their heads caught his attention. Backup had arrived and not a moment too soon, several troops landed near their hiding spot and began to push back against the battle droids, reclaiming the area.

His two companions cheered in unison as the tide of war was changed and after giving their ammo boy-friend an excited, congratulatory pat on the shoulder they ran to meet with his fellow brothers. They were still filled with energy, ready for another battle. They didn’t even say goodbye.

Iellan on the other hand, just watched them leave. His legs were wobbly and refused to move from their place on the ground.

“There you are!” Iellan looked up to be greeted with the familiar armor of Captain Rex. Finally a friendly face. “Captain.” Iellan made an attempt to salute, but he was glued to the rock. “We lost track of you a while back. Come on, We gotta take you back to camp for the ammo run.” Rex said, effortlessly helping Iellan to his feet, picking him up by the back of his cape and gently pushing him towards one of the LAATs.

Once settled inside, Iellan could take a breather for a moment as the LAAT rose above the canyon. He could see the troopers charging against the battledroids. He wondered about his two annoying companions. Would they be ok? or would their blasters jam again? Would they meet each other again?

With so many clones in the Grand Army of the Republic, it was unlikely they would, but Iellan couldn’t help but hope they might one day.

My entry for the CloneXoc week!

Featuring Iellan with Echo and Fives!!

I hope I can finish all the other pieces in time!

Taglist: @clonexocweek (If you wish to be added, please let me know.)

#my art #iellan #arc trooper echo #arc trooper fives #clone trooper echo #clone trooper fives #clonexocweek #clonexocweek2025 #clonexocweek2025 day1 #IellanXEchoXFives #clone wars #star wars #clone trooper

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tinybitsubby · 2 years ago

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****Disclaimer: this is not my list. (meaning I don’t like/prefer/agree with everything on it)

Several months ago I was down some rabbit hole and found a message board where someone had asked a question about having a D/s oriented vacation and people responded. I went to visit it recently and it doesn’t exist anymore. I had copied it to notes to send to the Hubz at one point and thought I’d share it here and see what you all think of it. Thoughts? Ideas? Copy and pasted below.

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Someone asked a d/s chat room ideas to turn a romantic tropical vacation into a major D/s getaway for those exploring D/s.

1. Start off on the right foot. Spank her ass right before the flight or drive so it’s uncomfortable to sit during travel. Maybe tell her to sit still when she keeps shifting in her seat.

2. Tell her that unless thr public can hear, just for this trip she must always address you as sir. Punish forgetfulness.

3. Make her kneel every morning.

4. Objectify her by shoving a few fingers deep into her mouth a few times a day. Call her good girl and watch her gag for a minute then wipe her runny eyes and move on like nothing happened. My wife/sub says this type of brief degradation flips her mindset so fast. She hates it but loves the complicated emotional part.

5. Since the owiest part of anal is the initial insertion, tell her that she will be announcing every single time she’s about to get in the shower so he can come to the bathroom in a minute. When he comes in she must lube up her clean asshole and degrade herself by holding her own ass open for him. He will sink his dick all the way in and hold it there while she tells him a reason why she deserves to take his cock up her ass. If she can’t think of a good reason, the dick stays in until she does. Not fucking her, just staying in there stretching her open. Then he rinses off and leaves so she can shower. An uncomfortable size of dildo (not plug) can be used instead if he doesn’t like to get erections and then let them fade. I’m not into anal except for the very subby headspace it creates. It makes me feel so vulnerable and it’s kind of painful. We did this on a trip and it became a true exercise in submission as I got more and more sore. When he sat me down to tell me this would happen, it really set the tone for the trip. Don’t discount this idea. Also Halfway through the trip we had anal sex which is rare for us and it made every shower insertion after that more uncomfortable and really upped our D/s. Seriously, try it, especially if anal is really not her thing. She’ll feel like such a good sub. You want her to feel like a good sub for submitting in ways that are uncomfortable. Please try this! PS If she loves anal, don’t do this, hahaha. PPS. Since we got home he sometimes says tell me when you get in the shower next and I know this will happen and it reminds me of our trip when we solidified our DS.

6. Bring an implement she doesn’t like and tell her she must ask for 10 hard strokes every day by a certain time. Obviously No anger or lectures just checking it off the to-do list. If she forgets and the time passes, she gets 25 or more instead. You should know Tears are ok in the D/s dynamic. If you’re flying and don’t want to take implements then you always have a belt or a brush.

7. Spit in her mouth every time no one is looking

8. Let her know before you leave that even if she’s a very good girl, there will be tears twice on this trip to remind her of her submission. Make her ask for one of the times and surprise her with the other. You get to choose what makes her cry. Don’t overlook the power of this emotional release for a sub. This secretly also teaches her to ask for an emotional release when she feels it could be beneficial to her mental state or the relationship.

9. Tell her she cannot cum until the third day of the trip. Then have lots of sex the first two days.

10. If you are leaving town, make her dress like a total slut

11. Bruises man. Give her some really good butt bruises and then spend time every day, poking pinching and spanking them. It keeps her hyper aware of her place. A 1.5” dowel from hardware can give bruises in just a handful of strikes without chaffing the skin too much like stingy implements do because they take too many strikes to get a bruise.

12. Tell her that on this trip, if she has an alcoholic drink in her hand, there will also be a plug in her ass. No exceptions. Going to order a drink with lunch? Go plug that ass before we leave. For added fun, you pick the size each time. Alternatively, if that’s not possible, you could just tell her that whenever your dick is going in her pussy on this trip, there will also be a plug in her ass at the same time. Or alternate days.

13. She’s doesn’t get to orgasm on this trip.

14. Tell her she will kneel and suck your balls every time you change clothes. “Sorry, you have to come back to the room with me because I’m changing into my bathing suit.”

15. Make her stay naked every minute you’re alone.

16. Call her trashy names.

17. Whatever you want to do to Dom her, whatever your desire or fantasy is, do that. BUT, tell her in detail hours in advance. A sub’s brain goes haywire when told something like this. “Look at me. Tomorrow I’m going to spank you very hard and you’re going to hold very still. I’m going to cum when I’m done but how I cum is going to depend on how well you take your spanking. If you can stay still I’ll just sink into your cunt and that will be that. But if I have to keep telling you to get back into position or keep your feet down I’ll cum down your throat and if I have to wrestle you at all during your spanking, I’m fucking your ass and continuing to spank it.” Or just tell casually with a smile you know after dinner I’m going to fuck your face and slap it hard every time you need to pause to breathe. Etc.

18. I’m jealous. I want a D/s vacation! Just stuff holes all the time. Anytime you think of it, put your fingers, dick or toy into one of her holes for minute. Let her know her body will be invaded over and over on the trip multiple times a day and occasionally during the night. Make sure you tell her to expect it because then her mind will be on it all the time.

19. Flirt with other women and make her sit quietly and smile. Maybe kiss one.

20. Fig her. Especially if you can’t spank because of noise. At least 20 minutes, the heat doesn’t peak until 15. If you’re flying and can’t take ginger, China Gel on your thumb is almost as good.

21. Bind her and make her wait patiently while totally bored. If rope is a travel issue, take some medical tape.

22. Get her pregnant

23. Clothespins. Use them a lot. Is she sucking your dick, put them on her labia. Are you fucking her, put them on her nipples. Are you spanking her, put a row of several down the skin of her tummy or back on her labia. They keep her on edge and feeling subby. I’m not kidding try them because the ache when they are removed is like nothing else. If she’s sunning by the pool, maybe there’s one hidden somewhere for a while.

24. Just fucking Dom her, use the time to make your own D/s dreams come true. She wants you to take control.

25. Fuck man this list is great but maybe only pick a few.

26. Give her a daily writing assignment if you have relaxing time. Give her a question that is hard to talk about and demand honesty. Better yet, both of you share.

27. Tell her she can’t say no on this trip. Goes without saying, but respect hard limits.

28. Make her wear dresses with no panties. Pull it up every time no one is looking. Smack her pussy, or finger fuck her or sit back and admire. Just mix it up. Fuck her before you go somewhere so she has to feel jizz running down her legs.

29. Make her skip a meal now and then to watch you eat

30. Randomly tell her to head back to the room and masterbate to orgasm. Or to only get really close to it. Give her a time limit.

31. Choke her out. Maybe she wakes up in a compromising position.

32. If she’ll be wearing bathing suits, only spank or strap her on one side. She’ll be miserable with all the counts on only one side and if anything should show, it will just look like she took a tumble or something with a bruise or welt on just one side. It’s the symmetry that lets people know what’s up.

33. If there’s a need for a punishment spanking on the trip, do it in diaper position. It’s intense because you can see her face. Make sure you’re ready to handle seeing her face during a punishment as some Doms just can’t handle it.

34. Tell her you won’t be touching her vag once on the trip. Her other holes will be used as you see fit daily. You can put a binder clip on her labia to hold it closed to prove your point.

35. Carve a souvenir scar into her.

36. Tell anytime she wants to cum she’ll have to pick between two things she doesn’t like first. Get her close to orgasm so she’s really needy and then say I want you to come but first A or B. If she doesn’t pick in 10 seconds, she gets both then back to the orgasm.

37. Pick a window of time each day that she cannot speak

38. Tell her she must wake you up with her mouth every day.

39. Take medical gloves and do cold inspections of her. Make her feel like an object.

40. No eye contact for the trip.

41. Dude just tell her this trip will be rough. Rough sex, rough spanking, rough manhandling. Just make things challenging for her and then get through them together. That’s all we subs want. We want to endure a hard challenge for you and then be called a good girl for enduring it. You get to be the guy setting up whatever challenge turns you on AND be the support system when it’s emotional for her. That’s all of D/s!!!

42. Edge her. You can do it or she can, but lots of random edging to keep her needy all day.

43. Golden showers.

44. Make all decisions for her. Tell her when to get up, when to sleep, when to use the bathroom, what to wear, order her foodand drinks without consulting her. Tell her when sex is happening and what type. If it’s too much, just pick one day where she can’t make a decision.

45. If you’ve never slapped her face, start on this trip. Maybe just a couple times at first and then build up to several times in a row during some form of sex. Require eye contact. Let her tear up and let her go through the range of emotions. While looking at you and enduring it, let her feel your support, but then slap her again. As a submissive this is for real an emotional growth as a couple and can be meaningful. Talk to her about it the next day. Tell her she’s so good for taking it in and you’re going to slap her again soon.

46. Spank her very hard right before the trip so the little spankings here and there actually hurt quickly. Wipe tears and give hugs. This hard and soft feedback at the same time feeds a sub like you wouldn’t believe.

47. Don’t let her sleep in pajamas. Always nude. She’ll get used to it.

48. Force too much Alcohol/weed into her and then discuss both of your darkest fantasies.

49. Slap that pussy every chance you get. Keep it just a little sore.

#d/s marriage #24/7 d/s #real d/s #d/s real life #dom/sub #domestic discipline #d/s lifestyle #spankin #d/s #submissivewife

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eraenaa · 1 year ago

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U.N.I. (College AU)

Aemond Targaryen x Reader Tag List

Synopsis: Where one of the sons of your mother’s estranged best friend attends the same university as you, and did I mention you were the reason why he lost his eye?

Warnings: Mature +18, Stalking, Smoking, Semi-Public Sex

Word Count: 2930

You feel his stare again, but you look onward and focus on what your friend was saying. But still, the image of him in his leather jacket, staring at you, the way he held his cigarette and puffed out smoke from his thin lips, eye so openly closed on you— it was starting to unnerve you. A festering feeling spread through you that all you wanted to do was lay your gaze on him, something you swore you would not do. At least not so obviously.

“He’s staring at you again,” Your friend sang, and you painted a confused look on your face. “Who?” You asked. Feigned cluelessness on your face. “Pirate boy,” they call him, and you always seem to scold them at their insensitive nickname. “Oh,” You said, but you never gave him a glance, even if you badly wanted to. “I’m telling you… you should approach him.” You shake your head and sigh. “I have to go— I have to study for a test,” You suddenly reasoned to change the subject. Your friends gave a nod as they puffed out smoke between their lips, bidding you farewell, and they shall meet you in the dining hall later.

You walked through the halls fast; you always do. You just did not notice that another copied your steps.

Aemond had been growing tired of your stubbornness. When he first saw you in the halls of your college, he was certain his eye had deceived him. But no, there you were, laughing carelessly with your friends. A beaming smile on your lips, eyes crinkling with joy. He sneered as you walked past him— completely disregarding him— completely forgetting about him. After that day, he was determined to catch your eyes, to make you look upon him again. Him, the boy you had maimed.

You finally found a place to study in the library. Somewhere secluded, somewhere you would not be bothered. Staring hard at the reading you procrastinated to do, so now, you’re exhausting your mind as you tried to stuff it more with whatever was said by a dead scholar so many years before. You hunched over the bound book, trying hard to focus, but your eyes did not miss as a figure now stood before you. You cautiously looked up and were met with an indigo eye and frowned lips. “Is this seat taken?” His voice was velvety and cold. You quickly avoided his gaze, “Yes,” You said. “By whom?” He asked. “Me,” You replied.

“You occupy two seats at the same time?” He asked. You were not looking at him, but you plainly heard the sneer in his voice. Your mouth opened and shut, mind searching for a response. “It is a simple question— yes or no?” He snapped, and you let out a harsh breath. “No,” You harshly bit on your lip as he took the seat across from you. Your knees brushed as he scooted closer to the table. You did not dare to look at him— something that he boldly did.

Aemond watched you as your eyes were planted toward whatever book you were reading. His eye implored you to look upon him again. He enjoyed the look of surprise and panic in you. “Actually, I’m leaving.” You uttered lowly and quickly gathered your things. Passive and flighty when it came to him. Because guilt never sat well with you— and he was a great reminder of it. Aemond rolled his eye as you gathered your things. “So you can take my eye but cannot even sit across the man you have maimed?” You froze as the image of him as a boy, on the ground and clutching his face in pain, flashed through your mind. It had been years since the accident— an accident that was not entirely your fault, but you bore the guilt as if it were. You took a deep breath and stopped gathering your things. Eyes courageously set themselves upon the boy who smirked before you, enjoying the look of silent anger on your face. You quite had enough of fleeing and letting guilt consume you whole.

Aemond hummed as you stayed and resumed your task. His eye observing you, his knees bouncing up and down under the table, brushing against yours. He missed you if he were being honest. You who had spent almost every single day with him since the two of you were born until you were both ten. Eight years spent apart. Eight years trying to pretend that neither existed and that neither missed the other.

You stayed there for hours, trying to read, and he stayed there for hours, watching you try to focus on your reading. You were genuinely clueless as to why he was doing such a thing. When you were finally done, you stood without uttering a single word. “Where are you going?” He asked with a raised brow. You debated if you should answer him. Why should you? But as your gaze went back to his, him who expected you to respond, you sighed. “Dinner.” You quietly muttered, and he gave a nod, standing as well. “You no longer talk much now, do you?” He asked as the both of you walked towards the dining hall. He knew the answer: you were oh so talkative when it came to your friends— a beaming smile always on your lips. A wheezing laugh would always find its way to you, but with him, you could barely speak two syllables.

Aemond frowned as you gave no word. The boy sighed and pulled you towards an alcove. Shoving you forcefully against the curved wall, the hall was dark as it was dusk, and they had yet to turn on the lights. “Stop acting as if I had been the one to have wronged you,” He spat, eye-widening in anger. “You have wronged me!” You answered, trying to push him away as he encaged you with his body and the wall. “You were the one who has wronged me first! And you fully knew it was an accident!” You defended. Aemond clenched his jaw. “You were the one chasing me— running after me, trying to take revenge.” He gritted his teeth. “Because you were the one who took my knickers from my drawers! I was trying to get it from you. It was not my fault you tripped and maimed your eye on a rock!” You reasoned, your voice growing louder, catching other’s attention. “I had ceaselessly apologized— begged for your forgiveness for something that was not entirely my fault, but you had ignored me! You let them believe that it was entirely my fault!”

Your ragged breathing mixed, your eyes closed on each other, your bodies flushed. You stared up at him with a glare. He stared down at you with a glare. The only thing that broke intense gazes was the sound of the dinner bell ringing. Sensibilities regained, and you pushed away your once closest friend. “That accident was years ago… let us just forget of it— let us just pretend that neither of us exist or know each other.” You sighed. “It is a large campus, Aemond. Surely we can avoid each other.” You proposed. He scoffed. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Escaping, fleeing just like before,” He whispered. You froze as you realized his head was dipping down. “I shall be here constantly… everywhere you go, I shall follow, just to remind you how badly you have wronged me. You have taken from me— now it is my turn to take you.” You frowned at what he uttered— a word missing from his statement. But you could not question him as he was quick to push himself away from your frame and walk away.

Aemond stayed true to his word. Everywhere you turned, everywhere you looked, there he was. Him and his lingering indigo eye, him and his smirking pink lips. You sighed as you caught leather-clad arms once more. Take in a deep breath, cross your arms across your chest, and try to focus on the work of art in front of you. Trying to ignore the man who stood next to you, a bit too close for your liking. “Seriously? Even here?” You asked. You were hoping you would have some peace in the gallery, wanting to escape the thought of the papers you still had to write and the man whom you kept on trying to avoid. But whatever tactic you used to not let your paths cross seemed futile. He always found you. He always trailed you.

Even at night— when you thought you were finally alone. His indigo eye followed you in sleep. Scenes that you will never utter— that you will never admit to bringing you pleasure in the dead of the night. The man who gave them to you in your dreams stood next to you, his eye finally not on you but upon the painting. “Do not flatter yourself, I came here for the paintings.” He quietly uttered. You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks as you gazed upon the side of his face. Aemond bit down his smirk as he saw an embarrassed blush rise to your cheeks.

You let out a breath and mindlessly gave a nod, stepping away from Aemond. As being in his presence brought forth the dreams you had of him. The dreams where his lips were upon yours. Where his hands would explore your body, would tangle themselves in your hair, would grip your throat, would bring pleasure to your cunt. As you moved on to face a sculpture, the thought of Aemond only seemed to fester. You slyly cross your legs as you stand, regretting the decision to wear a skirt that day.

Though Aemond said that he came to the gallery for the art, it was only partly true. He trailed you once more, following your scent that he had grown fond of over the days he would follow you. His eyes scanned your frame from behind. From the back of your head to the middle of your thighs where your skirt stopped. To your crossed legs where his gaze lingered. Aemond licked his lips and stood next to you once more. He would lie if he denied that he kept following you for the sole purpose of tormenting you for an accident that was only partially your fault. No, there was something else fueling him to keep on trailing you wherever you go. There was something else he wanted from you— and that something was not entirely revenge or justice. He simply wanted you. You were not the only one who had scenes of pleasure in the night. Aemond’s dreams of your lips, your taste, and your touch were a constant. Every single night as he drifted into slumber, the only thing in his mind was of you. Your lips upon his, your body flushed against his, your cunt clenching around him.

Neither of you uttered a word. Your minds were filled with thoughts of desire, thoughts of need, and thoughts of sin. The air between the two of you was tense and growing warm. It did not matter that the air conditioner blared— it did not matter that it was autumn. The two of you who stood next to each other felt nothing but raging heat.

You turned to your right, peaking a look at Aemond through your lashes. Aemond was quick to feel your gaze, turning to you. Indigo eye was dark and filled with something you could not decipher. No word was uttered, only needing bodies threading closer together until lips locked. You clung to him, pulling him close; his lips tasted of coffee and cigarettes. He smelled of citrus and spice.

Aemond placed his hands on your ass, clutching hard the plump flesh. His tongue lapped against yours, tasting every part of you. Berries and mint on his tastebuds. The smell of peonies and peaches invaded him. “Aemond,” You called as your lips parted, both of you in need of air. You watch him shake his head and take hold of your arm. You let him drag you wherever; the only thing on your mind now was the lust you felt. The only thing on your mind was the want to kiss him again. Aemond pulled you towards an empty hall, an exhibit not yet open to the public. Your eyes scanned the room; paintings and sculptures that would intrigue her any other time bored your mind. All you wanted to do was drown in pleasure from the man who now began to place kisses on your neck.

Your hand traveled down, cupping his hardened length through his trousers. A groan left his throat, eliciting even more wetness from your cunt. His hands undid the buttons of your shirt, forcefully yanking your brassiere down to reveal your tits to him, his mouth quickly closing in on the taut bud that hardened and pebbled because of his touch. “I need you,” You boldly uttered, not able to resist the tight need in your core. Your head tilted back; face pointed to the ceiling as he continued to nip and suck on your tit. Aemond smirked as your breast was still in his mouth; he felt you exchange your hand that cupped his length with your cunt, grinding upon his cock. You showing how truly in need you were.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asked; you were quick to nod. A chuckle escaped him, a smirk rising to his lips as his hand trailed from your chest, venturing downward. Teasing you as his hand hovered over your dripping cunt. “Please,” You mumbled against his lips. “I thought you did not want my presence?” He teased, hand quickly grazing your cloth-bound cunt. “Please, Aemond… I need you— I want you.” You begged. That seemed to satisfy him.

You whined as he moved you away from the wall he pushed you against. Dragging you deeper into the room. You were becoming crazed— desperate. You needed to feel released, and Aemond was taking his time to give it to you. You frowned as he placed you too, and upon a statute, confession took hold that you did not notice that he placed himself behind you.

Your moan echoed through as his hand finally grasped your needing cunt, cold fingers met with the dripping wet heat that was for him. You hear him hum as his slender fingers run along through your folds. Desire mixed with your confusion as to why he placed you before the statue— man and woman of marble reaching for one another. Before you could ask him— before you could even utter another word, you heard the buckle of his belt hit the floor, his bare length pressed against your behind. He bundled your skirts up to your waist, and you could only wait in heavy anticipation for him to take you.

His finger continued to draw circles upon your needing bud. His lips continued to torment the side of your neck, nipping and sucking, leaving his mark. You were ready to beg for him to give you more, no longer caring about how pathetic you were starting to sound. You could not utter your plea as Aemond, without any warning, bent you over and shoved his cock inside you. A squeal left your lips as pain mixed with pleasure. One of his hands continued to draw circles upon your cunt while the other found your neck. Grip tight, filled with pleasure.

Aemond was merciless as he pounded at you from behind. Not caring that your slapping skin echoed through the room, not caring that you were spewing moans that rang in the halls. All he focused on was the feel of you, tightening and clenching upon his length. Warm and wet, needing and screaming for his name. You felt tears spill from the corner of your eyes as you were overwhelmed with pleasure. You turned your eye upward, gazing at the statue before you. Letting the man behind fuck you roughly. “Harder,” You asked, and that only made his desire grow. His hand on your neck tightened, and his fingers drawing circles grew faster. His length pushed deeper until you felt blood and both of your essences run down your thigh.

Your surroundings were growing dark; the only thing you could see now was the statue of Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss. Your mind could not comprehend or think as to why Aemond chose that particular sculpture for you to look against as he fucked you. All your mind thought of now was how close you were to climax. Aemond let out a growl as you clenched painfully around him. “Aemond,” You called. And he moved your bent frame to lean against his chest. “Aemond,” You called once more. His lips found yours, nipping at your lower lip that cause a rush to go to your already peaking cunt. “Come for me.” He ordered. His hand moved from your neck to your breast to pinch the taut bud. “Aemond!” you called for the third time. Waves of pleasure hit the shore as you came undone in his arms— on his cock.

Aemond let out a groan with his last thrust, his seed filling you but quick to run down your thighs. “I have told you that I will take you.” He whispered and nipped your ear. You could only let out a stuttered sigh and hoped that he would do it once more.

#aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond x reader #modern au #aemond smut #aemond modern au #aemond targaryen x female reader

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itsabouttimex2 · 1 year ago

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Would this platonic yandere let you leave?

Explanations below/Click photo for higher res

DBK and PIF simply don’t see any reason to let you leave. If you want something, they can just have a bull mech get it for you. Besides, why would you want to go anywhere? You have your adoring and powerful parents right beside you. There’s no need to leave their side.

Chang’e might seem poorly placed, but she lives on the moon. It’s not that she wants to keep you locked away or isolated, but she genuinely cannot let you go anywhere. Hers is out of necessity, not choice. To be fair, you get to explore the whole moon and can even visit her factories, you aren’t locked in a tiny room or anything.

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Wukong, as long as you have some kind of fighting skill, will let you venture into the city of Megapolis. He’ll fly you there on his cloud and “drop you off” before using the 72 Transformations to follow close behind you, ensuring that no dangers draw near. If you catch him, he’ll very unconvincingly write it off. “Stalking you? Pshaaaw! Naw, what gave you that idea? I just came here to, uh, buy some stuff!”

Macaque will tail you from the shadows. There’s not much to say. He’ll drag you into the darkness with him if he senses any danger, and chuckle when you get angry about being followed. Expect something like: “I’m just looking out for you, kid. You should be grateful, really.”

Huntsman takes pride in his fighting, tracking, and hunting skills, and following after you is just a non-lethal combo of the last two. His ego swells with each step he takes, just out of your sight. And if anyone tries to hurt you… those skills will go back to being lethal very quickly.

Peng will watch you from the skies, keeping a close eye out for you, ensuring that you both keep out of trouble and behave appropriately. If the need arises, they’ll swoop down and interfere. Most likely, it’s to ward away a troublemaker. Though, they’ll be very proud if you defend yourself. Their little nestling, growing up too fast.

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MK wants to go where you go! If it’s somewhere loud and exciting, all the better! Even if you intend to head somewhere less his style, like a library, he’ll still hook his arm around yours and follow you along. (He’ll enjoy that trip a lot more if you read out loud to him.) Don’t think you can just up and ditch him, either. He’ll use his Gold Vision to pinpoint your location immediately, and race off to join up with you again. From there on, he’ll make sure to keep a tight grip on you, ensuring that you won’t get “lost” again.

Azure Lion fancies himself your defender and guardian, and hates the thought of you being unhappy nearly as much as he hates the thought of you getting hurt. He tries to be reasonable and fair with you, which includes letting you leave whatever serves as your shared dwellings. Only when he’s beside you, of course. He trusts himself to strike down any threat to your well-being, and has the power to follow through on that promise.

Ne Zha has lived through many fights and battles, and understands that danger can come from even the most unsuspecting of places. With this in mind, he’ll accompany you to wherever you wish to go, surveying the surrounding area as he walks with you. And he will be bringing his spear. He’d honestly rather not use it, but he’s playing it safe. Woe to any security guard who tries to separate it from him.

———————————————————————

Mei canonically has trackers on all her friends. This is not something she sees as a breach of privacy or overstep of personal boundaries. It’s just something everyone wrote off when they learned about it. So if anyone finds out or you try to tell one of your friends, they’ll probably just shrug it off as “classic Mei” and move on with their day.

Red Son is not a fool, thank you very much! He knows that tailing you everywhere you go will only upset and drive you away (he learned that the hard way), and that he can only tag along so many times before it gets suspicious that he always shows up right when you’re about to do something or go somewhere (learned that the hard way too). So he decides to slap a tracker onto your phone and call it a day, like there’s nothing wrong with that. Since the tracker isn’t discreet at all, you’ll pop it off and throw it away. Expect him to get start getting creative after that. (He just goes to ask Mei for help.)

Syntax is a practical and rational man. He knows that stuffing you away inside will only breed resentment, but that letting you roam freely runs the risk of you escaping from his grasp. Wiring a tracker to the inside of your phone solves both problems. He’ll also hack into the camera so he’ll always be able to see what you’re doing. You’re granted free reign to wander and explore as you please (within the bounds of the city) all while under his careful surveillance.

———————————————————————

Pigsy just wants you to be responsible, really. As the de-facto father figure in your life (in his own eyes), he needs you to be honest and forth-coming with him, please. If you just tell him the specifics of your outings, he won’t argue or complain, and it saves you one hell of a lecture. He might try to warn you away from something or someone he personally thinks of as shady or dubious, and if you don’t listen, he’ll tag along personally. If he’s too busy for that, expect him to send MK with you instead. And MK will spill each and every detail when asked, so you’d best not do anything reckless or dangerous.

Sandy is a kind man, even with obsession plaguing his heart. He wants the best for you, with every fiber of his being. The absolute worst this man would ever do is grind a few sleeping pills into your tea. Genuinely, he would go no further. He wouldn’t dream of disrespecting your personal autonomy. He just asks you very sweetly to let him know what you’ll be doing. If you get tired or upset or hungry, call him! He’ll come pick you up! Stay safe and text him when you get there! He’ll always look out for you. No matter what.

Tang isn’t really the sort to brute force his way through life. He’ll gently nudge and pester you into maybe downloading a location-tracing app, even offering to get it for himself as well. “It’s the only thing that can put my fragile heart as ease”, he’ll tell you, dramatically holding a hand to his hand as he sighs. He’ll wear away at your resolve until you finally buckle and download the damn thing. To be fair to you, he’ll also download it and see if he can’t get a few of the others to do the same. It’ll be less suspicious if he phrased it as “we all do dangerous things very frequently, and should be looking out for each other”.

Yellowtusk is a rational and composed man. If you act maturely and responsibly, he’ll lighten up on certain restrictions he has set in place for you. If you’re headed somewhere new he’ll come with you to make sure you don’t get lost, though. Being rational doesn’t make he doesn’t worry, after all.

———————————————————————

Tang Sanzang despises the idea of restricting your freedoms, and wouldn’t dare disrespect you by saying that you aren’t capable of caring for yourself. He’ll happily see you off for the day, and then take a few minutes to pray for you and your safety. Be wary, though- if you aren’t back by the end of the day, he’ll gather up his fellow pilgrims and set out to find you. Getting away from him is easy enough. Getting away from the demons that loyally follow him, who are happy to drag you right back to his side? There’s just no chance.

Ao Lie probably sits in front of the door and waits for you to get back haphazardly packs you a bag of supplies to take with you, even if you’ll only be going to a nearby merchant’s store. He’ll be sure to tell you that “It’s only a days worth, you know! So be sure to come back soon, please!” He, much like the monk who rides on his back, genuinely trusts and respects you. He isn’t going to follow you from afar, or browbeat you into bringing him along. He’ll just wait. And wait. And he’ll keep waiting until night falls, at which point he’ll inform Tang Sanzang that he’s going out to look for you, to make sure that you’ll be okay. Once again, all the pilgrims will come to look for you, realizing that he’s actually pretty worried.

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ask-postcrash-curly · 2 months ago

Note

I'll be okay, Kestrel! I promise, please just give me a moment.

[She takes a deep, shaky breath, steeling herself.]

I-I'm fine, sweet pea, I assure you. Please do not worry about me. It... was a brief stay. The neighbors were simply concerned after... I-I told you that I couldn't bear to lose you like that. But I'm okay now, we - we're okay.

Believe me, I wish for nothing more than to be able to agree with you... but I cannot push it aside any longer. It was no simple nightmare... Your friend... Death - is right. We all witnessed it becoming real. Everybody died before us all. Anya, Daisuke, Swansea, even Jimmy - everyone died, and all we could do was sit in your head while you were forced to bear witness to it! And Jimmy, he--

[She stops. Briefly hyperventilates. The cake, the gun, the knife. The blood. The truth.]

It was exactly what I saw in my dream.

...

He took everyone. Made a sordid arrangement of their bodies at your kitchen table. He took you...

A-and he cut you up. He cut you up and... and ate your leg. He made you--

[A pause. Nearly ill. Shaky breaths. Her voice falls rather flat, almost defeated.]

I... the screaming has been in my head for days. I couldn't-... I do not remember much of what happened after that. It was all so fast. Much too fast. I thought I were dying... and the next thing I was aware of was being in a, a hospital, begging for someone, for anyone to listen to me! Please, my boy... Grant Curly of Pony Express... he needs help, urgently...! Please...!

And then I was... transferred. To a... a different hospital. I - I suppose they were worried that I would harm myself? Though no such thought had ever crossed my mind. It... it was only for a few days - I was at least allowed to call Kestrel, and he immediately left school early to come home for me... I didn't sleep much, though. With all the screaming...

And then...? I am not sure what happened after that. There was this, this awful noise in my head that night, and we... suddenly I was hearing Anya's voice. Dear, sweet Anya... even though she were already dead... I, I thought I must have been dreaming. I clung to her soothing voice, and she assured us that she was very much alive... that you were still alive...! It was only the next morning that I knew it was somehow real, because she was still there, speaking with us... and I was still in that hospital...!

[She puts in an effort to sound happier, despite all of the emotional turmoil.]

And the rest, well... you seem to be well aware. But you're here now...! I am here, we - we're all here again...! Even Kestrel! (Oh, this was not at all how I was planning for the two of you to meet. But we can still make it work, yes...?)

Somehow we were given a, a second chance...? I will be thanking the starlings every night of my life for it. And praying that poor Daisuke will pull through, as well.

I only hope that our efforts will have been enough, in the end... I am... so, so tired, sweet pea. I just want you to come home...

Mum, hello— Can he hear me? Why were you in the hospital??

Becoming— What became real…? God, is this— I still can’t wrap my mind around this. How could we have—? What happened? Are you all right?

Your… dream.

…What? What? What the fuck, no, he wouldn’t— That’s— No, you wouldn’t lie, but— He’s not a fucking cannibal, he— what?? This is some sick twist on the bloody meat jokes, that can’t be real. I don’t want it to be real. God, that’s— I don’t want to imagine it.

…

I’m so sorry… I— I’m here now, okay? I’m okay.

Yeah, we’re alive the both of us, it’s going to be okay. It has to be. That— they can’t die, none of them.

Yeah, uh. Tell him hi for me… Are you sure you’re all right…?

Second chance. It’s— it’s hard to comprehend. Whatever happened, it’s not… it isn’t real anymore, yeah? Just like… a bad dream. Never happened. Daisuke will pull through. He has to.

Please try and rest… I want to come home, too.

#curlyposting #kind words

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bisexual-horror-fan · 1 month ago

Text

"Catharsis." Leslie Vernon X FEM! AFAB! Reader.

So I wrote this for my fantastic and lovely girlfriend, @applesontheground, for our one year anniversary, I cannot believe it is already coming up so fast, I got this done early and she said I was welcome to share it with all of you! So here is an edited version for all of you, hope you enjoy it! I seriously missed writing Leslie Vernon.

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Rating: Explicit. Length. 7.7K. Leslie Vernon X FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Established Relationship. Softness. Fluff. Mentions Of Attempted Murder. Mentions Of Stalking. Creepy And Kind Of Harrassing Customers Flirting With Reader. Flirting. Banter. Predator/Prey Play. Physical Fighting. Cardio In The Woods. Dirty Talk. Biting. Grinding. Man Handling. Hair Pulling. Groping. Outdoor Sex. Vaginal Fingering. Vaginal Sex. Choking. Pain Play. Restrained And Rough Sex. Cream Pie. Cunnilingus. Come Eating. Implications Of Aftercare.

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You slept in that morning, last night’s shift ran late, and you really needed the extra rest, you rolled over in bed and snatched up your phone, still wrapped in the warm comfort of your sheets you start to check your notifications. A smile finds its way onto your face when you see Leslie texted, a usual ritual of his, you click it open to be greeted with a few texts from your boyfriend, sent hours ago.

He is usually an early riser, some of the only times he sleeps in is when you spend the night together, today is a regular day, you scroll up and the first message reads, “Morning! Gorgeous day out.” It certainly looked like it, judging by the picture he sent along with it, him, in a dove gray t-shirt, darker patches on it marked from sweat, in shorts and sneakers, clearly taken just after his morning run, the sun coming up behind him. He usually doesn’t take selfies with the phone in his hand, he much more often sets his phone down somewhere and puts more effort into it, just as he does with all things; it seems he is on that back trail he likes, with the intense hill that you find difficulty in even hiking, he sprints up it with relative ease.

The next picture is of that morning’s breakfast, he has gotten into protein coffee recently and today’s looks good, frothy and creamy, sitting in the upper right corner of the image. In the centre sitting on a woven blue place mat you know Jamie herself had made, is a plate laden with scrambled eggs, chopped chives on top, ham, home fries cooked with sautéed onions and peppers, toast smeared with peanut butter, drizzled with honey and dusted with cinnamon on top. This picture is accompanied by one word only, “Starving.”

You aren’t surprised, he works himself very hard, the amount he eats is insane to keep up his body for his line of work, maintaining his weight and muscle tone takes a hefty amount of protein.

There is one more text. He is in a different outfit, a much more usual day fit for him, a shirt you bought him and jeans, his sunglasses on his face to fight against the insane sun now baring down, he is kneeling in the grass, tools scattered around him, the text telling what he is doing, “Trap prep and inventory day!”

That last text was sent two hours ago, he must still be deep in it, no other update, you get out of bed, stretch and head to the bathroom. You take your first picture of the day when you are brushing your teeth, hair tamed and still in your pajamas from last night, a simple, “Morning Les! Busy as always, and looking good as ever, I see, I’m gonna be headed to work soon, love ya!”

You try to text him throughout the day once you are up, but sometimes the day gets away from you, today is one of those days. The routine of getting prepared for work sweeps you up into it as you run around.

You eat, check your planner, have a shower, make sure you have everything you need together for work and then you are getting dressed. Hair looks clean, and shiny, well-kept, you have it in a high ponytail with a few pieces framing your face, your eyes highlighted with winged liner and your lips sparkle with gloss. You are in a cute outfit, jeans, a black leather belt, silver hardware and the shirt you have on is one you stole from the men’s section, button-up, for whatever reason, this shirt helped you get a ton of tips, you have been here long enough to figure out what combinations together can score you the most money, what shirts, what hairstyle, the smile you wear that can assist dollar bills fill your pockets by night's end.

The jewellery you have on is simple in silver, in short, you look fantastic, you think tonight you will get a fat stack.

Bag, water bottle, and keys, you head out to the hotel you work at.

Okay, so you were right, you are in fact getting a ton of tips, but nothing is ever free, right? The price in question is tolerating some good old-fashioned harassment. It’s a busy night, at this point the majority of people are checked in, and yet you are not alone, seems an endless stream of older gentlemen who are a few drinks deep keep coming by to “-check in-” and because they “-just can’t help wanting to talk to someone so pretty-” oh joy, lucky you.

Currently, you had your planner open beside you, a pen in your hand and you are doodling on a sticky note. You are trying to give your mind something else to focus on as you hum and nod at what the far too old man in front of you is saying, “You know, you are way too pretty to be workin’ in a place like this-”

“Uh-huh.” You nod, tone rather flat, he had been here for a few minutes, combined with the entire night of this, your patience is wearing thin. “-I mean it! At the same time though…I should be thankful, with you here I get to enjoy being around you, lookin’ at you…” his voice trails off, and your eyes glance up to see the man before you leering.

Fucking gross.

He speaks again, “You know you could stand to undo a few more of those buttons-” the gesture to your shirt has you asking in a louder than needed, but still sugary polite tone, “I am sorry sir, is there something I can help you with?”

Looking slightly startled, but not at all ashamed, they rarely if ever are, he mutters, “No, I’m fine.”

He stalks away, and you breathe a sigh of relief, eyes falling closed and shoulders dropping, you try to force some of the tension out of your body, it doesn’t work as well as you would hope. You need to use the bathroom, just to get away for a minute if nothing else, so you put up a small sign declaring that you would be back in five minutes. It takes less than five, to go there, do what you need to, wash your hands and centre yourself.

Heading back to the cage, no one there, thank God, and you get back into position, glancing at the time you have just over an hour left. You pull your phone out realizing you hadn’t looked at it in what must have been hours, you see some unread texts, one from a friend asking you about whom the guy with the fat fucking lips was from SAW, one from a different friend asking if you want to do lunch this weekend and a few from Leslie. You respond to your both friends quickly, “Hoffman.”, to one and a simple, “Yes, what time?” and then you open the conversation with Leslie.

A few more texts since the one you sent him this morning, one gushing over how cute you look in the picture you sent, that makes you smile. Then you got a picture of some put together traps, an hour after the one you had sent him, proclaiming, “Done! For now at least.”

Another text right after asking if you had eaten, shit, you should have responded sooner, before you could start to type out a response you got a text from him came in, phone buzzing in your hand, the text read two simple words, “Look up.”

A furrowing of your brows, you don’t comply immediately, when you realize someone in front of you is clearing their throat lightly, that has your head snapping up, and there he is, Leslie Vernon standing right in front of you, his own phone in his hand.

Surprise washes over, leading to the question you ask, “Leslie, what are you doing here?”

He wears an expression of faux hurt as he leaned on his forearms, resting on the counter, “Awe, am I not allowed to come by at my leisure?”

You laugh lightly, “Of course you are, just never expected you to.”

He hums, a smile on his face, “Well, you should know by now to expect the unexpected around me.”

Leslie has a point. He speaks again before you can, clarifying further, “Really though, I just wanted to spend some time with you, I know you get off in an hour, figured I could make the end of your shift more interesting.”

True, you know that he has that piece of information, even without having to share your schedule somehow Leslie is always in the know about when you start and when you finish, you don’t need to know how he figures it out, the answer isn’t important. You are sure that he can make the end of your day much more enjoyable.

You set your phone down and say, “I mean naturally, you always make for more interesting conversation than the usual customers who come through here.”

He leans back a little as he coos, “You flatter me so. You like that text thing?”

“Oh yeah, reminds me of back before we “met” and you used to stalk me, just a bit more interactive.” You muse, and he says, “We could do that sometime, play strangers meeting out in the wild, play out a one-night-stand, if you want.”

An appealing thought, you can see it, getting dressed up, meeting out at a bar, introductions, flirting, a semi-public hook-up, hot. You file it away for later, telling him, “I adore the way you think.”

He makes a pleased sound at the compliment before asking, “How’s work been?” You know he asked that as opposed to inquiring about your day, you were only up for a few hours before coming in and most of it was spent getting ready for work, his question cuts through the bullshit, you appreciate it. Your body language must give it away before you even respond, tightening up, and he asks before you can speak up, “That bad?”

A small nod as you confess, “Yeah. Not gonna lie, tonight has sucked.”

“Yeahhhh, I figured.” He sighs out, your questioning look has him elaborating, “Usually you text me at least a few times once you get to work, the total radio silence told me one of two things, it was either busy as shit, or fucking awful, I don’t remember you mentioning any event that would point to the former, so-” he trailed off, the rest implied and my God. You love how observant he is, Leslie really pays attention and sees every single minor detail, how lovely it is to be seen.

“You really have me pegged, don’t you?” You asked it playfully, but it doesn’t totally land, he says, “I really do. So, I’m here to help fix your night.”

Cute and thoughtful. “And how are you planning on helping me de-stress?”

“First off, I am going to be here to help discourage any more creeps from coming up and bothering you, and next, I think I have a good activity once you are done to help melt some of that stress away.” The first part of his sentence cheers you up already, glad you aren’t going to have to tolerate any further harassment, and the ladder sends a simple zing of excitement through you, whatever could he have in mind?

“Do I get to know what you have in mind yet?”

“I bet you’d like that, however, you know how big a fan I am of the element of surprise, of building anticipation.” He says it casually, with a slight edge, one not lost on you as he is turning his phone over in one hand, his eyes never leave you.

“A hint?” You plead and he softens slightly, a single word is given, he leans in a bit closer, a hand curls around his mouth like it is a secret he doesn’t want anyone else hearing, “Cardio.”

Well, that will make your heart skip an entire beat like nothing else. You think back to your first night together, to how you ran from him, bleeding and terrified, what a night, the way you were never the same after that, completely bonded together. You’ve revisited it a few times since, and it has been a little bit, yeah you think that you could really use that, and he could too you figure.

Leslie is watching, observing in that way he does best, like he is taking you apart piece by piece; dissecting you, leaving you to feel as splayed open as if you were split on a surgery slab. No matter what you do, there is no hiding your feelings from him, so more often than not you do not bother with the pretense, unless it’s part of the game you are playing. Arousal is simmering lowly in the background, you are positive that you have parsed his meaning, now you have to stew in it and wait.

You hum in interest, trying to downplay the mix of vulnerability and excitement you feel when he fixes you in this manner, you wonder if it matters. Pivoting the subject you ask, “So if a coworker comes by am I introducing you as-” you leave the last part blank, leading him, wondering what he wanted.

“Just a regular patron you are helping.” He says it coyly, it makes you laugh, aware that you two aren’t going to be lingering and sharing a drink after your shift like you might if you introduced him as your significant other, “Fair enough, Sir.” You put emphasis on the last word, and he snickers to himself.

The conversation flows easily, the pair of you pretending to not be a couple, and there is something about this, the being out in public but unable to touch, that is having an unexpected effect. When you and Leslie are together the two of you are big on affection, making up for the lost time spent apart, you are all too used to being able to reach out, hold his hand, to the casual throwing of an arm around you, of kisses pressed to cheeks and hairlines. It is like that phenomenon where the not being able to do something makes you want to do it all the more. Throw on how you are anticipating your playtime later and you are definitely wet.

The last hour of your shift doesn’t overstay it’s welcome, getting everything done with Leslie nearby makes it fly by faster than normal, and soon enough you are picking up your stuff and clocking out. Leslie had broken off a few minutes previous while you collected yourself and he is waiting in the parking lot, leaning against your car, with a smile as you approach you reach for where you keep your keys, your step stumbles and your smile falls as you realize they are missing. Leslie was watching you as he always was, and he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Your attention turns away from looking through pockets and your bag, back over to him, he speaks again, “Looking for these?” He is spinning your keys on his pointer finger, you had not felt him take the keys at all, you laugh and continue coming towards him, “Good one, you really got me.”

Right in front of him now, looking up at him, hand out to take the keys he stops spinning them, closing his hand around the keys he asks, “Got you? Oh, did you think this was a joke? Cute, super cute, but no, sweetheart, we’re starting.”

Oh, fuck.

You didn’t think he meant immediately post shift, you live close to work, you could make it if you try, if you are smart, and if you don’t? A shiver runs through you at the thought. The tone of his voice changes, drops a little, not as outright playful, more serious, “Drop your stuff, it’ll only weigh you down, I’ll put it in your car for you and give you a five-minute head start.”

His words register and you thrust your water bottle and bag into his chest, his hands come up automatically, cradling your possessions to him in a second and just as quickly you take off running.

Leslie laughs, and calls after you, “Timer starts now!”

You are running through the parking lot and towards the tree line in the direction you know will get you to your house. You’ve been through these woods before, once on a day off you walked from your place to work to get lunch and walked back, you know it isn’t super far, less than an hour walking. However, running in the dark is a different story, you’ve never been in between these trees at night, just stared into the deep enveloping darkness of the forest.

Has Leslie been in these woods before? You aren’t sure, does it matter? He is far more experienced than you, and him making the journey between your work and home without you knowing about it is absurdly possible, it might as well be a give in.

You break through the first few trees, you have your phone, you yank it out and turn on your flashlight, getting your barrings quickly before turning it back off and you start winding through the trees.

If you hurry you can get there in just over half an hour, you don’t think you will be able to run the whole way there, you aren’t Leslie, you don’t go for daily morning runs and have seemingly near endless stamina. You are running to put space between you and Leslie, make the most of your head start then you can slow a bit, be a little more careful, you want to give him a good chase more than beat him to your house.

You run until your legs and lungs are burning in tandem, you are heaving, leaning against a tree, straining to listen over your heartbeat in your ears. It has for sure been over five minutes and you were proud for using your time well, but you can’t hear Leslie, not yet.

After you had regained a little more of your breath, you made a move, pushed slightly off the tree, continuing on, you try to watch your feet a bit more, it is summer, not a lot of fallen leaves, mostly you have to watch out for sticks that could tell on your location. Leslie has shared before on how to track someone, footprints in mud, broken sticks, disturbed rocks, all these things can tell which way a person is going.

You walk for a few minutes, methodical and on high alert, your heart rate is still spiking, knowing he is for sure in these trees with you, could be watching you at this very moment, heaven above it was exciting.

Every tiny noise set you off further, wondering if it was him, if he was close, you continued walking, not wanting to stay in any one place for too long because it would greatly increase your risk of being caught and ending the game too early. When you hear a shifting in the bushes, it has you sprinting without thought and with a curse, and you hear a call of, “Ah-ha!”

You can hear him now, he is in hot pursuit, you try to zigzag, attempt to break off but still head in the direction of your house, keeping that at the forefront of your mind, if you go too far off course he will have a much bigger advantage.

The longer you are in the woods, the longer he has to get you.

You cut through a thick section, curl around a cluster of trees and then duck down, rushing towards a very large tree, throwing your back against the trunk of it, crouching down, facing away from the direction you just came from. You hope it is enough, you are breathing hard, your heart is hammering in your ribcage, the rhythm of it almost pulsing in time with your clit throbbing against the tight seam of your jeans, the scenario, the build up, the friction, you are embarrassingly wet.

Leaning against the tree, you hear him burst through the same intense brush you had thirty seconds prior, pulse jumping again, you cover your mouth with both hands, keeping the sound in. He keeps going, you don’t see where exactly but, you hear him continue in the direction of your house. Breathing a small sigh of relief, your head falls back against the tree, eyes falling closed you suck down a deep breath, the game is still on for the time being.

You give yourself a good minute, and then your eyes open back up, standing up and about to head forward, until you feel it, a cold hand locked around your ankle. A wordless exclamation as you flail, fear gripping you tightly, your head jerks to your foot and there is Leslie, on the ground, hand on you, Jesus Christ he had scared you badly. Leslie is grinning up at you, “Gotcha.”

Leslie is absurdly strong, you are all too familiar, have sat in on many a physical strength training session, as well as feeling those arms around you, he has thrown you around plenty of times, and yet he still surprises you frequently. He only has one hand on your ankle, your feet are planted firmly in the dirt and you have a hand on the tree, he yanks once and sends you careening to the ground.

When you hit the dirt, you hit it hard, ass first and crying out, “Fuck!”

His other hand secures onto your other ankle, and he pulls you roughly over the loose dirt towards him, he is sitting up on his knees, when he has you pulled inward to him, it causes your legs to fall over his own thighs, your feet well past his hips. Leslie’s hands are on you, splayed on your back, holding you closer until you are sitting up on his lap, he is looking up at you as he coos out, “Nice effort.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, “Not good enough.”

He doesn’t acknowledge what you said, instead one of his hands slipping up the smooth fabric of your shirt and then three of his fingers begin to curl into the long ponytail still placed high up on your head, once he has a good grip, a few loops of hair around the digits, he pulls. When tugging someone's hair it is better to do it near the roots, it gives you control but doesn’t hurt that much, him doing it so low hurts much worse, but you figure that is exactly why he did it.

He pulled so hard it has your head snapping back, forcing you to look up at the stars through the gaps in the canopy of trees, he leans in, you feel warm breath fanning over your exposed neck and it causes air to catch in your throat. “Do you know how much I fucking love it when you wear your hair like this?”

Lips brush over your pulse and you squirm in his lap, a further hitch in your breathing, he pulls on your hair again, fingers having snaked deeper into the silky locks, he continues on, “Watching you put your hair up is like porn for me, in a fucked up and wholly emotional way.”

He starts kissing up your neck, mouth closer to your ear, he grinds up into you and gasping you grind back down into him, feeling how hard he is through the shared layers of denim you both wear, he presses the point, “That first night, you were gearing up to fight back, flannel shirt discarded, showing off that tank top, putting your hair up, getting ready to come at me, I was watching the whole time and I didn’t think I could fall any harder than I already had.”

The slow grind you are sharing is maintained, only stuttering when he bites, eyes squeezing shut, you moan softly at the sharp pain, “You proved me wrong. I am thrown back to that night every time you wear it like this. It does something to me.”

You whisper his name, strained and needy, “Leslie-”

“Can you feel it too?” The question has you responding quickly, a squirm of your hips downwards as you do, “Yes, shit, of course I do!”

“I know you do, s’nice hearing you say it, though.” He pauses to continue to kiss over your neck, when you shiver he finally starts speaking again, “So you should be on the same page as me, you don’t want this to be over yet, right?”

God, what a question. You want to fuck him yes, but no, you don’t want the chase to end, not quite yet, you know if you draw this out, it’ll be even better.

So you decide to act, you move quickly, swinging your arm into his stomach, a hard shove of your elbow catches him off guard, knocking air from his lungs, his grip loosens enough on your hair that you rip it free with your other hand. You scramble to get yourself up back to standing and he is recovering fast, so that is when you swung your leg, foot hitting him in the middle of his chest, planting firmly and shoving him onto his back, you turn and bolt.

“Come and get me, Vernon!” You call behind you and taking back off in the direction of your house.

The chase continues, running quickly from the scene, riding high from what he said, the arousal and getting the drop on him. You don’t hear Leslie approaching, you think you might be able to totally get away, God what a thrill that would be to actually beat him, to get to your house first.

You play it smart, you move quick, you think that you are aware enough, spoiler alert, you aren’t, but he lets you think you are for a good five minutes more before he is on you. He doesn’t play as coy this time, he lets you hear him approaching, lets you look over your shoulder to see how futile it is, that he is five feet behind you, that freaky fucking intense walk, with no intent of stopping until he has you.

Fucking shit, you don’t want to deviate too far from the path you are on, the earlier spill already has you worried that you are further off track than you want, but you can’t let it happen like this. Think, think, quick! You turn, harshly, dart in between the thinner space between two trees, you know he will have to either go around them or through and either way? Will slow him down.

This won’t be enough though and you know it, so you rack your brain and it clicks in an instant, your fingers get to work. You can hear the sounds of him behind you, heavy breathing matching your own, snapping of twigs, he wants you to be aware of him and lord are you ever, with another quick glance you see him coming up quick, you need to time this just so.

You know his pace well, you count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

And, five! You do it, you had gotten all the buttons open and you turn your torso as you take it off, he had a hand out, about to grab you, but you throw the shirt you just removed so it hits him right in the face, temporarily blinding him. You take advantage of the situation and adjust, stopping forward momentum you turn, hard, hands out you push him to the side, he stumbles, and his body smacks into the tree he was passing and you pass him instead, doubling back the way you came.

Wanting to laugh out loud, you are flying through the woods now, where is all this energy coming from? You aren’t totally sure, but you are not going to question it either! Honestly, it might just be from how badly you needed this kind of play, the freedom, knowing you can be rough with Leslie because he of all people can take it.

Your downfall is getting too cocky, Leslie is the seasoned consummate professional, you should have known he was holding back, and that he could end this whenever he wanted to, and that you perhaps have pushed him just a hair too far.

All you know is one second you are up, running, wind whipping by, drying the sweat that is on your exposed midriff from the black tank top you wore under your original shirt getting rucked up, thinking that you’ve bought yourself another chunk of time. And the next? You are being fully tackled to the ground.

How the fuck did he do it? You aren’t even sure how he did, you just know that now he is on top of you while you are struggling in the dirt. You have a cheek to rough grit, chest and stomach hurt slightly from the fall on the slightly rough terrain you’ve landed on, your arms start to try to push yourself up, legs kicking out, but he is securing you fast. Knees on the backs of your thighs, his hands grabbing your wrists, twisting your arms so they are behind your back, you let out a frustrated groan, head dropping to the forest floor. Still your body moves, wriggles under the weight of him, still not totally giving up, until he adjusts, still boxing you in, you feel him grind against your ass, eyebrows raise at how clearly hard he is.

“Gotcha again.” He muses, his voice sounds more wrecked, a bit more out of breath as he says next, “You got some seriously good hits in, I might even bruise.”

You feel his chest much closer to your back, brushing slightly, he leans down to speak lower into your ear, “That thing you did with your shirt? Swear to God-” he doesn’t verbally finish the thought, a roll of his hips against you instead used to telegraph his thoughts and feelings on the matter.

Arousal tears through you once more, it rockets up your spine, not unlike a person striking a chord on a guitar, it sends heat thrumming, vibrating your nerves on what feels like a cellular level. You have nothing to grind on and that is heartbreaking when you are this turned on, so you let out a quiet, small, sad sound at the back of your throat, instead you press your thighs together for any semblance of stimulation. You struggle back, trying to provide a better feeling for him at least, and the half choked moan shows he wasn’t expecting it but was very appreciative.

The weak grinding continues for only a minute more before you speak up, asking, “You just gonna do this till you cream your jeans or what?”

With a breathy laugh, Leslie asks, “Depends, if I try to get you out of your pants, are you gonna bolt again?” You respond in a biting tone, “Maybe, maybe not, I make no promises.”

He doesn’t need to think longer on it, he starts to adjust, still tries to keep you pinned and controlled, while half rolling you over to be able to start to open your belt. You are making it difficult but not impossible, he is vastly stronger than you. Getting out of the hold he has you in, looks like it isn’t going to happen, because when you do start to gain some footing, he destabilizes you again with ease. It is taking much longer than he wanted, so he steps it up, one hand jams between your thighs and starts to grope you through your jeans, halting your struggle, causing you to stiffen as you moan at the sudden stimulation, his other hand makes quick work of your belt. Once it is open, he starts to work on the button and zipper of your jeans, maybe you should stop trying to run, you were hoping for one more chase, some faint idea of third time’s the charm, he ends up putting that idea to bed. It is like he knows you are trying to figure out how to get up, away, to run again, so his hand slides under the layers of clothing and the feeling of bare skin on skin has you arching your hips into his hand with a near sob of his name from relief.

It felt great when he was touching you through your clothing, so him getting his hand on your proper, giving you his strong rough palm to grind yourself on, an act you are shamelessly engaging in, sates you like nothing else. The feeling is like finally getting to chug a bottle of water after several hours of walking under the sun in blistering summer heat, it is exactly what you need.

“My God-” Leslie sounds awed, “-this is why I love doing this, it gets you drenched like nothing else.”

You aren’t struggling any longer, not while he is letting you grind into his hand, it isn’t for long enough, after a minute he removes his hand and you whine, he shushes you, “Patience, I’m gonna fix it.”

How was he going to do that? He is pulling your pants down, with your shoes still on they couldn’t be fully removed, but they didn’t need to be, he gets them around your knees and your underwear meets a similar fate, bunched and far out of the way. You are lying on your side and he is above you, practically on top of you, his knees in the dirt he is taking care of his own pants now. Once he is freed, he has one hand between your bodies, holding you open, thumb spreading your dripping lips and his other hand is spit into, he jerks himself briefly to spread the lube and then he aligns and forces in, not because he has to, but because you both want him to.

When you do have nights like this with Leslie, you fuck the same way that you fight in the lead up, rough, feral and animalistic, in the dirt and needy, clinging and grabbing wherever you can reach. It isn’t a traditionally romantic affair by the normal person’s standards, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t emotional in its own right between the pair of you. There isn’t normal foreplay needed because the chase was the foreplay, you were more than ready, loose and wanting, your slick walls split open on him, parting easily and making you cry out.

In turn his head drops forward, he holds for only a moment, soaking in how divine your heat wrapped around him is before it starts properly, the hard motions, the meeting of your bodies echoing in the surrounding space.

Thank God you are deep in the woods, no one around to hear as your breathing and moans pick up. You reach up, a hand curling in his shirt, just desperate to have more contact, to touch him in some way, and for the help it provides, using it to pull yourself back onto him as he fucks forward. That first pull that causes you to meet him in the middle makes you both let out a louder shared moan, it makes the pace slow slightly, become more purposeful, drawing out all the feeling you can.

You can tell the exposed skin is getting scratched up, but you really don’t care, the masochist in you is loving how it is feeding into all of this, pain and pleasure bleeding and mingling.

“Can’t stay still, baby, hm? Always gotta be on the move.” He breathes with a harsh thrust and you nod, a weak gasp, “Yeahhhh, can-can’t help it-”

You know he loves it, the taking your own initiative, pushing back on him, he doesn’t want someone totally docile and with no fight, he wants to be challenged. He wants to tussle still, a struggle for control, he doesn’t want it to end until you’ve both wrenched a mind breaking orgasm from each other.

His hand leaves the dirt it was planted in favour of coming down to your chest, he pulls your tank top and bra down, Leslie is a tit man and approximately nine point five times out of ten if he is inside you, he needs to see and touch your chest. When the pale flesh is exposed he moans, you can practically feel him throb inside you. His hand palms one of them, hips not stopping, dirt stains your skin, leaving physical marks on your flesh to match the trails of heat blooming underneath. Arching up closer, he rewards you, a pull on one of your nipples has you cursing and clenching around him.

The hand that still isn’t grabbing is shirt is digging fingers into the ground, crying out his name, “I love to hear that.” and before you could utter another sound, he forced one from you, his hand smacking the swollen and raised nipple he had just pinched.

“Ow! Fuck-ing, asshole!” You groan, you want to hit him back but restrain yourself, until he does it again and you return the hit automatically. It isn’t the hardest you can, just a quick response, your hand releases his shirt and hits him in the chest and he retaliates.

His hand that isn’t currently palming your tit grabs your throat and forces you down, your body is contorted almost painfully now. Your back is flat on the ground, held by your throat and breast, but your hips and legs are still turned to the side, nearly his full weight is being placed on you, effort put into his hard thrusts and you are letting out sounds with every thrust. “We both know you are gonna take it.”

He is right, you will, and you will lap every bit of his attention up, your body being completely used by him provides unending joy and purpose.

The continual pounding into you helps cut through the hurt, and his hand on your throat aids too, light-headedness adding to the overall heady feeling.

Your hand flies up to grip his wrist, fingernails are biting into his skin and it has him tightening his grip in response, you wince, the pleasure boiling through your cunt has completely set you on fire, threatening to burn you from the inside out. You are struggling to breathe, weak and hiccuping breaths and the steady metronome of Leslie’s hips falter, it isn’t surprising, how he is handling you, choking you, has your walls rippling, clenching over and over, practically milking him.

You were not expecting this to be a long fuck, how hard you went into it, the extreme nature of it, the passion, makes it unbelievably hot, meaning? The incredible climax is usually reached quickly. Even with your eyes half closed, and his hand clamped on your throat, you can read his tells easily, he is close. Huffing out, “Fuck, feels too good, can’t hold it-”

He fucks harder, barrelling towards his own release while you aren’t even close, clit totally untouched, but him treating you like a hot, living, breathing, fuck hole on nights like this isn’t new, doesn’t stop it from being hot. Leslie more than makes up for it later.

You want it, badly, you wheeze out, “Please-”

A curse and your name stains his tongue, as his hand slips from your neck and back into the dirt, you suck in a deep breath and with a last thrust into your soaked hole he holds to the root and unloads into you. It isn’t like you don’t like getting a facial, or getting bathed in cum on any other part of your body, there is just something so fucking good about this, him pouring it into you. In the quiet and between pants, he tells you as honestly as he always does, “I love you so fucking much.”

You lay there staring into the trees, trying to catch your breath enough to return the sentiment while he is still locked inside, you are still naturally, obscenely turned on, not close to coming down, when he surprises you.

His hands lock onto your waist and he pulls out and when he does, he is hefting you up, “Woah!”

He drags your shoulder blades on the ground, twisting your hips so they align with your torso again, throwing your legs over his shoulders and his mouth dipping down, tongue first. His arms lock over your thighs as he is sitting up on his knees, you are draped down his front, he is holding you effectively upside down, with just your head and shoulders are on the ground, as he starts to eat you out. Your jeans are hooked behind his neck, all the points of support, fabric and otherwise, have you helplessly pressed to him and forced to take it. Eyes rolling back, you moan, loud and unapologetic, as he laps, tasting the mix of you and him, you bet that he dragged you up so fast because he didn’t want to waste a drop, or he just wants to ensure your pleasure too.

God, he is good, he is more than that, he is your everything. Finally, you respond to what he said before he started to devastate you with his mouth, “I looooove you toooo-”

He muffles a laugh into your cunt and you can’t help the breathless giggle that bubbles out too.

He starts with licking you from hole to clit a few times over, an act that has you keening, and then each time he passes over that extremely sensitive part, he starts to focus on it for longer, and longer until he isn’t leaving it alone at all. His tongue locked onto that spot, he eats it just how he knows you like, very fucking messy, pressure steadily increasing, having you panting out, “Hooo-ly fuh-fuck-ing sh-it, Leslie!”

Starting out gently when eating out is a good rule of thumb, the people who stay gentle the entire time are not the people for you, no, you prefer ample spit, someone who isn’t afraid to do more than kitten lick, tentative and almost like they are afraid. When you need pressure, actually sucking cannot be understated enough, this is a fact Leslie knows intimately and one he has mastered seemingly ages ago. A lick, tongue swirling, then lips wrap around and he sucks deeply, then not breaking the suction the soft tip of his tongue slips over it again and again before the process begins again in some similar variation that has you about to fall the fuck apart.

Your boyfriend appreciates building anticipation, he knows that the lead up to cumming can be just as good as the orgasm itself when done correctly, he also knows that at times, enough is enough and you just need to get off, after the night you’ve had, you land in the second camp. In times like this he likes to try and beat his quiet internal record, see how quick he can do it, from the time his tongue touches down to when you are pushing him away in overstimulation.

It takes five minutes tonight, from tongue in hole, playing clean up crew to the mess he left, to pulsing spasms of ecstasy with a bite of your lip, a barely restrained scream and sweat behind your knees.

It is the kind of peak that has you shuddering through it, hardly holding on by your fingernails, and leaves you gasping, wrung out and satisfied to your bones. Once his mouth lifts it is shiny down to his chin with slick and spit, he helps lower you back to the ground safely to come back to yourself on your own time. In the meantime he is tucking himself away and closing his pants back up, looking him over he is a mess just like you are sure that you are, filthy with dirt and sweat slick from exertion

Once you have enough sense back in your head, you are reaching out to him, needy grabby hands in his direction, beckoning him down with a soft, “C’mere.”

He complies easily, leaning down over you with a smile, “Yes?”

Your hands come up, run through short brown hair and you tug him down, you kiss him, tasting the thick tang of yourself on his lips and he returns it. The vague thought in the back of your mind that this is the first kiss you’ve shared all night. Your tongue parts his lips and you take the taste deeper in, he lets out a quiet moan as he sinks into it the same way you do. You enjoy the intimate moment until the coldness of the ground starts to become a bother, pulling away and untangling you say, “I should get my clothes back on.”

He hums in agreement and helps you out, pants and underwear back up and tank and bra pulled back to where they should be, Leslie held onto your shirt from earlier and passes it over.

“Come over tonight?” You ask as you take his hand, “You can use my shower.”

“Sounds great to me.” He sighs, “I’ll bring your keys on my run tomorrow morning and bring your car on the way back, then maybe breakfast out?”

“Yes! Breakfast date, I love it.” You are excited to get home, to share a shower, to curl up with him and have a good old-fashioned sleepover. You start heading in the direction of your house and he corrects after walking for a minute, leading to you asking, “Fuck, was I really this far off course?”

“You were, but hey, you put up a Hell of a good chase.”

#Leslie Vernon x reader #Leslie Vernon x you #Slasher x you #BHF writing #MWAH #Enjoyyyyy

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