#i guess that says something about my preferences in men

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, bucky lowkey manhandling you, possessiveness, angst, voyeurism (things happening in an elevator)

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: yay to chapter 3! i hope this series has been good so far, please drop a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed it! lots of love for you guys and please stay safe out there!

series masterlist

The bathroom was cloaked in steam and rose-scented humidity, mirrors fogged around the edges as you tapped at your comms device.

“I swear to god, Lena, if he tells me to ‘stay close’ one more time—”

Yelena’s voice crackled to life, “Let me guess. He held your hand crossing the lobby? Put floaties on you for the pool?”

You snorted, pacing barefoot across the heated marble tiles. “He’s infuriating, it’s like he needs to babysit me. He is either hovering or micromanaging, like I haven’t survived six ops without him breathing down my neck.”

A beat of silence, then the wry twist of a smirk in Yelena’s voice. “Maybe he just wants to make sure you come back. Preferably with all limbs attached, preferably…you know, clothed.”

You stopped, frowning at your reflection through the fogged glass. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she said, far too innocently. “And if you ask me, the hovering means he cares, you know in his emotionally constipated way.”

Before you could argue, another voice broke through—deeper, rumbling, warm and a thick russian accent.

“Barnes just caring for you, little starfish.”

You blinked. “I—I don’t need him to.”

“Nyet,” Alexei replied. “But maybe you want him to.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Heat surged up your neck as you quickly muted the comm, the silence that followed thick with everything you didn’t want to think about.

You stared at yourself for a moment longer, then reached for the dress.

It was a crimson red, Yelena had picked it out for you, it was the kind of red that made men pray and women curse.The silk clung like a second skin, liquid and shining, wrapping around your hips and hugging the swell of your thighs with lethal precision. 

The neckline dipped recklessly low, teasing the curve of your breasts with every breath you took. The straps were thin and delicate, threatening to fall if you so much as tilted the wrong way.

And paired with the stilettos that Ava had convinced you would complete the look, you looked like temptation incarnate. Every inch of you was deliberate. Calculated and weaponised.

The bathroom door creaked open.

He was standing by the window, half-turned away, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

You stopped.

The brunette was in a tailored button-down, the dark fabric clinging to his chest and shoulders like sin, sleeves rolled up just far enough to bare his forearm—thick and corded with muscle, veins rising beneath the skin in clean, practiced lines. 

The shirt was tucked into black slacks that fit just a little too well, the cut precise, hugging his hips and thighs like they were custom-made for the mission of destroying your focus.

His hair was pushed back, strands falling just slightly out of place. The low golden light brushed along the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the dusting of stubble. 

He looked carved from something old. Dangerous.

Then he turned and saw you.

The shift in his face was subtle, but devastating.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, like he was trying to memorise every curve, every exposed inch. They dropped to the hem of your dress, crawled back up to the neckline, and then higher, locking on your face with such intensity you swore you almost forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. His jaw ticked and his hands flexed once at his sides.

For a long, aching beat, you both just stared at each other.

He was looking at you like he hated you. God, he was looking at you like he wanted to fuck you against the nearest surface.

“You ready?” he asked, finally, his voice hoarse, rougher than it had been a moment ago.

You nodded, trying not to let your gaze linger too long on the way his shirt clung to his chest.

His eyes dipped again, just for a second. They lingered at your chest, flicked down your legs, then snapped back to your mouth.

Your lips curled. “Try not to pop a vein.”

His brow lifted, unimpressed, but there was a glint there. Dark. Hungry. He stepped closer, brushing past you as he reached for the door.

“Try not to get killed tonight, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth, probably to tell him to go to hell, but Ava’s voice broke in over comms before you could.

“ I heard Raskovic’s men will be there, armed and probably wired. Keep it clean guys.”

Your eyes didn’t leave Bucky’s.

“Got it. Thanks, Ava,” you replied, voice tight.

He held the door open, you walked through it, letting your shoulder brush his chest on the way out.

You didn’t look back.

But you felt the weight of his eyes burning into your spine the whole way down the hallway.

The walk down to the resort’s private club took less than five minutes, but it felt like descending into another world.

The air shifted as you passed through velvet-draped corridors and followed the curve of marble staircases carved into the side of the estate. 

Dim lighting bathed the stone in soft amber, each step echoing faintly beneath your heels as Bucky walked beside you in silence, his shoulder brushing yours every few paces, intentional or not, you couldn’t tell.

Nestled on the lower level, built directly into the cliffside, the club revealed itself behind a pair of mirrored double doors and arched golden trim. It wasn’t flashy, not in the way lesser venues tried to be. 

No, this place oozed old money, the kind of place where every detail whispered power instead of shouting it. Champagne-colored lighting glinted softly off crystal decanters and dark velvet walls. 

The scent of pine, aged whiskey, and something spiced, cigar smoke, maybe hung in the air. It was gorgeous, and every part of it screamed exclusive.

When you and Bucky stepped inside, you didn’t need to announce yourselves, the staff knew exactly who you were supposed to be.

“Mr and Mrs Barnes,” the host greeted smoothly, his smile polished, professional. “Welcome. We hope your honeymoon’s been memorable.”

You gave him a small, practiced smile, nothing showy. Just enough to charm. Bucky offered a silent nod, hands clasped casually behind his back like he hadn’t just spent the ride down brooding beside you in silence.

The host turned with a gesture, leading you into the heart of the space. Your heels tapped rhythmically against polished black stone, Bucky’s gait slow and deliberate at your side.

“(y/n)!” a voice called, light and champagne-bubbly over the music.

Layna drifted toward you, graceful as ever, her gown a wash of shimmery gold that hugged her figure like liquid wealth. Her smile was broad and curated, her cheeks perfectly blushed, every inch of her styled for the spotlight.

“You look incredible,” she said brightly, looping her arm through yours with practiced familiarity.

Behind her trailed Fred, tall and composed, eyes flicking toward Bucky with a respectful nod.

“James,” he said, reaching for a handshake. “The gentlemen’s lounge is just through the terrace. Cigars, vintage reserves, poker tables. Worth a visit.”

Bucky’s gaze shifted to you, a silent question in the glance. You smiled, letting your fingers trail lightly along his sleeve, not for show, but a subtle signal, something reassuring in its intimacy.

“Go on,” you said, keeping your voice low and playful. “I’ll grab a drink with Layna.”

His jaw tightened at that, not out of disapproval but out of something else. Reluctance, a hint of hesitation. He nodded once.

“Call me if you need anything.”

This time, you didn’t roll your eyes. You just let the smirk tug at your lips. “Always do, babe”

As Bucky followed Fred across the room toward the terrace lounge, you and Layna made your way to the bar. It was tucked beneath a curved alcove of smoked glass and carved wood, with backlit shelves of rare liquors glowing like gemstones. 

You slid onto a plush velvet stool, legs crossing with ease, letting the hem of your dress slip up just an inch more.

You ordered something sharp, whiskey, no ice, and answered Layna’s questions with a perfect blend of giggles and detachment.

The honeymoon’s been “magical.” The views? “Incredible.” James? “Everything I wanted and then some.”

Every word was laced with just enough breathiness to be believable, every glance down at your glass is calculated to seem casual. And yet, underneath it all, your eyes kept scanning the room. 

“I’ll be right back,” Layna said at last, giving your arm a light squeeze. “Forgot my shawl upstairs.”

You gave her a soft nod, swirling your drink.

And that was when you felt it.

The shift in the air. A quiet tension, like silk brushing against bare skin. You sensed him before you saw him, the press of someone standing just a little too close behind you, his gaze dragging across the bare skin of your shoulders like heat.

“Excuse me,” a voice said—low, smooth, perfectly cultured. “Are you alone?”

You turned slowly.

He looked like the kind of man sculptors tried to capture and never quite got right. Tall, lean, and dressed in a dark charcoal suit tailored to sin, the open collar of his black shirt revealed just enough to tease a hidden tattoo. 

His features were sharp, aristocratic, eyes like polished silver, mouth curled into a smirk that didn’t quite meet the eyes. Clean-shaven. Too clean. Handsome in the kind of way that made your instincts flare with warning.

“Depends,” you replied, your lips curling. “Who’s asking?”

“Andrei,” he said, offering a hand. “A friend, if you want one.”

His palm was warm when you slide your fingers into his. Confident. Controlled. The grip of someone who didn’t flinch, didn’t fumble.

“(y/n),” you said smoothly, watching him. “You always open with lines that outdated?”

He chuckled. “Only when they work.”

You were about to volley something back when your earpiece buzzed softly.

John’s voice filtered in, low and clipped. “Did a background check. Name’s Andrei Petrov. Raskovic’s right hand. He’s the guy you need to get chummy with.”

And then, rougher, unmistakable—Bucky, “I’m coming.”

A pause. Then Yelena’s voice, calm and curt. “She’s got this, Barnes. Stay with Fred. Raskovic might show anytime, we need your eyes on the floor.”

And finally, Fred’s voice, somewhere distant: “Come on! Shots?”

Then silence.

Andrei leaned closer, voice brushing against the shell of your ear like smoke. “So... what’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?”

You tilted your head, sipping your drink. “Celebrating. First week of marriage.”

He hummed low. “To a man who lets you out of his sight? Foolish.”

You smiled slow, dragging your gaze across his jawline. “Maybe I’m the dangerous one.”

His laugh was rich, almost charming— the kind of laugh meant to distract. “Dance with me.”

You hesitated. Not long. Just enough.

Your eyes flicked to the terrace, but Bucky hadn’t reappeared.

“Why not?”

You let Andrei take your hand.

The dance floor was bathed in shadows and refracted light, the music heavy and primal, pulsing through your chest. Andrei pulled you close—his hand settling just low enough on your back to test the boundary. 

His steps were fluid, confident. Like he knew how to lead people, how to make them follow. You let your body follow his rhythm, eyes half-lidded, breath controlled.

“Your husband...” he murmured against your ear, “does he know what you’re doing right now?”

“He trusts me,” you replied, cool and unbothered. “He knows I can handle myself.”

Andrei’s hand slid lower. Over the curve of your ass. Testing. Tasting your reaction.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in closer.

“Does your boss trust you this much?”

His eyes flickered—a crack in the mask, just for a moment. Intrigued. Interested.

And then—

A guard appeared beside him. His expression was sharp. Words in russian, fast and clipped, and you understood every word.

Andrei’s smile vanished.

“Босс хочет тебя. Перестань возиться со шлюхой.” “The boss wants you. Stop fucking around with that whore.”

Just like that, Andrei dropped your hand and stepped back.

His tone changed instantly. “Until next time. Don’t wander too far.”

And then he was gone.

You exhaled, pulse still unsteady, breath coming slow and tight.

But Bucky was nowhere in sight.

The club noise faded as you moved deeper into the resort halls, heels echoing against polished stone. The cold quiet wrapped around you like static, but your heart hadn’t settled—not even close.

Andrei’s touch still lingered on your skin, ghosting along the curve of your back like smoke that wouldn’t lift.

You hadn’t gotten much before he was yanked away. But it had been something. Worth it in your books.

You pressed the elevator button with more force than necessary, jaw tight. The whiskey still buzzed faintly through your veins, but it was nothing compared to the slow-burning heat in your chest. 

You weren’t sure if it was frustration or adrenaline.

There has been nothing from Bucky, no ping on the comms, no backup, no rough voice in your ear telling you to abort.

He’d stayed with Fred, stayed with the boys. He hadn’t come.

The elevator doors slid open.

You stepped inside, lips pursed, stabbing the button for your floor. The doors began to slide shut—

—and a gloved hand shot through the gap, forcing them open.

Bucky stepped inside like a storm on two legs.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Not at first. But you felt it.

The tension rolled off of him in waves. His jaw was clenched, his breath sharp. Hands curled into fists at his sides like he was holding something back. 

“For fuck’s sake, (y/n),” he said suddenly, voice low and rough. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You blinked, adrenaline still pumping. “Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” His eyes cut to you, sharp and furious. “Dancing with him. Letting his hands all over you. You knew who he was—”

“I was trying to get information,” you shot back, stepping toward him. “It was working—”

His voice dropped. “And your plan was what? Fuck it out of him?”

The air crackled.

You stared at him, breath catching. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he snarled. He stepped into your space, the force of him pinning you without even touching. “You think you’re subtle? You think I didn’t see the way he was looking at you? The way you let him—”

“I didn’t let him do anything,” you snapped. “That was the mission. That’s what we’re here for.”

“That’s not what that was,” he hissed. “And you fucking know it.”

The elevator kept climbing, but the floor might as well have dropped out from beneath you. The space shrank, every breath shallow, every movement taut.

And then—he snapped.

Bucky surged forward and grabbed you, spinning you and slamming your back against the mirrored wall with a thud that rattled the glass. Before you could curse him out, his mouth was on yours.

He kissed you like he’d waited all fucking night for permission—like he couldn’t hold it back another second. His tongue slid into your mouth, hot and demanding, his teeth grazing your lip just enough to sting. You moaned into him, hands flying to his chest, gripping his shirt as you arched against him.

One of his hands tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make you gasp. The other slid down, over your ass, up under the hem of your dress, fingers digging into the bare curve of your thigh as he shoved your leg up and wrapped it around his waist.

You ground against him, breathless, desperate, needing more.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and solid and right where you needed it.

You rocked against him.

“Every fucking time you argue with me,” he growled against your mouth, “all I want to do is pin you like this and shut you up.”

“Then shut me up,” you gasped, nails raking down his chest.

He did.

His mouth crushed yours again, more brutal this time. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, then slid lower, down your jaw, down your neck, biting at the soft space beneath your ear. You shuddered, fingers gripping his shoulders as his hands roamed.

He cupped your breast through the silk, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled beneath the fabric. You cried out, hips rolling shamelessly against the bulge straining against his zipper.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breath ragged. “This dress—this fucking dress—”

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, fingers trailing over your bare skin, tracing the dip of your spine, the swell of your hip.

You felt him. Hard. Hot. Pressed tight against you.

You wanted to tear the rest of your dress off. You wanted to let him fuck you here, against the glass, in this box hurtling up the side of a mountain.

But then, he froze. Just like that.

Bucky tore himself away, staggering back like he’d just realized what he’d done.

“I can’t,” he rasped, eyes wide, chest heaving.

You stared at him.

Your dress was rumpled, your lip swollen, your thighs still trembling. “What?”

“I can’t,” he said again, softer. He dragged a hand through his hair, stepping back until his spine hit the wall. He looked fucking wrecked. Wild eyes. Flushed skin. Hands shaking.

“This isn’t real,” he murmured, eyes locked somewhere between your legs and your face. “None of this is. And if we let it feel real—”

His voice cracked.

You stepped forward, barely breathing. “Too late.”

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened, and the cold air hit you like a slap.

You pushed past him, jaw clenched, dress twisted high on your thighs. He reached for your wrist—but you pulled away.

“(y/n)—”

“I need air,” he muttered, staring past you like he was already somewhere else.

You stopped, just for a second. Just long enough to turn your head.

“Then breathe,” you said, voice cold. “But don’t expect me to wait while you figure it out.”

And then you left.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t stop until the door to your suite slammed shut behind you, the echo vibrating through your bones.

You were a mess.

Frustrated, horny, and god, you were pissed, still aching where his hands had been, still tasting him on your tongue.

And so, so done pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Somewhere deeper in the resort, past security checkpoints and beyond velvet ropes no guest ever saw, the world shifted.

No more music, laughter or lights warm enough to be inviting.

Only polished stone, muted shadows, and the quiet hiss of air systems pushing filtered silence through the walls.

The lounge in the VIP wing wasn’t for entertainment, inside, two men stood beneath the dim amber glow of a hanging chandelier.

Cigar smoke laced the air, curling upward in thin spirals that twisted and vanished into the high, vaulted ceiling.

Everything smelled expensive, aged tobacco, rare liquor, gun oil faintly buried in the leather.

Andrei leaned against the wall, casual in appearance but sharp-eyed, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a half-lit cigar, thumb flicking it slowly as his gaze stayed fixed on the mirrored panel across the room.

The panel looked like a decorative installation, with smoked glass inset into the wall, but it wasn’t. Behind it, a discreet camera feed displayed the club below in crisp, colourless detail.

The dance floor was mostly cleared now, the lights dimmed, only a few couples left swaying to the after-midnight tempo.

But Andrei wasn’t watching them. He was watching the absence.

“They’re good,” he said finally, voice rough and quiet. “Too good.”

Across from him, Raskovic moved with glacial ease, pouring vodka into a cut-crystal glass, the sound of the liquid unnervingly loud in the silence.

His hands were thick, callused, the kind of hands that had held power and destroyed it. Gold rings gleamed on every finger, the diamonds embedded in his pinky catching the overhead light.

He didn’t look at Andrei when he responded.

“You’re suspicious.”

Andrei took a long drag from the cigar. Exhaled slowly through his nose. “I’ve seen agents wear tighter covers. Pretend harder. But there’s something off. Their body language—”

“You think they’re not married?” Raskovic interrupted, still without looking.

“I think they’re not who they say they are.”

Now the Russian did look at him.

He turned, slowly, the crystal glass raised to his lips as his eyes locked onto Andrei’s. He sipped before setting the drink down with precision on the lacquered bar.

A pause stretched out between them like the moment between a trigger pull and the echo.

“Find out more,” he said at last, the words soft. Measured.

Then, in a voice like gravel dragged through ice, he added,

“Если они лгут, я прикажу заживо сдеру с них кожу." “I will have them skinned alive if they are liars.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

The threat sat between them like a loaded weapon. Final and absolute.

Andrei nodded once, solemnly, then turned back to the feed. His eyes lingered on the last image before the camera cut, the red dress disappearing into the elevator, followed seconds later by a man in a black button-down who didn’t look like he was thinking clearly anymore.

Above them, somewhere in the dark belly of the resort, two agents had just crossed a line they couldn’t come back from.

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[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc

E P I L O G U E

word count: 11,000 + warnings: literally all fluff. like painful, smothering fluff. Choking, blubbering, fitful angst. Sorry, not sorry. See you on the other side, everyone, hope you enjoyed 'Falling'!

The following is a series of artefacts belonging to JACKSON RESIDENTS recovered from their homes.

J. MILLER LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT - JACKSON, WY

If you’re reading this, or find this, I’m probably dead.

I’m okay with that. Would’ve preferred to go out old—grey-bearded, asleep on my porch swing in the summer, maybe a hundred and twenty with bad knees. Quietly. Got my fingers crossed, hoping that I do.

Because that ain’t how men like me go. I’ve lived hard. Killed more than I ever want to count. Broke things I couldn’t fix. And loved people I didn’t deserve. That’s the whole truth of it.

And now, sitting here writing this, I keep thinking about what the hell I’m really leaving behind. What is my legacy, anyway? Some folks leave behind land. Leela is going to leave behind her math and her inventions. Y’all’s names are clean enough to go on school buildings.

I live in a house that isn’t mine. My money’s long gone. And my name is a goddamn graveyard. So why am I doing this?

Look... I need you someone to know I tried.

I tried to be better. To build instead of destroy. To try love without losing control. I used to think all I was good for was surviving. Guarding. Holding the line until it all gave out. And yeah, maybe that was true once for a long time.

But then came my Ellie. Then came my Leela and my Maya.

I raised two three girls. THREE goddamn girls. More beautiful than me (thank god for that), more hardass-er than me, more stubborn than me, and that’s saying something. Ellie is the fire. Sarah was the storm, and Maya is the spring that comes after. I didn’t make them—but I kept them alive. Loved them the best way I knew how. Think I did a pretty good job.

That’s my legacy.

You can burn the rest of it. The guns, the patrol records, the guilt. Let it rot. The only thing worth anything now is what I loved.

Tommy. Maria. Brother, we never did things the easy way, did we? We fought like hell, and still came back. I know you two gave me a hard time some days, but you were the people I always knew had my six—whether I deserved it or not. Guess that's what siblings do. So don’t go getting all soft now. Just keep doing what you do best: being affectionate assholes and occasionally dumb as a pile of rocks. (Kidding. Mostly.)

Leela… darling, you had loved saved me. Over and over. By staying, letting me in, looking at me like I wasn’t the monster I saw in the mirror. You are my quiet, my reason, my damn backbone some days. I didn’t know it could be like that with someone. I didn’t ask you to forgive me, but you did it anyway, every time I came home to you a little more broken. I’m sorry for the parts of me I couldn’t fix. I know I said that too much—or not enough. Also—and I mean this with all the love in my tired bones—take your time, but don’t forget I’m waiting on those insane koftas over here. So when you finally get your fine ass to me… bring me some baharat (and those strappy little tops of yours because they really drive me wild.)

Ellie (hoping the above didn't throw you off, sorry). Here it is. I saved my world that day in the hospital. Yours. You. I’m not gonna pretend it was easy or righteous. It wasn’t. But I did it so you’d have more time with me—more chances to grow with me, laugh with me, hate me. I wanted that for you more than I ever wanted it for myself. I am sor I'd do it all over again. You might never have needed a father, but you got one anyway. You got me. And I’m proud of you, kiddo. Proud as one of your own. I LOVE YOU. There. I said it. I love you, Ellie.

And. Maya. Baby girl. If you’re reading this someday—well, shit, first off: did you get glasses? How else are you reading this with all that squinting? Eyes open, sweetheart. Ha, got you.

I want you to know it plain and simple: you are my everything. My girl. I loved you the moment you opened your eyes to me that night. You’re mine in every way that counts. Grow slow. There’s no prize for getting older, other than back pain. Be good—but not too good. Break some rules. No one likes a smartass. Don’t run too fast. Tie your shoes. Wear your damn socks, I MEAN IT. Don’t be scared of the world, even when it earns it. And take care of everyone, even when it hurts. And when you miss me (if you do), go sit with my guitar (be nice and share with Ellie). Sing to me. Hum. Cry. Talk out loud like I’m listening, because I swear I am.

I never had much. Still don’t. Got a couple of guitars, ammo, boots, a few busted knuckles, and a face that looks worse every year.

What I do have—what’s worth a damn—is all of you.

I was always the buffer. I thought that was the job. Keep everyone breathing, keep the world out. I don’t regret that. But it took me a long damn time to learn why I was doing it. It was never for survival.

It was for you. Always for you.

Signed, Joel Miller.

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – VIDEO FILE #1 TIMESTAMP: 19:48 | Reed Residence, Living room SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 2 years, 5 months CAMERA: Tripod, static, handheld. Low lighting. Floor lamp turned on. NOTES: Observational recording for cognitive development + emotional awareness + language formulation.

[CAMERA CLICKS ON. The video begins with a slightly tilted angle. The couch sits behind them, a soft quilt thrown over the edge. A toy horse lies abandoned on the floor. The room is warmly lit. LEELA adjusts the lens, sitting cross-legged, her voice focused but affectionate. JOEL is off-screen, behind the camera. Both their voices carry the sleepiness of a late evening.]

LEELA (softly, almost to herself): Okay... steady. This is important. (adjusts the lens) This is the first video entry in Maya’s development log—

JOEL (from off-screen, dry): Which is entirely unnecessary, 'cause she’s got a brain like a bear trap.

LEELA (half smiling): This is to test her cognitive flexibility, emotional regulation, and social interaction—

JOEL: C’mon, sweetheart. Listen to yourself. She’s fine.

LEELA: (glances at him behind the camera) I need to know she’s normal, Joel. Not just sweet or clever. Normal brain functioning.

JOEL (pauses, then gentler): She’s a goddamn miracle, Leela. Beat me at cards yesterday. Straight face the whole time. You think I let her win? (mimics a girlish voice) “Go fish, Daddy.” She’s hustlin’ me already.

[LEELA exhales, lips twitching, and nods. She angles the camera a little to the left. The frame shifts. MAYA is now sitting on the rug beside her mother, wearing denim dungarees over a cotton shirt with a stitched grasshopper. She waves at the camera like she’s greeting a friend.]

MAYA: (sends a flying kiss.) Hi.

JOEL (laughs): Hi, baby.

LEELA (gently): Alright, there we go. Baby, what's your name?

MAYA: (pointing) Daddy, video.

LEELA: Yeah, he is. Can you say your name for the video?

MAYA (taps her chest): Maya. Maya, Maa-yaa.

LEELA (laughs): Okay. Hi, Maya. And what’s your full name?

MAYA (mumbles): Maya… Miller.

LEELA: That’s right. Good girl. Now—can you please look at Mama for a second while we talk?

[MAYA is fully occupied with the brass buckle on her dungaree strap. She keeps flipping it open, then closing it, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.]

MAYA (without looking up): I fix this first.

LEELA (gently redirecting): Hmm. But if Mama wants to talk to you first, what would the polite thing be?

MAYA (quietly): …Wude.

[She lets go of the buckle and looks up, her knees drawn close.]

MAYA: Okay. I listen now.

LEELA: Thank you, baby. Ready?

MAYA: Yup.

LEELA: How old are you, Maya?

[MAYA holds up two fingers. Then she thinks, frowns, and adds a third finger halfway. Then reconsiders and puts it down.]

LEELA: That’s right. Two, almost three. And what’s Daddy’s name?

MAYA (giggles): Ha-wd-ass.

LEELA (gasps): No!

JOEL: Gonna kill that little shit Tommy.

MAYA (with her fist in her mouth, grinning): Joel.

LEELA: Joel, right. Maya… can you tell me: have you ever been angry at Daddy before?

MAYA (quickly): No.

LEELA (tilts her head): Never ever?

MAYA (frowning): ...mm, he took me home from park. He—he said... no. (points to the door) We go home now.

JOEL (off-screen, defensive): Hey now—it was a hundred degrees. I didn’t want you melting out there.

LEELA (clears her throat): Alright. And what did you say when he said that we have to go home?

MAYA (matter-of-fact): I said “NO! Not going home.” Then Daddy pick me up. We go home.

LEELA: And then?

MAYA: Then I... cried.

JOEL (mutters): Meltdown.

LEELA (to Maya): And when you get upset like that... what helps you feel better, Maya? Do you want to run away, or—do you need to yell? Maybe throw something?

JOEL (warning tone): Leela.

LEELA (ignoring him, soft but intent): Or maybe… do you just need a hug? Do you want someone to hold you?

[MAYA pauses. Her fingers fidget. Her chin tucks slightly, and her voice is very small.]

MAYA: I need hugs.

[LEELA looks up at the camera now. Her expression is softer, more tired. Her hand rests on Maya’s back.]

LEELA (to camera): So—we’re observing that when Maya experiences emotional dysregulation, she doesn’t act out violently or retreat, but reaches for physical reassurance. (pause, voice softening) Which is… significantly better than what I feared.

[MAYA turns and throws herself into Leela’s lap.]

MAYA: I love hugging Daddy.

JOEL (gravel-voiced, warm): Right back at ya, baby girl.

[MAYA now leans sideways into Leela’s lap, visibly drowsier but still engaged. A thread from Leela’s jeans has caught her attention, and she tugs it gently. LEELA hums quietly, drawing her back into the moment.]

LEELA (sing-song): Maya… now, were you really angry at Daddy that time?

MAYA (shakes her head, thumb brushing her lip): No. I just… don’t wanna go home.

LEELA (empathetic): Oh, well, I understand that. If I were having fun and someone told me it was time to go? I’d be mad too.

MAYA (nodding): Yeah. I wanna play more.

LEELA: So, do you have a lot of friends? Is that why you don't like leaving?

[MAYA looks up for a second, big, brown eyes shining, then shakes her head.]

MAYA: No.

LEELA (gently): Then why do you want playtime?

MAYA: I like big sandbox. Ellie helps me on the slide.

LEELA: What about the other kids?

MAYA: Only me, mama.

[LEELA hums again, stroking her hair slowly. The thread is forgotten now. MAYA leans closer.]

JOEL: Now, she ain’t alone. Ellie’s there, I’m there. The other kids... they're just older. And there are no other kids like her in town.

LEELA (shoots him a look): Joel—you're confusing her.

JOEL (scoffs): Fine. Shuttin’ up.

LEELA (focuses on Maya again): And how does it make you feel, baby girl? When you're alone? Are you scared? Or angry?

[MAYA’s brows furrow. She picks at her sock this time, quieter.]

MAYA: Sad.

LEELA (slight shift in posture, softer): You feel sad? Do you feel sad a lot?

MAYA (tiny nod, small voice): Yeah. I cry.

LEELA (quietly, not alarmed, just listening): You cry a lot when you're sad? When Mama isn’t around?

MAYA (sniffles): Mhm. I don’t like alone.

LEELA: Oh, my love.

[MAYA's face twists, and she rubs at her eye. A pause. JOEL’s voice is low and irritated from behind the camera at the sight of her hurting.]

JOEL: Okay, stop. You’re upsettin’ her.

LEELA (shaking her head, gently): No, we’re understanding. (She turns back to Maya, her hand brushing through tangled curls.) She’s not upset. She’s being brave. Aren’t you, baby?

[MAYA’s eyes flick to LEELA’s. She nods faintly.]

MAYA: I wanna be brave. Like Daddy.

LEELA: And you are. Angry and sad make you brave and real. Real people feel things. And they cry. Even big people. Even Daddy... (stage-whispers) in the shower.

[MAYA lets out a little giggle through her tears.]

LEELA (tucking a strand of hair behind Maya’s ear): Baby, you know… if you ever feel like it got dark around you, you can tell us. If you’re mad, you can stomp your feet. If you’re sad, you can cry in my lap. You don’t have to hide it or hold it in your belly, okay?

[MAYA shakes her head firmly this time, her lip wobbling just slightly.]

MAYA: I don’t wanna be mad, Mama. Don’t like it.

LEELA: No, honey. It’s okay to be mad. I get mad. Daddy gets mad all the time.

[A brief, audible scoff from JOEL.]

JOEL: Yeah, alright.

LEELA (grinning): All the time. And when he does, what do we do?

MAYA (perking up): Time-out!

LEELA: Right. And do we yell at him?

MAYA (giggling): You hug him.

JOEL (mock indignation): It's brutal.

[LEELA laughs softly, then leans forward again, face almost fully in frame now. Her voice drops to that warm, instructional tone again.]

LEELA: So next time, baby, when you feel mad or sad... what do you do?

[MAYA’s brow knits as she thinks. Then her eyes brighten.]

MAYA (low to loud): I say, 'Mama, I'm sad.'

LEELA (laughing): Very good. And then what happens?

MAYA (repeating back): You hug me.

JOEL (quietly): Every single time.

[There’s a long, peaceful pause now. MAYA rests fully in Leela’s lap, three fingers in her mouth, eyelids fluttering closed. JOEL finally appears in frame again, crouching beside them. He presses a hand gently to Maya’s back and gives Leela a tired, fond look.]

JOEL (murmuring): We should probably stop here. She’s running on fumes.

LEELA (sighs): Yeah, okay. That concludes entry one—emotional processing and response. Maya is responsive to guided questioning, able to self-identify emotions, strong associative memory.

JOEL (grins at Maya): Translation: she’s a little miracle.

LEELA: She’s Maya.

[JOEL leans in, kisses the top of Leela’s head.]

JOEL: You’re doin’ real good, mama.

[LEELA swallows and nods, visibly emotional. She lifts her hand to turn off the camera.]

[CAMERA CLICKS OFF]

X

E. WILLIAMS TRAVEL LOG #2

(The camera jolts to life with a brief blur of sunlight. A rhythmic thud-thud-thud of hooves on dry dirt is heard beneath the image. The view steadies to show Ellie, sweat glinting on her brow, holding the camera at arm’s length. She squints at the screen, then grins.)

(Ellie, to camera) “Okay, we’re rolling. This is Travel Log number two—because apparently Leela thinks we’re NatGeo now.”

(She wipes sweat off her nose with the back of her arm, then flips the camera around. It bounces before settling on the riders behind her.)

(Ellie, off-screen) “Maya, say hi!”

(The camera catches a horse trotting beside Dina’s. Joel rides a little behind, Maya seated snugly in front of him on the saddle. Maya is grinning so wide it looks like her face might split open.)

“Hai!”

(Ellie laughing) “And how the hell are you outside of Jackson, missy?”

“’Cause Daddy let me. And now we’re gonna catch fish!”

“Oh yeah? Wanna tell everybody how old you are?”

(Maya proudly holds up three chubby fingers, but two of them are smushed together.) “I’m th-wee.”

(The camera pans shakily to Dina, who rides up alongside, squinting against the light. Her hair is pulled back to that familiar topknot, sweat matting her face.)

“And there’s my gorgeous girlfriend. Babe, say hi.”

(Dina groans, ducking her head.) “I look like shit.”

“Yeah, but like—hot shit.”

(Dina flips her off. Ellie cackles. The camera swerves toward Joel, who is too focused on keeping Maya safe and the horse steady.)

(Ellie snorts.) “Could be worse. Look at this dumbass.”

(Joel, gruffly) “You better get that thing outta my face.”

“No can do. I’m under strict orders. Your wife told me to document everything. I’m just being a good citizen.”

“Christ. Just watch your step, kiddo.”

(Ellie, to camera now) “So, for the record: We’re taking baby girl on a late fishing trip for her birthday, which was all the way back on Christmas. And—this is the troop.”

(The camera zooms in briefly on Maya, who is now humming some nonsense song and patting the saddle horn. Joel looks down at her, and for a second, the camera catches him smiling.)

(Ellie, softer) “Not bad, right?”

(Static crackle as the image shakes again. Ellie flips the camera back to herself.)

“Alright, let’s go catch some fuckin' fish.”

—

(The footage stutters into motion with a high-pitched whine of static. The screen shakes wildly for a moment��just flashes of sky, pine, and boot—and then jolts into focus. A rough hand fumbles across the lens. Joel grumbles.)

“How the hell do you—? Goddamnit.”

(He shifts the camera. The image stabilises. Now it’s looking out over a sunlit rocky ledge above a wide, glittering creek. Ellie, Dina, and Maya are perched in a row on the flat of a sun-warmed boulder. Three rods poke into the air, lines drifting lazily into the current. The only sound is birdsong, water, and distant giggling.)

“Ellie, keep your arms around her. She’s jumpy as a damn frog.”

(Ellie snickers.) “Relax, old man. I’ve got her.“ (Then to Maya:) “You’re good, gremlin. Just hold it still and wait.”

(Maya squeals, standing up.) “I saw a fish! I saw one!”

(Dina teases.) “You’ve said that like ten times.”

“This time it smiled at me!”

“Liar!”

(The camera zooms slightly. Joel’s breathing is close in the mic, still focused on the trio. Maya suddenly gasps and yanks her tiny rod.)

“Mine's moving! DINA, I GOT ONE! I—!”

(Her footing slips. She screams with a quick splash—then chaos.)

“Maya, no!”

(The camera jerks wildly—Joel’s dropped it. It lands half-sideways in the dirt, still rolling. We catch fractured glimpses: Dina throwing off her jacket, Ellie lunging forward, Joel already in motion, boots thundering past the lens.)

(Ellie hisses.) “Shit—Maya!”

(A splash. Then another. Then silence but for the rush of water and muffled voices underwater, distant and panicked. Joel's frantic voice is the loudest.)

“Maya! Maya, can you hear me?”

(No answer. Just the hiss of the creek and thrashing limbs. The lens catches the churn of boots and panicked motion, but no child. Ellie surfaces empty-handed, wiping water from her face. Dina calls out, chest-deep and scanning rocks.)

“Anything?”

“Nothing—babe, she was right here, she was right here—”

(The lens catches motion as Joel barrels downstream. The camera misses his face, but his actions are sharp, driven. He throws himself into the current, shoving aside reeds, slipping on wet stone. He shouts again.)

“Maya, just come up, baby! Listen to my voice!”

(Nothing. Just the creek roaring louder. Ellie glances toward the far bank, silent now. Dina exhales hard, treading water. It’s been a full minute now. Then two. And—Joel stops.)

(He buckles—doubles over with both hands on his knees, soaked to the chest, breathing too fast. For a second, he’s motionless, like this short-circuited inside him. He grips his thigh, grounding himself. Then, barely audible—)

“God, please… please.”

(Dina turns toward him, voice gentler now but firm, trying to cut through the spiral.)

“Hey—hey, Joel. Listen to me. It’s gonna be okay. We’ll split up. I’ll head up the rocks, Ellie’ll sweep back toward the reeds. You keep to the bend. Okay? We’ll find her.”

(Joel doesn’t respond. His hands twitch at his sides, clenched and unclenched. He’s not hearing her. Or he is, but it’s bouncing off armour.)

“I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve—I looked away, just, just one second—”

(Ellie moving closer.) “Joel. Joel. Look at me. It's fine.”

(She’s within arm’s reach now. His jaw is set, neck tight, eyes scanning but not seeing. Ellie softens.)

“She can't have gotten far. We find her. You with me?”

(He blinks hard—once, twice. His hand comes to his mouth like he’s trying to hold something in. Then hoarsely—)

“Not again. Not her. Not…”

(He trails off. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Ellie’s eyes flicker, understanding more than he says. Behind them, Dina is waist-deep and staring at the far downstream bend. Her hand goes up slowly, pointing.)

“Wait. Wait—do you—?”

(A faint, distant voice echoes from downstream—bright and bubbly.)

“Daddy, Dina! I got it! I got the fish!”

(Joel doesn’t move at first. His head lifts slowly, like he’s afraid to believe it. Then Ellie breaks into motion and he follows—trudging through water, stumbling once but not stopping. The camera is still skewed, but it catches a tiny shape emerging from the trees further downstream, waterlogged and barefoot, holding something overhead in both hands.)

“It was hiding! I chase it!”

(Joel’s breath catches. His arms drop slack, then he’s moving faster, boots pounding the muddy bank, sloshing up toward her.)

“Maya. C'mere, baby.”

(He drops to his knees in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and then crushes her into a hug, flapping fish and all. Maya giggles, not understanding the terror that had settled in his chest just moments ago.)

“You scared the hell outta me. Thought I lost you.”

“But I got it!”

(Joel clutches her closer, water dripping down his face—unclear if it’s from the river or his eyes. His voice is barely a breath now.)

“Don’t ever do that again. You hear me? Don’t ever…”

(He cuts himself off. Kisses the top of her head, pushing the wet hair off her cheeks and neck. Behind him, Dina rubs her face and exhales, laughing through leftover adrenaline. Ellie just drops backwards into the creek with a splash, limbs splayed like a starfish.)

(Ellie sighs and looks up to the sky.) “I'm never fuckin' babysitting this little demon again. Not without a goddamn leash.”

(Maya beams.) “I was tracking! It went under the rocks, so I had to go up the side like Dina said!”

(Joel shakes his head.) “Not without tellin’ me, you don’t.”

(Ellie picks up the camera—mud-smeared and dripping, but still running. She holds it at a crooked angle as the group sloshes back to shore, all soaked, all laughing in that shaky, post-crisis way. Joel’s doesn’t come yet—but he’s still holding Maya.)

“Update: Joel has aged twenty years. Maya met a fish. And none of us are allowed to breathe ever again.”

(Maya, off-camera, all chipper.) “I wanna swim!”

(All three, in perfect unison—)

“Nope.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Never happening.”

(The camera catches one last frame of Maya proudly cradling the flopping fish, her curls plastered to her forehead, Joel’s arm around her protectively. Ellie’s laughter trails off as the screen fades into soft static. Cut to black.)

X

J. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3

(Video begins mid-jostle. The camera is unsteady, jiggling as Joel tries to lift it above the crowd. Boots thump on the wooden floors, fiddle music screeches with jubilance. String lights swing in the rafters, and there’s distant whooping over the band’s tempo.)

(Joel’s voice mutters, amused.) “Can’t see nothin’ in this damn barn…”

(Camera finds its focus, finally sweeping over the packed dance floor, shakily pushing through arms, backs, and half-finished pints. Then the camera locks in on Maya, spinning into dizziness in the middle of the floor. She’s in denim overalls, her sleeves rolled, curly hair bouncing, boots two sizes too big. People are giving her space, clapping in rhythm.)

(Tommy, off-camera, hoots.) “Look at her go!”

(Maria coos, off to the side.) “Shit, I wanna bite her little face off.”

(Camera zooms and shakes slightly. Joel laughs.)

“Go on, baby girl!”

(Maya notices the camera. She gasps, hands on her cheeks like a cartoon character. Then waves with both hands.)

“Haiiii!”

(She dashes forward, expertly weaving between dancers, laughing the whole time. Camera wobbles as she leaps at Joel, arms flung wide.)

“Let me hold it! I wanna be the camera girl!”

“You got butterfingers. This thing’s older than Ellie.”

(Maya whines, bouncing in protest. Joel tips the camera up and away as she tries to jump for it. A waitress sidesteps her, chuckling. Joel lowers the lens, steadies it again.)

“C’mon, help me find your mama. She better not be—”

(Sudden distant yell.)

“WOOOOOO!”

(Camera swings wildly again—searching. Finally, it lands: Leela, up near the band. Her cowboy hat's tipped too far back, one boot missing, one boot on. She’s shimmying with total abandon to the beat, singing along loud and off-key to a song she clearly doesn’t know.)

(Tommy cackles.) “'S happened again.”

(Joel groans. The camera jolts down, then upward—now Tommy is holding it, laughing breathlessly.)

“Grab it. I gotta go fix this.”

(Tommy lifts the camera to zoom in as Joel pushes through the crowd. Ellie briefly appears beside Tommy, leaning in to whisper.)

“Is that one boot on, one boot off? Iconic.”

(Maria snorts.) “She drinking out of her boot?”

(Camera zooms in—Leela indeed holds a boot like a goblet, sloshing something suspiciously dark and fizzy inside. She twirls—and nearly slips.)

(Joel reaches her just in time. He grabs her arm with both hands. Leela gasps, delighted.)

“There he is! Husbaaaaand.”

(Joel is clearly trying not to laugh.) “You stink.”

(Leela puts on a fake cowboy accent.) “That’s called love, darlin’.”

(Her arms loop around his neck, hat slipping to one side, planting a kiss on his mouth. Joel—half laughing, half exasperated—obliges, but only briefly before pulling back.)

“You’re gonna break your neck out here.”

(She sways her hips in an invitation.) “Dance with me, Daddy.”

(Ellie groans from off-camera.) “Ew, what the fuck?”

(Joel groans, pinches the bridge of his nose. Crowd laughter builds in the background.)

“Jesus, don’t call me that in public. You’re gonna confuse the hell outta people.”

(She uses a finger to beckon him.) “C’mon.”

(He plants both hands gently on her waist to steady her.) “You gotta sober up, sweetheart. You already lost a boot.”

(She pouts. He sighs. Then offers his hand.)

“Just one.”

(The music softens into a slower tune—harmonica over strings. Leela leans into Joel, wrapping her arms around his neck like a sleepy kid. They sway awkwardly. One-booted. Out of time. Joel mutters something we can’t hear. Leela giggles like it’s the funniest thing in the world.)

(Camera pans down: her bare foot rests on his boot. He just lets her lean.)

(Ellie whispers nearby.) “Stop filming. They’re so gross.”

(Tommy snickers.) “They’re happy.”

(In the far right of the frame, Maya appears again, now holding Ellie’s hand and tugging hard.)

“Dance with me, Ellie, c'mon!”

(Leela turns mid-dance and waves dramatically at Maya, then does a very poor spin that nearly sends her into a table. Joel catches her mid-fall and dips her, exaggerated, one arm around her waist. She shrieks with laughter.)

(Camera pulls back. The saloon lights flicker overhead. Everyone around them is dancing, drunk, or both. It’s messy and warm and joyful—a pause in the noise of survival.)

(Frame lingers on Joel and Leela, pressed close. He murmurs something into her hair. She closes her eyes. The song fades to the final note—violin and steel guitar.)

X

TELEPHONE RECORDING #1 DATE: SEP. 26TH | TIME: 04:03 A.M. LINE: INTERNAL, JACKSON, WY PARTICIPANTS: J. MILLER, L. MILLER, M. MILLER

[Distant, metallic click. Faint static hum. A long pause. Then—a shrill ring, not the synthetic tone of modern cellphones, but an old, analogue bell. Faint rustling. Something thuds lightly against wood—maybe a hand fumbling in the dark.]

J.M. (groggy, disoriented): …the hell…?

[Rustling sheets. A creak of the bedframe. He fumbles for something in the dark.]

J.M: …No way.

[Another ring. Then a hesitant click as he answers. Silence.]

L.M. (warm, amused): Hi, can I speak with the birthday boy, please?

[Long silence. A faint creak.]

J.M. (cautious, stunned): Leela?

L.M. (giggles): Joel. Can you hear me?

J.M: I’m not dead, am I? It’s four in the damn morning… and the phone that’s sounds like a death knell just rang.

L.M. (sing-song): Surprise!

[A beat. Then, Joel exhales a sharp, stunned laugh. Fabric shifts as he sits up.]

J.M: Holy shit. Leela. Darlin’… Holy shit. This is real.

L.M. (whispers): Happy birthday.

J.M (laughs again): I—I can’t even wrap my head around this. You’re on the phone. Like actual… static and everything. How the hell’d you pull this off?

L.M: Well... I rewired the internal comms grid. Boosted a small solar cell relay through the southern outpost lines. Then I cross-fed it into the restored switchboard. Et voila, eight months later, it works just in time.

J.M: …Y'know, I only caught about two words of that, right?

L.M. (smiling through): I said I missed your voice.

J.M: Goddamn. All that for a call to me?

L.M. (gently teasing): You’re not that hard to miss. But yeah… first working phone in Jackson. Figured it should go to the man who hates birthdays and attention. Two birds.

J.M. (grinning now): You gonna make the whole town use this thing?

L.M: Eventually. For now, I serve as both operator and technician. Thought I’d test the system on someone who doesn’t mind me, er.... rambling.

J.M: That right? Hell, I’d listen to you read out the damn dictionary, baby. You always made even the hard shit sound soft.

L.M.: Don’t go sweet-talking me now. It’s your birthday. I should be the one getting all the mushy.

J.M. (lower, softer): You already gave me everything I wanted.

[A faint click in the background—a loose wire, or a shift in signal. Then Joel clears his throat, as if trying to recover.]

J.M: So tell me—now that I’ve got you on the line… You reckon this thing could handle what the kids used to call phone sex?

L.M. (incredulous laugh): Joel!

J.M.: Come on, darlin’. I’m just sayin’—voice like yours in my ear? Might short out the tower.

L.M.: Stop. I’m recording this call for research.

J.M.: Whatever. I’m the birthday boy. I get one pass.

[They both laugh. Then, a faint stirring. A tiny yawn. The faintest whimper.]

M.M. (sleepy): Daddy…?

J.M.: Hold on. Trouble’s wakin’ up.

[He shifts. The mattress creaks. A soft scritch of his beard brushing her cheek. A kiss to her forehead.]

J.M. (instantly gentle): Hi, baby girl. You’re okay. It’s just the phone.

M.M.: Phone?

[Joel adjusts—the rustle of movement, soft fabric, a creaking mattress. Then, the faint sound of a small body being shifted, carefully.]

J.M.: Here. I want you to listen to someone special.

[Receiver shifts slightly. Then—]

M.M. (suspiciously): Mama?

L.M. (audible intake of breath, voice trembling slightly): Hi, baby girl. Hello.

M.M. (in awe): Are you inside the... box?

L.M. (chuckling): Sort of. The box can carry voices through the wires and air.

M.M. (gasps): It’s a magic box!

J.M.: Damn right it is. First call of the new world, and it went to you.

M.M.: Mama… where are you?

L.M.: Still right here, baby. Just downstairs, in the hall. But this box lets me kiss you goodnight without moving.

M.M. (soft giggle): It is magic.

[A tiny yawn. Then the gentle shuffling of her curling into Joel’s chest. The receiver shifts again.]

J.M. (hushed): She’s driftin’. You still there?

L.M. (sniffles): Always. Did you like your surprise?

J.M. (low chuckle): No phone sex? Hardly a surprise.

L.M.: Your daughter is literally five inches from your face.

J.M. (snickers): And you’re missin’ five inches in yours.

L.M. (shocked gasp): Joel, what is wrong with—

J.M. (grinning): You made it too easy. Alright, I love you. Now hang up… and come over here.

L.M. (quiet smile in her voice): You hang up.

J.M.: Mm-mm. Not playin’ this game, darlin’. Been dead for twenty years, I intend to keep it that way.

[Silence lingers. Then—]

L.M. (whispered): Good night, birthday boy. See you in a minute.

J.M. (just above a murmur): Night, baby.

[Click. The line goes dead. Faint hum fades out.]

X

E. WILLIAMS HOME VIDEO #16

(The footage opens with a bit of bounce—someone's adjusting the handheld camera. There is a gentle sound of cards shuffling. Ellie is clearly behind the camera. Her steps are slow as she moves into view of the dining table, where Tommy sits across from Maya, elbows on the table, scattered with half-finished custard, eyes narrowed in concentration.)

(Ellie, off-camera, voice playful) “Alright, it’s dead silent in here. What’s goin’ on? Poker night?”

(Tommy, gruffly, not looking up) “It’s war.”

“With a three-year-old?”

“She’s up four hands and counting. I ain’t here to play. I’m here to win back my dignity.”

(The camera pans to Maya, sitting squarely in Leela’s lap, her tiny brows furrowed, lips pursed. The cards look enormous in her little hands, but she’s manoeuvring them with sharp, deliberate movements. Leela’s not helping—just holding her arms up as Maya goes through them.)

(Maya, serious, without looking up) “Your turn, Uncle Tommy.”

“I know, kid. I know. Just thinkin’.”

“Don’t think too long. That’s how Daddy lost.”

(A beat. Then a snort of laughter from Ellie.) “Oh my god. Joel lost to Maya. Comedy gold.”

(The camera zooms in a little as Tommy lays down his card—then, slowly, Maya lays hers. A moment passes. Tommy exhales through his nose.)

“Son of a—”

(Maya squeals, grinning wide.) “Yay! Mine’s bigger!”

(Tommy grumbles.) “Damn right it is.”

(Leela gently warns) “Maya…”

(Maya is still triumphant.) “I said bigger. Not a bad word, mama.”

(Ellie, laughing) “I dunno, Tommy. You sure you’re not lettin’ her win?”

(Tommy holds up both hands.) “You see me foldin’? Hell no. She’s counting cards. I ain’t got a chance.”

(Maya, too gleeful) “That’s ‘cause I remeh-mber them.”

(The camera wobbles as Ellie doubles over laughing. Tommy just leans back in his chair, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.)

“Leela, honey, what are you feedin’ your child? We all get the same goddamn rations.”

(Leela with a small smile) “Books. Puzzles. Joel.”

(Ellie heaves a breath.) “Well, that explains the poker face.”

(The camera zooms once more on Maya, who now holds up her cards dramatically toward the lens, fanned out—wrong side forward.)

(She stage-whispers to the camera.) “No one can sh-top me.”

(Tommy shakes his head.) “I gotta start cheating.”

“That’s against the ruuuuules.”

(Leela giggles.) “Tommy, she will never let you live it down.”

(The camera lingers on Maya’s proud little face, cheeks puffed out as she shuffles her cards again—badly, sloppily, adorably. Leela helps guide her fingers, whispering numbers, which Maya repeats under her breath. Across the table, Tommy looks both defeated and weirdly proud.)

(A beat. Then, off-camera, Joel’s voice cuts in—gentle, curious.)

“You wanna be like your mama when you grow up, baby?”

(Maya pauses mid-shuffle. The cards slip out of her hands and scatter. Her eyes go wide—and then she lets out a shy giggle, immediately burying her face in Leela’s chest.)

“Mmm…”

(Leela laughs softly and brushes back Maya’s curls.) “What? What is it?”

(She kisses the top of Maya’s head. Just then—sharp, tinny brrrring! cuts through the moment—the patched-up rotary phone on the wall rings. Everyone in the room glances over, startled.)

(Maya gasps, squealing) “Aaaah! I got it! I got it, I got it!”

(She scrambles to her feet, almost tripping on her feet, and makes a beeline for the phone. Joel chuckles and reaches out instinctively to steady her as she races past.)

“Easy, trouble.”

(She hops up on the table by the wall, lifting the receiver with both hands like it’s treasure. Maya speaks in a serious tone, copying someone she has seen.)

“Jackson outpost. Maya speakin’.”

(Leela hides a laugh behind her hand. Ellie is already zooming the camera in as Tommy leans forward, amused.)

“Aw hell—she’s got a job now?”

(Maya, now pressing the receiver to her ear, trying to sound official) “Okay. Uh-huh. You got it. I tell Uncle Tommy. Stand by!”

(She covers the receiver with her hand and turns to Tommy with wide eyes.)

“Uncle Tommy, they sayin' the lookout spotted smoke near the ridge. You check it now.”

(Tommy is laughing but impressed.) “Well damn. Alright, little ranger. I’ll suit up. Thanks for the heads up.”

(Maya beams proudly and puts the phone down, then turns back to the group, chest puffed a little.)

(Ellie, mock-serious) “That’s it. She’s taking my side gig. I’m retiring.”

(Joel grins at Ellie behind the camera.) “Gotta get her her own call sign. Radio girl’s gonna run Jackson by ten.”

(Leela pulls Maya back into her lap.) “Where’d you learn to talk like that, huh?”

“I listen when you think I’m sleepin’.”

(Joel snorts.) “'Course she does.”

(Tommy raises his glass.) “To the youngest scout we got.”

“Maya Miller: card shark, signal scout, future queen of the airwaves.”

(Laughter ripples through the room. The camera catches Maya grinning bashfully, resettled between Leela’s arms, stacking her scattered cards again. A brief static flickers as the camera feed fades to black.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #48

[The broadcast crackles in—a gentle hum of wind in the background, maybe the faint clatter of boots on wood outside. Maya, aged TEN, runs the radio station in the mornings. A little jingle—probably something she made herself with Ellie’s help—plays, made up of a few clunky guitar notes and a whistle.]

M.M. (bright, chipper): “Goooood morning, Jackson! It's 7 a.m., the sun is shining, the wind is definitely tryna blow the roof off the stables, and you're tuned in to our very own radio station with your friendly neighbourhood deejay, Maya Miller, keeping you company as we ride out another day in paradise.”

[Short laugh—a little dry, but charming.]

M.M: “Okay, okay—maybe not paradise. But hey, it’s home. And here in Jackson, we’ve got chickens that lay, fences that hold, and people that don't give two shits about my radio station. That’s more than most.”

[A page rustles. She taps her book—maybe a list.]

M.M: “We’re keepin’ it light today, folks. A couple of songs, a couple of stories, maybe one or two terrible jokes if you're lucky, thanks to Ellie. And if you're tuning in from the outer fields, the boiler room, or the patrol tower—this one's for you.”

[Pause—her tone quiets, like remembering a note.]

M.M: “Oh! Big shout-out to Kenan at the forge. They just finished another batch of those wicked-sharp hatchets. If you scored one before the morning shift, buy 'em a cider at the Tipsy Bison. Or—I mean, at least carry their woodpile for a week.”

[She laughs, a little sheepish now.]

M.M: “And... yeah, I know it’s been a little rough out there lately. More sightings than usual. One of the patrols spotted a runner near the Gulch—again. But look—we’re still here. Still standing. Still singin’.”

[A breath, then her voice perks back up.]

MAYA: “Alright, alright, no more of that serious stuff. That’s not what you tuned in for. Let’s play something for Bill, who requested ‘Mr. Sandman’—says it reminds him of ‘before.’ I don’t know if that’s sweet or depressing, but I’m rollin’ with it.”

[‘Mr. Sandman’ begins to play softly underneath.]

MAYA: “This one’s for you, Bill. And for anyone else out there, remembering a time when the world made a little more sense. You’re not alone. And hey, if anybody wants to drop in and say 'hi', I'm right by the main hall, and it's a pretty sweet setup. I don't bite. Anymore. I promise.”

[Music fades back, plays for a few moments, then cuts softly as the mic picks up again.]

MAYA (a little mischievous): “Alright, folks, you’re in for a treat. We’ve got a very special guest in the booth today. Resident genius and best mom in the world. Wanna say hi?”

LEELA (off-mic at first, reluctant): “Uh. I’m Leela. Her—your mother. Hi.”

MAYA: “Hi, Mama.”

LEELA (dryly): “You forgot your lunch bag. Again.”

MAYA: “I was... on the air. Y’know. Broadcasting to the entire colony. Essential work.”

LEELA: “Mhm. Well, now your sandwich is cold. Again. Good luck with that.”

MAYA (laughing): “Wait! Wait. Sit down. Just one question. It’s a good one.”

LEELA (sighs): “Maya, I’ve got to look at the turbines at the dam today—”

MAYA: “Please. Please-please-please! C’mon. For the people.”

LEELA (defeated): “Fine.”

MAYA (suddenly mock-serious): “Okay, Jackson, here’s today’s philosophical corner: If you could say one thing to someone or something you’ve lost—what would it be?”

[Silence for a second. Then, deadpan:]

MAYA (hisses): “Mama, you have to answer.”

LEELA (after a pause, dryly): “To someone I’ve lost? …I’d probably have a word or two with my patience. Wherever it went. Please come back.”

[MAYA snorts with laughter.]

LEELA (murmuring): “And now I really do have to go.”

MAYA: “You’re the worst.”

[A kiss lands audibly—Leela kisses the top of Maya’s head, just off-mic.]

LEELA (softly, already stepping away): “Have a great day. I love you, baby.”

[The door clicks. Faint sounds of her leaving — boots on wood, the wind again. Then silence. Maya exhales like she’s trying not to smile.]

MAYA (quietly, into the mic): “She says that every time, like she doesn’t mean it. But she does. Every single word.”

[She clears her throat.]

MAYA: “Okay, back to the music before I start cryin' on air. This next one’s for y'all weirdos with too many feelings. Stay safe, stay sharp, and stay with me.”

[The song fades in.]

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #12 TIMESTAMP: 11:03 | Reed Residence, Dining room SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 3 years, 8 months NOTES: Observational recording for emotional awareness _ identity formation.

(Soft rustle. The recorder clicks on. Leela's voice enters soft, tired, but affectionate, as though she’s easing into the moment.)

“Development log twelve. Maya, aged three years and nine months. Today I want to check in on Maya’s social-emotional patterns—how she plays, how she relates to other kids. Observation notes: Today, she built a “rocket ship fort” with our laundry basket. Declared herself commander. Declared Ellie the alien. She delegated roles. Pretty assertively.”

(There’s a quiet chuckle from Leela, followed by a long exhale.)

“It’s been... remarkable, watching her become her own person. She’s started giving things names. Stories. Feelings. People. I just want to see where her head’s at.”

(She sets something down, the soft clatter of a ceramic mug. Then gently—)

“Hey, baby girl. You wanna come sit with Mama for a second?”

(There’s the sound of soft running feet on hardwood, followed by a tiny huff of breath as Maya sits down. Fabric rustles. Maya’s voice is sweet and happy.)

“I was building a big zoo for you, mama.”

“A zoo? Wow. What animals did you put in it?”

“Three horses, one tiger, two bunnies, and a T-Rex.”

(Leela laughs.) “Now that’s a very inclusive zoo.”

(A pause. Then, casually but purposeful—) “Maya, can you tell me about your friends? Who do you play with the most?”

(Maya, without missing a beat) “Carter.”

“Oh, he's a nice boy. Remind me, who's Carter?”

“Silly.” (She hums.) “He lives next door!”

“Mhm. And what’s Carter like?”

“He’s funny. He let me use his green crayon even though it's his favourite. And he pushed me on the swing so high I almost touched the sun!”

(Leela, gently teasing) “You have a lot of fun together?”

(Maya giggles.) “He’s my boyfwen.”

(There’s a beat of silence. A soft click as Leela sets down her pen.)

(Leela sounds more careful than amused.) “He's your boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh. He shared. And I kissed him on the cheek. So now we’re... boyfwen and girlfwen.”

(Leela’s quiet laugh slips out—surprised, warm.) “And how did he feel about that?”

(Maya, cheerfully) “He said I smelled like apples.”

“That’s a pretty sweet thing to say.”

(Then her tone shifts—slower now. She softens it without losing the thread, like a hand on Maya’s back.)

“Baby, can we talk about something important?”

“'Kay.”

“You know how hugs and kisses and holding hands can feel really nice, right?”

“Yeah. I go like this—mwah!”

(There's a small pause.) “But you always get to choose. Nobody gets to touch you unless you want them to.”

“Mhm.”

“And if someone ever tries, and it makes your tummy feel funny, like a scared feeling, or like you want to get away—you tell Mama. Or Daddy. Or anyone in your family.”

(Maya, quietly) “Even if they’re nice?”

“Even if they’re really nice. If you don’t feel good about it, that’s enough. Your body is yours.”

(There’s a pause, like Maya is working it out in her head. Something taps gently—Maya’s fingers on the table, maybe. Then her voice returns, brighter again.)

“But I wanted to give him kiss, mama.”

“That’s okay. It’s good when you want to. That’s how we know something feels right. But you should know it’s always okay to say no, too. Even to kisses. Even to Carter.”

(Maya hums, a beat later) “What if I change my mind?”

“Exactly. Then you say, “No, thank you.” And he has to listen. And if he doesn’t, you come straight to me, alright?”

“I think he listens.”

“Then he’s being a good friend. That’s what matters most. Being safe and kind.”

(Silence. Then—)

“Mama?”

“Yeah, baby.”

(Her voice is shy.) “Can I kiss you?”

(Leela laughs, breath catching a little—caught off guard.) “Of course you can. Gimme a big one.”

(A pause. A kiss lands—a loud little mwah. Then giggles.)

“You smell like Daddy.”

“And you smell like apples. Go on now, go build your big zoo.”

(Tiny footsteps patter away. The door creaks faintly. The room settles. The faint hiss of the windchime and the occasional tick of the cooling kettle fill the space. Then—soft, almost absent-minded—Leela begins speaking again.)

“Um, well... Maya shows increasing um, verbal complexity in social interactions. She uses ownership language—“my boyfriend,” “my zoo”—which aligns with expected identity formation at her... stage. Shows initiative in emotional reciprocity—physical affection, shared play, verbal acknowledgement of care...”

(She takes a quiet breath, then shifts.)

“Omigod... what happens when those interactions aren’t safe? When someone nice isn’t good?”

(Another breath. This one is shakier.)

“I don’t know how to teach my daughter the difference between fear and instinct without giving her...” (A soft gulp.) “...my history. I don’t want her carrying mine. I want her to know the world. But how do you prepare someone for what you survived, without letting that become the shadow they grow up under?

(A long pause.)

“My baby, she’s so soft. And that’s a miracle. I didn’t know softness could survive me. I didn’t know I could still hold it, let alone raise it.”

(Her voice lowers again, almost as if she’s talking only to herself.)

“I watch her love so freely, and it's starting to terrify me again. Because there’s always this part of me that thinks: someone's going to take it. But another part, the one that clings to Joel, assures me that she's safe. Maya knows how her father is and how a person should be.”

(Silence. Then, quietly, with that same gentle steadiness she gives to Maya—)

“She knows she can say no, and that she can run home to me. That’s… a start.”

(Click.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #49

[Mid-broadcast—music fades out. The soft hum of the station returns.]

MAYA (into the mic, mock-serious): “And that was Fleetwood Mac for the third time this week because apparently we are a town of heartbreakers. Thanks for the request, Esteban—erm, next time, maybe something that doesn’t make me want to bash my head against the wall for two hours.”

[She shuffles a cassette case, clicks it shut.]

[The studio door creaks open. Footsteps, then a long, familiar sigh as someone flops down onto a chair.]

ELLIE (off-mic, relaxed): “Damn, it’s cosy up in here. Look at this! Did you get new pillows? Wait, that one's mine.”

MAYA (groans): “Oh no. No, no, no. Ellie—you’re not cleared for entrance. You gotta go.”

ELLIE (snorts): “Relax. I’m just hangin’ out. You got snacks? You always got snacks. Leela's fuckin' sinful pretzels.”

MAYA: “This is a professional environment. You can’t just—”

ELLIE (into the mic, sing-song): “Psh, you're like ten. Did your professional environment know you’ve got a boyfriend who—”

MAYA (shrieks, cuts her off): “NOPE. Nope. Don’t you dare! You always do this! Get out!”

ELLIE (cackling): “What! I didn’t even say—Carter!—Come and—ow, hey!”

MAYA (wrestling for the mic): “Get! Out!”

[There’s a scuffle, laughter, the sound of a chair scraping back. Ellie’s voice is fading as she’s being half-dragged.]

ELLIE (calling out): “He sees her through his window, Joel’s gonna—!”

MAYA: “OH MY GOD!”

[Just as Ellie is shoved out the door—]

MARIA (stern, from the hall): “Girls. Too loud.”

[Silence. The studio door eases shut.]

MAYA (breathing hard, mutters): “…Gonna kill her.”

[She takes a second. Then clears her throat and speaks calmly into the mic again, regaining her radio persona like nothing happened.]

MAYA: “Apologies for the brief turbulence. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programme. Here’s one for anyone with nosy sisters and no locks on their doors. This is ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me.’”

[Music kicks in—The Police.]

X

MILLER HOME VIDEO #16

(The footage starts mid-motion—jostled slightly as someone fumbles with the handstraps. A soft clatter in the background, tools on wood. The screen settles, coming into focus on Joel at his workbench, his head bowed, the muscles in his forearm taut as he files the edge of a half-finished guitar body. Sunlight spills across his shoulders. There’s a quiet hum in the room: dust in the air, the faint buzz of wind outside, the rasp of wood shaving down.)

(Leela, off-camera, dryly amused) “You done pretending I’m not here?”

(Joel doesn’t look up. His voice is slow, roughened with focus.) “If you’re filmin’ me again, I’m chargin’ a fee.”

“Mm. That so? Well, I've got money to spare.” (A pause as she zooms slightly, catching the flex of his hand as he turns the wood. She goes into a deep voice.) “Joel Miller. Documented in the wild. In his natural habitat. Look at the precision. The grace. The muscle.”

(Joel snorts. Still doesn’t look up.) “For real?”

(She laughs quietly behind the camera.) “I wish I were more artistic.”

(He finally lifts his gaze, catches her through the lens, then returns to his work with a little shake of his head.)

“You are. You just get mad when it ain’t perfect.” (A beat. Then he sets the file down, reaching up to flick the collar of his flannel toward the camera.) “Like this. Tell me this ain’t art.”

(The camera zooms in. There, stitched along the collar’s edge in slightly uneven thread, is a pair of deer antlers—wobbly, charming, clearly handmade.)

(Leela laughs.) “That was not for public display!”

“Too late. It’s on record now.” (He grins, clearly enjoying himself, and lifts his palm next—dark ink visible along the base of his thumb.) “And this?”

(Camera focuses on his outstretched palm. A swirl of dark brown ink stains the skin—rust-colored henna, slightly cracked with drying. The design isn’t excellent, but in the centre are the small, careful initials: L & J. The camera dips just as quick.)

“Ugh, you're proving my point. It looks terrible.”

(Joel studies it for a moment.) “Looks perfect to me. Show me yours.”

(The shot wobbles as Joel takes the camera gently. A moment of black, then the image refocuses—now it’s Leela in frame, sitting cross-legged on the floor, light pooling behind her in the corner of the woodshop. She gives a reluctant grin, her hands resting in her lap, then slowly lifts them.)

“Happy?”

“Look at that. Real pretty. Like you.”

(Camera zooms. Her palms are detailed with dark henna—delicate vines, tiny dots like stars, and soft spirals, uneven in some places but clearly done with care. Her ring sits amid it, gleaming bright against her skin.)

(Joel’s voice is soft behind the lens.) “What’s this called again?”

“Henna.”

“Right, henna. And you did this because...?”

(She gives him a pointed look.) “Because I got married.”

“That you did.” (A pause, then:) “Poor bastard.”

(Leela laughs and throws a scrap of fabric at the camera.)

(Joel lowers the camera a bit, just enough to see more of her—not posing, just being.) “And in two days. I get to see all this goodness in a pretty white dress.”

“If you shave a little.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“And wear a tux.”

“Now that’s pushin’ it.”

(She tilts her head, lips pushed to a frown.)

(Joel clucks his tongue.) “We’re not even having a real ceremony, baby. Just some pictures. No one’s wearin’ a damn tux.”

(She narrows her eyes playfully.) “Then why should I wear a dress?”

(Joel pauses.) “Don’t, then. Even better.”

(Leela looks away, but her mouth curves.) “Put the camera away, Joel.”

(A beat. Joel mumbles something inaudible to catch.)

(She gasps.) “Turn it off! You can't just say that while—”

(She exhales a quiet laugh, then reaches toward the lens—fingers outstretched. The footage shudders as the camera is lowered, turned. Just before the image cuts out, there’s a blurred shot of Joel’s boots stepping toward her.)

—

(The footage flickers back on. The camera shifts wildly at first—then it steadies, slightly tilted, capturing a low, intimate view of the workshop floor. The frame settles on Leela.)

(She’s sitting with her back against the wood-panelled wall, knees drawn up, a guitar resting haphazardly in her lap. Her hair is tousled, her nightdress clinging loosely with two buttons undone and one sleeve halfway off her shoulder. There’s a lazy satisfaction in her posture, it's obvious—she is freshly fucked. She’s grinning, biting her kiss-bitten bottom lip as she awkwardly tries to strum.)

(She nods to the camera.) “Nice, you turned it on. Say it again for me.”

(Joel, off-camera, voice sheepish) “You wish. I turned it on because future historians are gonna know what beautiful means.”

“Uh-uh. You have to say it. For the record.”

“There ain’t gonna be a record. This thing’ll get eaten by squirrels or somethin’.”

“You just said—”

“Changed my mind.”

(She laughs, eyes flicking up toward the lens, fingers still plucking uncertainly at the strings.)

“So, Joel said—and I quote—‘If I die, you have my blessing to move on, but not to someone with bad grammar or a weak chin.’”

“I was jokin’.”

“No, no. This is legal documentation now. You’re on record.”

“Fine. You got it on tape. But it’s a one-way deal. No replacements. I die, you mourn forever. Become a ghost widow or some shit.”

(Leela snorts. She strums a wrong chord and winces.) “You really think I’d let you die?”

“You plan on goin’ first?”

“Someone’s got to make you dinner in the afterlife.”

(Joel sighs.) “Hate it when you talk like that.”

(She softens then, gaze dropping back to the strings. Her voice stays light, but there's something underneath it—like the edge of a sigh.)

“You’re not gonna die anytime soon, Joel. Remember your guarantee?”

(He grumbles.) “Hundred-and-twenty years. No refunds.”

“Precisely. You’re only halfway through.”

“Still got time to pick up bad habits.”

(Leela flashes him a smile.) “You already did. Me.”

(There’s a beat of silence. You can hear Joel shift off-camera, maybe leaning closer. When he speaks, it’s warm, almost shy.)

“At least I get a cute girl outta the deal. And then some.”

“And I haven’t even started greying yet.”

“You won’t. Not for another decade. Still a damn teenybopper.”

“Right, right. I’m seventeen, Maya doesn’t exist, and I met you at my high school prom.”

“That’d explain the dress this weekend.”

“It has stars on it. Maya drew it.”

“Look, I’m livin’ long enough to see that girl bring home some cocky little bastard, and when they knock on our door, I’m gonna be sittin’ there with this guitar, cleanin’ it like it’s a shotgun.”

(Leela breaks into quiet, delighted laughter, leaning her head back against the wall. Her fingers fall still on the strings. She looks up at the camera and lifts one brow.)

“Will you at least put on your shirt first?”

“Hell no. Ruins my intimidation tactic.”

(She groans, mock-horrified. The camera tilts just slightly as Joel chuckles, and the screen catches a blurry glimpse of his knee before the feed goes shaky.)

“Alright, movie star. Gimme that thing before I start filming your bald spot.”

“Such a little—”

(A blurry shot of her smirk as he dodges a playful swipe. Then—black.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #50

[The last notes of a mellow track fade out—Simon & Garfunkel’s 'The Only Living Boy in New York.' The needle lifts. A breath of quiet static. Then, Maya’s voice, soft and clear through the mic.]

MAYA (into the mic, thoughtful): “Going along with our question for the day... I always wonder what the old world felt like. It's something I lost. Y’know, the one before the fences and the patrol schedules and the rules about not going past the orchard without a grown-up.”

“My dad and mom—they tell me stories. Sometimes funny ones. Like the time Daddy got stuck in this thing called an elevator and thought he was gonna spend the rest of his life in there.” [laughs quietly]

“And sometimes they tell me the coolest stuff. Like—did you know Leela Miller was supposed to inherit a jet? One of those fast-flying things that important people used to ride in. A private jet, she said. With soft chairs and teeny-tiny pretzels. You should’ve seen Daddy’s face when she told me. He just went real quiet and blinked a bunch.”

[Her voice quietens.] “Sometimes the stories are sad, though. Ellie told me once about the stars and how people used to ride rockets into space. She said if she had the chance, she’d go straight to the moon and never look back. I didn’t even know the moon was close enough to touch.”

[A soft pause. You can hear her thumb tap the desk, just once.]

“And every Thursday, I help my ma make dinner. It’s, like, our thing. She says people used to do that—pass down recipes and stories while peeling potatoes or whatever. Last week, we made these round stuffed cookie sandwiches called Oreos. Black and white. Sounded fancy. Tasted like… chalk? Ugh.” (giggles) “I don’t know why people were obsessed with them. Daddy ate five just to prove he liked them. Then he made this face like he’d swallowed his boot.”

“And then there were the M&Ms. Uncle Tommy found this old sealed jar when he was out on patrol. Tiny little colours, all shiny like beads. I thought they’d taste like cardboard. But… they didn’t. They melted in my mouth. Like, hmm… I don’t know. Crunchy happiness? I didn’t even care if they were a hundred years old. I wanted three more jars.”

[Her voice quiets. More space between words now.]

“Sometimes… I think I’m never gonna know what that world felt like. The one with school buses, and oh! These ice cream trucks that played music? With movie theatres and cereal aisles that go on forever. Where you could drive a car just because you felt like it. And move to a whole continent in a few hours.”

“I live in a world of rationed rice. And fences. And watchtowers. A world where you grow what you eat. And you don’t go out unless you have to...”

“But it’s not all bad.”

[She inhales, like she’s grounding herself in the now.]

“It’s actually kinda nice here. I wake up and check the berry bushes with Mama. I get to see the horses every day with Ellie. I help Daddy in the shop—he lets me sand the soft wood and shows me how to oil the hinges so they don’t squeak. When we walk through town, people wave. They know my name. The Miller kid.”

[A beat. Then she smiles, almost audibly.]

“Maybe the old world’s gone. But this one’s still growing, right?”

[She hesitates. Then leans a little closer to the mic. Her voice goes small—sincere.]

“If I ever had to pick between all the shiny stuff, the Oreos and M&Ms, the old world… or having this, my family, the lake, and my town?”

“I’d pick this. Every time.”

[There’s a quiet moment—just the hum of the equipment and a flick of a switch.]

MAYA (soft): “This next one goes out to anyone who's building something new in a world that’s still figuring itself out. Hang in there. Here’s “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles. Stay warm, Jackson.”

[Music begins.]

X

T. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3

(The frame opens with a slow zoom onto Joel, standing in front of a small bedroom mirror, trying—and failing—to get his cufflinks to sit right. The golden sun highlights the pressed lines of Joel's jacket. Tommy's teasing voice comes from behind the camera.)

“Look at that. Goddamn. Joel Miller in a tux. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

(Joel doesn’t look up. Just mutters a curse under his breath and keeps wrestling with the cuff.) “Terrible timing.”

“Oh, c’mon. Give us a spin, would ya?”

(Joel doesn't even glance over.) “Fuck off.”

(Tommy chuckles behind the camera. The lens zooms in—just slightly too close—as Joel adjusts his tie. The suit fits better than expected: crisp, black with a subtle grey lining. He looks good, clean, handsome, and uncomfortable. Someone has ironed the outlaw right off him. He finally gets the tie straight, eyes narrowing at his own reflection like it just insulted him.)

(Tommy, drawling, mock-formal) “Big brother’s gettin’ married today. Real event of the year.”

(Joel continued centring his tie.) “It ain’t a wedding. It’s pictures.”

(Tommy ignores him.) “There’s a bride. There’s a groom. She’s in white. You’re in a tux. There are rings involved.”

(Joel snorts. He fiddles with the small boutonniere Maria had pinned to the lapel earlier. It’s a single thistle and a white wildflower. Subtle.)

“Ain’t about the pictures or the suit. I… wanted a day that Maya could remember. So that’s what we’re doin’.”

“That’s a wedding, dumbass.”

(Joel gives him a look. The kind that would’ve stopped most people from speaking again. Tommy is not most people.)

“If you fuck this up for me, I am puttin’ your head through a goddamn wall.”

(The camera pans awkwardly to the bed, where Maya, three years old, is sitting cross-legged in a blue dress with a sash, hugging her stuffed bear. Her hair is braided in two neat ropes on her shoulders. She’s watching Joel with the kind of reverence only little kids have for their dads.)

“Hey, squirt. You seen your mama?”

(Maya beams at the camera.) “Yeah, she looks like a pin-cess. She got tattoo on her hands, and flowers in her hair...”

(She falls back onto the bed, kicking her feet in glee. Joel turns at the sound, a smile creeping over his face.)

“Well, now I gotta see her.”

(From off-frame, a calm voice answers, warm and amused—)

“Look no further.”

(The camera swings again, a little too fast, before it steadies—catching Leela standing in the doorway. She’s radiant in a simple flared white dress, tea-length with delicate lace sleeves. Her long braid is swept over one shoulder, tucked with tiny wildflowers. A string of pearls graces her neck, and white heels click softly on the floorboards as she steps in. She’s not done up like a fairy tale—she’s real, alive, smiling, glowing like one.)

(She smooths a hand down her stomach.) “Is it fine?”

(Joel doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares. His brow softens. One hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, the way he does when words fail him.)

“You look...” (He exhales a short breath through his nose, still watching her like she’s walked out of a dream.) “Yeah, darlin'. Yeah, you look... more than fine.”

(Then he snaps his fingers at Tommy without breaking eye contact.)

“Out. Take baby girl with you.”

(Tommy groans.) “Aw, c’mon, Joel. Get a grip.”

“Get. Out.”

(Maya squeals as Tommy dutifully scoops her up. The camera jostles a little. A final glimpse of Joel reaching for Leela’s hand before the door begins to close.)

(Maya, off-camera, giggling) “Bye, Mama! Bye, Daddy!”

(Just before the recording cuts, there’s a quiet moment—Leela stepping close, Joel’s hand brushing along her waist, his head dipping against hers, and the soft click of the door behind them.)

X

M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #51

[The tape clicks on—there's a fuzzy hum of silence, then the creak of a stool. Maya exhales. She’s clearly resting her chin in her hand, voice small and low.]

M.M (quietly): ...you're tuned in with me, Maya, where the stars are out and everyone else is asleep. Except me. And maybe that one rooster that doesn’t understand how time works.

[A pause. The chair creaks again. She exhales, this time longer. Her voice grows softer—almost like she’s talking to herself now.]

M.M: No one came down here tonight. Not even... Carter. And he said he would. Boys are so dumb. (Then quickly:) Also, he's not my boyfriend! I hate his stupid guts!

[A long silence. Just the faint sound of a wire humming. Then, her voice, low and a little sad—]

I guess... if anyone’s still listening… thank you. [Her voice tightens. She’s holding something back. Then—] Okay. That’s enough sadness. Up next is the sound of me flipping through my songbook until I find something good.

[Just as she starts to rustle the pages, there’s a knock. Soft, deliberate. Her head lifts slightly. Another knock. Then Joel’s voice—]

J.M. (off-mic, gentle): Hey.

M.M (muffled, burying her face in her arms): Hi.

J.M.: How'd it go today?

M.M: Super. No one came. Or called.

J.M.: I came.

MAYA: You don’t count.

[A beat. The floor creaks as he steps inside, sits beside her. A long silence between them—companionable. Then—]

J.M: Well. You sure do like talkin’, huh?

[Maya mock gasps—like he’s insulted her most grievously.]

MAYA: Dad. Talking is important.

J.M. (teasing): Didn’t say it wasn’t. Just wonderin’... you ever run outta words?

MAYA (proudly): Nope. Never. Not even once.

[Joel lets out a low chuckle.]

J.M: Alright. But why the radio? What is it, your diary?

[Pause. Her tone pivots—still Maya, still full of sunshine, but now there’s a thoughtfulness underneath. Like she’s been waiting for someone to ask.]

MAYA: No. Because it’s... magic. You talk... and the words go somewhere. You don’t know where or who’s listenin’. But it’s out there.

[Beat. The chair creaks as she swings her feet.]

Mama said sound keeps goin’ even after we stop hearin’ it. Maybe it bounces off the sky or floats forever in space.

[She lowers her voice now—a hush, like telling a secret.]

So what if someone’s out there in our town, and what if they’re sad and alone... and then poof, they hear my voice. They know I’m real.

[Joel doesn’t answer for a second. You can hear the emotion get caught somewhere between silence and breath.]

J.M. (soft): That’s a mighty big heart you got.

MAYA (shrugs): It’s just talking.

J.M: Nah... ’S more than that.

[A rustle—Joel moves closer, maybe rests a hand on her head. His voice lowers.]

J.M.: Why don’t I answer your question tonight?

[A soft shuffle—maybe she’s lifting her head just slightly.]

MAYA: You will?

J.M: Shoot.

MAYA (a little more awake): Um... today it was: if you could say one thing to someone or something you lost… what would you say?

[Joel doesn’t answer right away. The mic hums gently. When he speaks, it’s soft—like he’s not sure she should hear it, but says it anyway.]

J.M: I’d say… I’m still here. Still tryin’. Doin’ better. And I’d say I love you very much. Took me a while to come back. (A pause.) That’s all.

MAYA (humming): Was it… a person? Or your guitar?

J.M (snorts softly): Ain’t the guitar.

MAYA (after a beat): Then I think I know who she is.

[He doesn’t deny it.]

J.M.: You got a song picked out?

MAYA: Not really.

J.M. (with a little smile): Well, you know mine.

MAYA (grinning): Future Days?

J.M: Mind if I play it?

MAYA: Well, no one's listening to put up with your singing anyway. Go ahead.

J.M: Smartass.

[He reaches for the old guitar case he brought with him—the latch clicks faintly. The strings hum as he tunes without thinking, hands practised, voice low.]

J.M. (gravel-voiced, playful): “This next one’s for the late-night crew. All one and a half of you.”

MAYA (giggles): Hey!

[He starts to play. A few soft, familiar chords. The mic catches it, carries it. Maya leans into his side. You can hear the soft brush of her hair against his jacket. Her voice, sleepy now.]

MAYA: Thanks for coming down here, Daddy.

J.M (quietly): Always will, darlin’.

[The song fades in.]

X

PHOTO LOG — SPRING | “Unwedding” Filed: L. MILLER, personal archive Roll #03, camera serial A-081 [TRIPOD RECORDING – VIDEO & STILL INTERVAL] CAMERA: ACTIVE

Frame 001

JOEL & LEELA, centre frame. They’re standing side by side in front of the big white house. Leela holds a handful of clipped sunflowers from her garden, stems wet and crooked. She’s smiling widely, the grin still growing. Joel gives the camera a suspicious look, then manages a half-smile, awkward, slightly off-centre.

ELLIE (offscreen, yelling): Joel, your face looks like you just stepped on a nail. Try smiling like you love her!

JOEL (grumbling): I do love her.

ELLIE: Then tell your dumb mouth.

Frame 002

JOEL & LEELA, closer. Joel’s arm slips around her waist, tugging her toward him. She stumbles into him, laughing, and the sunflowers drag a streak of yellow pollen down the front of his jacket. He scowls. She looks up at him, still laughing.

LEELA (cowboy accent): Guess I done marked you there, partner.

JOEL: Been doin’ that since day one.

Frame 003

JOEL, LEELA, & ELLIE. Ellie jumps into the frame, arms around their shoulders. She’s in a wrinkled black suit with a bright red tie, hair slicked back in a ponytail. Leela clutches Ellie’s hand with a smile that softens her whole face. Joel’s attention has shifted—he’s not looking at the camera anymore, just at Ellie, and there's something proud and bone-deep in the way he’s smiling down at her.

Frame 004

JOEL, TOMMY, LEELA, & MARIA. They’re bunched close, like they’re about to break into a group prayer or a brawl. Maria has her arm around Leela’s waist. Joel stands slightly behind, one hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy’s got his eyes closed like he’s already regretting whatever Joel’s about to say.

JOEL (murmured): Don’t you dare put your scaly ass lips near my wife again.

TOMMY (winking at Leela): I got one more kiss left in me.

LEELA (laughs): Me, too.

JOEL: Don't encourage him, honey.

MARIA: Shut the fuck up and smile.

Frame 005

MAYA. She stands in the front lawn by her swingset, a sunflower tucked behind her ear, grinning so wide her cheeks nearly touch her eyes. She frames her chin with her little hands, posing like someone’s taught her pageantry. Her gaze is angled up—someone tall, probably Joel, is just off-frame.

Frame 006

JOEL & TOMMY. They're in a mild standoff, both half-turned toward each other and toward the camera, bickering with their eyebrows.

TOMMY: You go left. I go right.

JOEL: You ain’t ever been right.

Frame 007

MARIA & TOMMY. Maria’s head is thrown back in a real laugh, eyes crinkling. Tommy’s kissed her cheek mid-frame, smug. His tie’s crooked. Her blouse is wrinkled. They look like the only people who didn’t try and still somehow got it right.

Frame 008

TOMMY & MAYA. He crouches beside her, both of them duck-pouting for the camera. Maya quickly throws up bunny ears behind his head just as the shutter clicks.

TOMMY (growls): Little nightmare. C'mere, I'll yank your nose out. Can't have one good photo.

[MAYA squeals, running off.]

Frame 009

ELLIE & MAYA. Ellie lifts Maya up at the waist, both laughing like they’ve just shared a secret. Maya’s braid is lopsided now. Ellie's hair is blown upward by the wind. They don’t care; they erupt into laughter.

Frame 010

JOEL, LEELA, & MAYA. The final frame lingers. Joel holds Maya in his arms, her small hands looped loosely around his neck, her cheek tucked against his shoulder. His other arm is around Leela, drawing her in without hesitation. She leans into him, one hand resting gently over his heart, holding it there, the wood-and-gold ring twinkling in the sun. Joel doesn’t smile often, but he does here. It’s lopsided and big. It took a long road to arrive at this moment.

X

L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #117 October 3rd, 10:12 P.M.

(Soft click. A breath. Fabric rustles. Distant sound of wind chimes, maybe a creaky chair.)

“Okay. Six years, four months.”

“Maya asked me today if the sky always looked this old. And I didn’t know what to tell her.” (She laughs.) “I am still thinking about it. She is absolutely incredible. Now I know how my parents felt.”

“She’s... sharp lately. Surpasses me in all ways. Picks up on patterns faster than I can redirect her. Her brain is restless—it wants to devour everything. Maps. Fire. Roots. Words she’s not ready for. Words I wasn’t ready to hear her say.”

“Transcend. Refract. Exquisite. And, ugh, gross. Which she gets from Ellie.”

“She is Joel’s mirror. Her eye-roll, the little tilt of her head, the way she leans. She wears his old shirts, tucked into her jeans, sleeves all rolled up. She still bolts out the front door at exactly four every afternoon, barefoot if I don’t catch her, just to meet him halfway, and grabs his bag like it’s hers to carry. She sings with him now, plays guitar with him, little fingers on the frets. She even talks with that same Texas drawl of his.”

“She’s started naming weather. Not just clouds, but moods—“grump-storm,” “whisper rain,” “sun that’s pretending.” I think it’s how she handles the chaos. Which makes sense. It’s how I handled mine.”

(A beat passes.)

“I have decided that this is the last one. The last log. Not because she’s finished—well, she’s just getting started—but because I think she’s moving beyond me. And that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“My brilliant baby girl doesn’t need me to define her anymore. She’s learning what kind of person she wants to be. All I ever wanted was to get her this far. Alive. Unbroken. Curious. Aspiring. And so damn beautiful.”

“I think… I think I did that.”

(A brief rustling, a soft clink of glass—maybe a whiskey. Quite out of character for Leela.)

“As for me...” (She clears her throat. A chair creaks as she leans back.)

“I’m still working. I finished my notes on the zeta convergence problem last week—well, finished for now. There’s a ceiling I keep hitting, but I’m trying to trick myself into thinking it’s just another kind of symmetry.”

“I never thought I’d leave anything behind of mine own that mattered. But lately, I’ve been helping Jackson map our winter grid—energy storage with the lightning battery, food supply routes, even water rationing patterns. We’re building a resilience plan that doesn’t rely on luck anymore. A bunch of futurists here.”

(She exhales.) “I drew up the town’s first curriculum guidelines last month—basic logic, analytic equations, geometry... Maria says we’re going to turn the old sawmill into a school next year. Joel says if I make him teach fractions, he’ll fake his own death.”

(A small laugh. She lets it fade.)

“But I think he’s proud. Quietly. Of me.”

(And here—she gets a little softer, thoughtful, speaking more to herself now.)

“I don’t know if any of this will last. The world still breaks more than it builds. But maybe we leave behind, um... enough blueprints. Enough questions. Enough people who believe something good is possible.”

(Silence, just the faint hum of wind outside. Then—)

“I keep the hard math separate from the home stuff. Thanks to my handy chore chart. Usually. But sometimes—like today—I sit at the window with my pen, and I think about proof, and beauty, and entropy, and how somehow we still made this little family work. Even after everything.”

(Beat. She takes a sip. The glass touches the table again.)

“I mean, I still get the nightmares. Can't stop it. Not every night, but some. Sometimes I wake up with the scream still stuck in my chest. Sometimes I can’t get near my daughter's room without remembering what was done to me. What I survived.”

“But I’m doing better than I ever was. I don’t flinch as often when Joel touches me. I like taking walks around Jackson with Maria. I like to listen to people talk. Sometimes I visit Joel at the contracting yard, just to wake him up a little. I still freeze when I smell bleach, but I tell myself I’m safe, Maya is safe, and sometimes it even works. And when it doesn’t... he holds me through it. No questions or pushing. Just waits for me to fall asleep, and is awake before I am to reassure me that I didn't disappear.”

(Her voice softens here—full, held together like something precious she doesn't want to break just by saying it aloud.)

“Being with Joel is... loving a faultline. It is too silent, too deep, and it waits there. Ancient. Worn. Presence over promise. There’s something in him that bends toward my grief without being afraid of it. He just knows it’s there.”

(A soft breath, like she’s amazed by her own truth.)

“I think I love him more now because I know he’s seen the worst of me. And somehow he still leaves coffee by my nightstand every morning and kisses me like I’m his gift.”

(A faint, amused exhale—almost a laugh. She sniffles.)

“God, I sound so corny. He’d tease the hell out of me for this.”

“I never thought I’d have this. But then Joel knocked on my door one night, and everything began again. I’m... still learning how to let myself have that. Which is the hardest goddamn part. Belonging.”

(She sighs.) “Anyway... that’s the... my everything for now.”

“Joel’s downstairs—hinge number six. Maya’s his shadow, as always. I’ll go to them in a minute.”

“If I never say anything else—let this be the one that stays. I'm still here. I’ll hold onto this as long as the world lets me.”

[Click.]

X

© damneddamsy

I think it took me a really long time to post this because I had to say goodbye. To everyone who made it this far, thank you. What a wild journey this has been! Round two starts here -> FALLING masterlist Or if you're interested in something else, it's here -> DAMS main masterlist

{taglist (my literal family) 🫶: @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

[mandatory-ftmbreeder]

I'm ftm, and I am super attracted to men, but I've never been with a man and I don't know how to start. I guess my question is how do you do it? I hesitate every time there's a chance at a conversation, and i can't fathom anything progressing beyond that. I feel stuck lmao.

I have a bit of a slow burn method to this lol.

Ask about his interests and try to establish common ground. Music, food, his clothes, monsterfucking, video games, whatever. If you tend to freak out in the moment and can't come up with topics to talk about, make a list of questions that you can memorize. Things like "Where are you from? What do you do for work? Do you come here a lot? What do you like to do to relax?" And use his answers as avenues to ask more questions. If he responds with "Oh, I like to watch tv and pet my dog after work to relax." You could ask about what kind of stuff he likes to watch, ask about his dog, ask if he likes animals. The important thing is to keep the conversation going. And find mutual interests!

I also rarely ever flirt upfront with someone. I'm very indirect and need a bit of time before I can do that. I much prefer to establish a bit of a friendship with someone, sense their vibe, and then start some lighthearted flirting.

After the initial meeting, I try to maintain contact with the guy through some means. Usually I ask for his instagram or whatever so then I can send him posts I think he'll like.

I also try to find excuses to invite him to hang out. Maybe I got a new video game he's been wanting, so I invite him over to play. Or a new cafe opened that I heard is really good so I ask him if he wants to come with me.

Once we've hung out a few times, I'll start some lighthearted teasing/flirting. I also like to say things that can easily be turned into a dirty joke: I might say "oh fuck you, suck my dick" and see if he responds with something like "Okay, give me a time and place" (possibly a good sign) or if he just kinda laughs uncomfortably or something (possibly not a good sign and I'll ease up)

Once I've established all that and feel like he probably is into me, I'll ramp up the flirting and get dirtier with it. I might also do shit like bend down in front of him and see if he says anything. Any excuse I can get to touch/tease/flirt/etc, I'll take it. Then I just keep trying to be alone with him (especially if we're also drinking or high), keep flirting, and eventually one of you is gonna give in and admit you wanna fuck. (Or kiss or whatever)

Despite acting like a cocky bitch on here sometimes, I'm actually quite hesitant, cautious, and indirect irl lol. This method may be weird or crazy idk but its how I go about it.

You can also look online thru reddit or fetlife or something but that's kind of a hassle and gets exhausting quickly. I prefer meeting people organically irl as much as I can.

Hopefully this helped and wasn't just a jumbled mess 😅

[snnowwpheenix]

Jujutsu Kaisen men would love and support a s/o with a disability — whether it be blindness, deafness, or mutism

🍬 Gojo Satoru

With a blind s/o: Gojo adapts quickly and makes it fun.

“I’ll be your eyes—the sexiest eyes you’ve ever had.” He uses vivid, detailed descriptions for everything. Whether you’re watching the sunset or walking through town, he paints pictures with words and sound.

With a deaf s/o: He learns sign language immediately. Not just basics—fluent.

“How else am I supposed to flirt properly?” He’s expressive, exaggerated with his gestures, and makes sure you never feel out of place.

With a mute s/o: He becomes so good at reading your expressions, he often responds before you finish writing or signing.

“You don’t have to say a thing. I get you.” He’s also your loudest cheerleader, if needed.

🕯️ Geto Suguru

With a blind s/o: Gentle and patient, he speaks softly but constantly guides you with confidence.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” He’ll make sure you never feel like a burden, ever.

With a deaf s/o: He’s calm, clear with his signs, and never leaves you out of a conversation. He makes sure others learn the basics too.

“They can learn to communicate. You’re worth it.”

With a mute s/o: He's happy to listen to you write, text, or sign. Often waits in silence, giving you space to express however you prefer.

“I don’t need a voice to hear you.”

💀 Sukuna (in Yuji’s body)

With a blind s/o: He acts cocky about being your guide but is incredibly protective.

“If anyone stares, I’ll carve their eyes out. Simple.” He describes things with sharp wit and bold color.

With a deaf s/o: Pretends to be annoyed at learning sign language, but catches on fast.

“Tch. Guess I have to learn this to keep up with you.” Actually likes it because it’s “our language.”

With a mute s/o: He’s not the most emotionally fluent, but he pays extremely close attention.

“You don’t talk, but somehow I hear you louder than anyone else.”

💼 Nanami Kento

With a blind s/o: He’s precise, respectful, and always narrates things in a calm, clear tone.

“The table is to your left, about two feet. Your tea is ready.” He never assumes you can’t do something—he simply supports where needed.

With a deaf s/o: He speaks clearly, learns sign language fast, and never raises his voice.

“You deserve dignity and understanding. I’ll give you both.”

With a mute s/o: He carries a small notebook just for the two of you to write back and forth when needed.

“Take your time. I’ll always listen.”

🔪 Toji Fushiguro

With a blind s/o: He pretends to be casual about it, but he never lets go of your hand.

“Watch your step. …Not like I don’t trust you—I just trust me more.” Protective but chill, quietly making your day easier.

With a deaf s/o: He’s surprisingly focused when learning to sign, though he sometimes fingerspells clumsily.

“I’m not good at this... but I want to get it right.” His body language becomes clearer, more thoughtful.

With a mute s/o: He values silence and never pressures you to speak.

“I don’t talk much either. Works out, huh?” Simple, grounded love.

🐺 Megumi Fushiguro

With a blind s/o: Very aware of surroundings, always thinking ahead.

“There’s a low step. I’ll walk on your right.” He’ll train his shikigami to help guide you if you’re comfortable.

With a deaf s/o: He’s a quiet guy, but signs beautifully. Very expressive with his hands and face just for you.

“You deserve to be understood.”

With a mute s/o: Very intuitive. He picks up on little details—your expressions, gestures, even breathing.

“You don’t have to speak for me to know how you feel.”

💉 Choso Kamo

With a blind s/o: Exceptionally gentle. Speaks slowly and with care.

“I’ll be your eyes. Just stay close to me.” He’ll narrate the world with soft affection—"The sky is red today. Like blood, but peaceful."

With a deaf s/o: Patient and slow-paced. Always facing you when speaking.

“You’ll never be left out. Not on my watch.”

With a mute s/o: Understands communication beyond words. He always waits, never interrupts, and never rushes.

“We speak with touch, with trust. That’s enough.”

🍓 Itadori Yuji

With a blind s/o: He turns everything into a sensory experience.

“Touch this flower! It’s so soft!” Excited to describe the world to you and never makes it awkward. Lots of joyful hand-holding.

With a deaf s/o: He learns sign language by binge-watching YouTube videos and practicing with you nonstop.

“Teach me more! I wanna say everything to you!” Enthusiastic and full of love.

With a mute s/o: He’s super expressive with his face, like a human cartoon.

“You don’t need to speak—I can read you like a book!” Keeps it light and full of laughter, but never mocks.

[angstfactory]

They say comedians were cut from those that experienced a lot of unfunny things. Joking helped them cope. Tripps wasn't any different; the man treated most situations with levity, even when it wasn't appropriate to do so. Out of habit, even. Out of instinct, sometimes. Like now, when he cracked the tease about writing himself a reminder in his own journal, knowing Winter's predicament was serious. Before, these jokes had excusable (at least, in some aspect) because there'd been no guarantee yet, that Winter was telling him the truth. Once it was proven otherwise, however, Tripps had no excuses for making light of the situation anymore. It was simply the way he'd conditioned himself to cope, and forgot that they weren't acquainted enough for the other young man to understand, fully, that it was how Hubert functioned.

But he wasn't slow. Winter got quiet, and his eyes lowered; Tripps understood right away that the joke harmed him, rather than lifted his spirits. "Sorry," the apology came awkwardly, as he gently plucked at a stray in the quilt, "I didn't mean anything by it." He paused. "I thought it'd make you laugh." Clearly, it wasn't that easy, trying to be likable and charming. Tripps, especially, had plenty missteps.

"When you were twelve? Out of nowhere?" he asked, brow furrowing. "Did he just decide the two of you were going to start a father-son beekeeping hobby together?" Because if the man's father had been into bees the entire time, why wait until his son was twelve to get involved with it? "My dad did something like that once," Tripps said then, with a small smile, "only it was with engines. He thought we'd learn how to fix up a car together because it'd be good bonding time, and it didn't go over too well since neither of us are mechanics." Indeed, if his vehicles needed any work, they'd be going straight to the shop.

Contrary to what Winter thought, Tripps hadn't found any of these stories depressing at all. "That's good, that you got something that keeps you connected to her in some way," he said. "My grandma is the reason I know how to cook," Tripps shared then, feeling like he ought to contribute something. He wasn't ready to divulge any deep, dark secrets of a weak immune system or past loser life, but he could share some harmless facts of life, at least. "She is a great chef," he continued, "likes to make everything from scratch, so I've spent a lot of my life in the kitchen with her. Got no idea how she stores all of it from memory, cause I still got to check the cookbooks for steps and stuff, most of the time, but I guess she's had a lot of years of practice. Eighty-two years old, and still making her own meals." The woman had slowed down some in recent years, but she was going strong.

At least Winter understood, none of what he'd said before had come with any malice. Wasn't particularly appropriate, possibly even stupid, but unintentionally so. "You know, I don't actually know much about you," Tripps confessed, laughing a bit, as his fingers idly toyed with Winter's fingers. "Everything before all happened ah, pretty fast," he went on, thinking back to the day, or what he could remember of it. "Met you at this house party, we were both drunk, and I remember you got bumped into me." He was smiling now, amused. "It was like one of those meet cutes in the movies, y'know? Literally had a Winter dropped onto my lap, you were pretty embarrassed at first, and I don't remember everything I said, but I know we didn't do a lot of talking after that." There had been instant physical chemistry and attraction, which the two men had heavily played into that night. "And I know we didn't keep in contact after that, but I'm pretty sure we had a nice time." His eyes lifted, almost shyly, to meet Winter's. "I did, anyway." Winter probably couldn't recall any of it, so there wasn't much they could say from his end, but Tripps preferred to think the guy didn't have a terrible time, either.

Another thing Winter was noticing about Tripps was the way he didn't seem to take a lot seriously. There were a lot of things he was noticing about what made Tripps who he was, and Winter wished he could jot down some notes. But now didn't feel like the right time, so he just had to hope for the best. His memory was really hit or miss, so he might remember some, most, or all of what he'd learned about Tripps. But Winter would definitely remember Tripps himself. But one thing that bothered him a little was the comment about his journal; it felt a little like a jab, though Winter knew Tripps (probably) hadn't meant it that way. Still, it was a little discouraging, and Winter looked down at the floor for a moment, sighing. He wasn't going to say anything though, and instead Winter just looked back up at the other man and smiled a little sadly, nodding at him. "Okay," Winter said simply.

But Winter didn't want to end the conversation despite this remark, so he tried to put it out of his mind. Laughing a little now, Winter replied, "I forgot, but it was like...regular forgetting. Not...you know, this." He gestured around to all the notes in the room. "I know it was regular forgetting because now I remember that you asked," Winter explained, thinking Tripps might want to know the difference. "My dad taught me all about beekeeping. We started when I was 12, and from the beginning it was like I had this affinity with them. Dad said it was like we could communicate or something." Winter had thought that was just a joke, though now that he knew he was a witch, he wondered if there was more to it. "And my grandma got me into quilting. I...don't remember a lot about her. But I remember this. Maybe that's why I do it so much. I think it makes me feel close to her, or at least this idea I have of her in my head." Winter knew this was a depressing little tidbit about his life, so he didn't dwell on it.

When he felt Tripps's fingers in his hair, Winter felt his skin tingle, a shiver going through him. "I like that," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. Opening them now, Winter said, "My dad does this too, and he's got a full head of hair. And it's okay, Tripps. I know you didn't mean anything. I mean, the story I told you was pretty sensational, so why would you believe it? And I understand now. I know that's not what you meant." Winter grabbed Tripps hand again, giving it a squeeze. "I think I like that you knew the me before," Winter told him. "I like that you remember the old me, even a little bit."

[inkskinned]

she had taken all of the pronouns in my poems and turned them masculine. every she was he. every her was him. i wrote about women dipping their hands into the honey of my chest and she had changed it in this stark, violent way. men now, in my work. in my ribs, i guess. how odd, to stare at it.

i write a lot about worshipping at the knees of my girl. what sapphic can resist the allure of chapel-talk, the divine nature of what is ours and ours alone. her hair in your shower. her chapstick melting in your car. when we say holy here, it is a different meaning. it is the smithing of our own haloes from mix-tape cds. no hammer to the anvil - only our own palms, skin scorching. forging every astral ray with the prayer please don't leave. our bible a history that is never taught in high school. we shape a church from the tent of her arched back. what other word for hymn but her voice. her moaning.

a poem can be stripped of its component parts, maybe, but can it still breathe? is it still the same ship? the words this woman changed, biting and spiraling up at me: my man is holy. i worship at his feet. he is the divinity of saturdays and the wheat of my communion and he is the hushed summer's glorious release.

it's common knowledge that you can say a word too-many times, and then it loses meaning. but here was something new: it wasn't that the words had lost meaning, but rather that they had shifted in the air somehow and turned radioactive to me. all of my words were otherwise unchanged, except for the unkind and glowing eye of him.

ivory-tower glowing in my aorta, i thought about talking to her on the sanctimonious and erudite level. telling her: a poem can be changed, can be erased or added to or demolished or reconfigured; but we do try to respect the original author. i would tell her i would have preferred her not change only the pronouns; that her actions felt like censorship rather than collaboration.

in front of me: you cannot cut him out of me, i was made to love him. no scrubbing, no penance. i will always come back to this house, come back to loving men.

i thought about telling her why her actions were cannibalism, not care. i would tell her about being 18 and pressured by my catholic family to accept a man as a partner; how i'd dated him for 5 years before being able to escape. how abusive he had been. how he had made me kneel in front of him - that i wasn't using the word worship idly, but rather as a reclamation. how i had to be re-taught even the concept of faith. how when i learned peace again, it was by the hand of a woman.

i thought about telling her about the wound behind it, the unceasing loneliness. i thought about telling her shape of the small and quiet hours; the fear; the endless and unpretty nature of just being queer. i thought about saying: all of my work comes from a place of pain.

i thought about telling her everything. when i finally found the words, it was only one: why? in that was the summary of all i felt: why not write her own poem? why change it so violently? and why choose my work, if she disliked it so much? why me?

i imagine she shrugged when she responded. all i got was a single sentence: "i really like your work but i want to be able to enjoy it without being made uncomfortable."

on her insta, her pinned post is of her boyfriend - now husband - proposing. they were married in 2023. congratulations. i really do hope she's happy.

i hope one day it stops hurting.

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 3: Bubble Tea

“Hey.” Kyle murmurs, hand lightly grazing over your shoulders to rest on the back of your neck. His palm feels warm on your skin and you unconsciously lean back into it.

“Hm?” You look up from where you were hunched over your phone - definitely not shopping for a new purse on company time.

“Gonna go pick up lunch f’the shop. Want t’ come with? I don’t think I can carry it all myself.” He asks. His eyes are always so soft when he looks at you. Relaxed and bright with that constant slight quirk in the corners of his lips.

“Oh! Yeah, sounds good.” You grin, standing quickly and grabbing your wallet out of your purse to shove into your back pocket. Might as well get something for yourself if you’re going out. “Where are we heading?”

“That poke place a couple blocks up.” Kyle nods in the intended direction.

You follow him out of the shop. The weather has begun to warm more. Still cool enough for long sleeves but the sun feels nice on your face as you trot up the street, speed walking to keep up with Kyle and his accursed long legs.

“Switch with me.” Kyle murmurs, hand flattening on your lower back as he steps to the road side of the sidewalk.

You snort, cheeks warming when his hand remains a few beats longer than necessary. “How chivalrous.”

He chuckles. “My grandad always said t’never let a lady walk by the street. Guess it stuck with me.”

As much as you want to tease him about playing into gender roles, you can’t lie and say you don’t like it. That it doesn’t make your heart patter and your stomach flutter. Growing up fat, you never really got the chance to be treated delicately. Femininely. Always expected to be tougher, louder, more masculine. It feels good. Healing, in a way, as stupid as it is.

God, your inner monologue is embarrassing.

The shop is smaller than you expected. Tucked away like many buildings in this downtown with a short, blue awning shading the teal colored door. It’s surprisingly crowded too, people packed in like sardines and filing in and out quickly. The inside is nicely decorated - a few tables off to the side that no one seems to stay at. They more so seem to act as a waiting spot until people get their food and head out. The menu board is shaped like a bright blue, wall-length fish.

“Ladies first.” Kyle grins, opening the door for you. You roll your eyes at him, earning a pinch to your side in return. It’s almost strange how easy things are with him - with all of them. You don’t think you’ve ever been this comfortable around a group of men before. That would probably make you sad if you thought about it for long enough.

Kyle passes you a little clipboard with a stack of papers to customize your poke bowl and a small pen. He begins filling out three for the others, seemingly from memory. You wonder how often they come down here - if it’s their favorite local spot or just convenient. You look over his shoulder, snooping for the others preferences. Apparent Simon likes a lot of spice. Johnny, not so much.

Your eyes widen as you reach the bottom of your menu. “They have boba!”

“You want some?” Kyle grins.

You nod excitedly. Like a kid discovering a new candy. It’s been so long since you got your hands on some bubble tea - if you’d known they had it sooner you would’ve been in here nearly everyday. Then again, maybe it’s good that you didn’t know.

Kyle holds out his hand. You look between it and his face dumbly for a few moments, clutching your order in your hands before putting the pieces together.

“I can get my own!” You insist. “I don’t-“

“Price’s treat, love.” He snags the paper from your hands. “He always pays when we come here.”

“Oh. Okay.” You chew your lip. “I can at least pay for my drink, since it’s extra-“

He just waves you off and marches up to the register. You don’t miss the fact that he pulls out a very shiny credit card. So it’s not Price’s treat. It’s a company treat, eh?

Not that you’re going to complain. Free poke and boba is a dream come true.

Kyle takes your little plastic number, ducking to snag a now freed up table to wait at. They’re tall, causing you to scramble unceremoniously to get up in the heightened chair. You think you see him laughing out of the corner of your eye, but as soon as you face him he’s just sitting with that usual, casual smile of his.

One of the workers brings over your drinks in a little carrier, saying the food will take a minute longer. You’ve never been patient, greedily grabbing your tea and aggressively stabbing through the cover.

“When do you think John’s gonna let you do your first real tattoo?” You ask, kicking your feet under the tall chair.

Kyle shrugs. “He said soon. I think he’s waitin’ for me to’ be less nervous about it. Plus I need to find someone to do it on-“

“You can do it on me.” You blurt without thinking.

He eyes you. “Really?”

You nod excitedly. “I really like your work - at least what I’ve seen of it. It doesn’t have to be anything big. I’m perfectly happy with one your black-only flashes. That way you can start small.”

“I don’t know…”

“Plus, John says I sit real good. I’m not gonna wriggle and fuck you up.” You chew your straw absentmindedly.

“And what do you get out of this?” Kyle cocks and eyebrow, that slight, constant smirk only growing across his face.

You tap your chin. “Bragging rights when you get famous someday. I got the first official Garrick tattoo ever!”

A surprised laugh forces it’s way out of him, sending him into a coughing fit around the drink he was sipping. “Don’t think I’m gonna be that good, love.”

You reach out, resting your hand over his as a strange wave of seriousness overtakes you. “I don’t think John would take you on as an apprentice if he didn’t think so. Plus, you should hear how much he brags about you. It’s almost insufferable.”

There’s something in his eyes as he gives you another once over. It’s slower this time, dragging up your arm and across your features and back down your other arm, coming to an end where your hand lays over his. Kyle turns his hand upward, brushing his two middle fingers over your pulse point. It steals your breath, strangely enough. He hold your hand so gently, barely cupping it in his.

You wish you could tell what he’s thinking. For all Kyle’s honest and kind nature, he’s hard to read. That perma-smirk hides a lot more than you think you or anyone else realizes.

“Alright. I’ll talk t’John about it.” He murmurs, withdrawing his hand.

“Yah. You better.” You grin, leaning back in your seat just as the food comes out.

[thedivinetarot]

Light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul

Who is your future spouse?

☆How to chose the perfect pile?

1) Clear your mind.

2) Take a deep breathe.

3) Ask the question in your head.

4) Open your eyes and the picture that you are drawn to the most is your pile.

☆ Before you get into the reading you have to know the following:

- Please, please and I will say it again please do not think of anyone while you are choosing. Not your Ex or current boyfriend or even your crush. And I will say it again DO NOT THINK of any man as your future spouse if you want to have an accurate reading.

- This is a general reading so take what resonates and leave the rest. The future is not set in stone and the energy can change. This reading does not substitute any medical or professional help.

- I might do part 2 for this reading.

Stay safe ❤

Arya

Pile 1 - Bram stoker's Dracula

☆Where are you coming from? Your current love life:

I see that this pile have been lonely for quite some time and they are wondering if they will truly find someone. I see that you guys are overthinking everything about your love life and you are leaving no space for divine intervention. This pile’s energy is quite sad and tormented? You perhaps tell yourself that you don't need anyone but you truly want to build something stable and long lasting. I see that you feel stuck on I'm independent I don't need anyone mindset. Not because you really like being independent but because you are afraid of getting disappointed. The problem with this pile is the fear is literally paralyzing you and sabotaging any potential connection that can fit into your life. I'm also seeing that you might be someone who have been rejected and the pain of rejection is still vivid in your core memory. I see that you truly want love and to be loved! You might have a crush on someone with virgo or taurus placements. Or you might feel drawn to those type of men who embodies this archetype. I feel like you are kind of traditional towards dating. You might have had strict family or you really have a strong opinion regarding dating or hookup culture. This is your pile if you have strong virgo placements, water placements or the description fit you perfectly.

Who is your future spouse?

Pile one you might be manifesting your twin flame to be in a marriage with them? This person might enter your life so soon and above all you might get to know him online? I see that he might like your photos if you post yourself or he might just DM you through social media? This person is so grounded and stubborn. He is so earthy and stable in a generous way. He is the perfect mix between fire and earth. He is so childish or he aim to see infinite possibilities. I see that he is doing shadow work or he has been to therapy before. I see that this person is either a heartbreaker or been heartbroken many times. He is so naive or he seems naive? He might prefer texting over phone or video calls. There's an emphasis on his hair. He have curly and dark hair. His eyes are sleepy or he have sleepy eyes. There's something about his face, you see those people who have sleepy faces? Like they just woke up? I guess he might have that. He might look innocent and angelic. Like his aura is so comforting and serene. I also see that this person look younger than his age with hazel eyes. His style looks chill, like you see those guys who wear comfy hoodies? He might be one of them. I asked when will you meet him and the cards told me that you may meet him 6 months from now. You might be on a journey of self discovery when he enters your life. You might be losing weight and if you are not trying to lose weight; you might be trying to get in shape. I see that you are going to meet him after doing a lot of shadow work and inner reflection.

Pile 2 - The Addams couple

☆ Where are you coming from? Your current love life:

This pile is my daring and flirty pile. You might like your solitude but you flirt for fun. I see that most interactions that happen between you and the opposite sex are online. You might like to post spicy photos of yourself. Or send nudes to total strangers in public. You might like to take initiative in relationships. Even if you are a woman/female; you simply don't care about the traditional roles. Especially on who get to initiate to whom. If you like someone you are going to get them, I see that this is your moto. Also this might be your pile if you are stuck on a decision regarding travel. You might want to travel but you are juggling too many responsibilities and this is holding you back from actually pursuing that goal. If you are a man (since the dominant energy on this pile are men or masculines) you might be posting photos or nudes of yourself online. I see many risky photos and poses and if you are not a man or masculine then you might be doing the same action. You really value your own space; I see that you are protecting your peace at all costs. I mean yes you might like to flirt for fun with others but nothing really is serious and you are not looking for something serious either. This is your pile if you have significant leo or Aries placements.

Who is your future spouse?

Your future spouse is someone that you are going to meet through group project. At first as I said about your current energy, you are not looking for something serious so when you meet that person you'll find it kind of confusing. I see that you might be blinded at first. Like you might not notice them and if you are working with them you might not be attracted to them. They are not your usual type, they might be smart and quick thinker. This person knows how to take care of themselves. He might also know how to take care of women in general. Men might call him simp but he is no simp he is just so kind and empathetic towards women's needs. He is so determined, I see that once he put his mind on a goal he doesn't stop when he is tired, He only stop when he finish. I see that he LOVES to conquer a good challenge. He likes to to be assertive and he is looking for someone assertive too. He want his equal, his queen. He might look like he suit you? Wait let me rephrase it. You see that two people who are not dating but everyone in workplace ship them? You two might have intense chemistry. This person look like a heartbreaker. Eye color range from brown to gray or just those two colors. His hair is so silky or wavy. He have this confused look when he talk to you? He might even drag his feet while he walk, or he might look tired when he walk.

Pile 3 - Nosferatu

Where are you coming from? Your current love life.

Well, looking at the cards this pile is in their sweet feminine energy who wants princess treatment and to be spoiled. If this is not the case then this piles are for mothers or you are a mother or pregnant. If you are not pregnant and you are the girl who is in her feminine energy then I see that there's someone who wants to pursue you and he is so damn confident about it. I see that you guys are so confident in yourselves. Perhaps, you are someone who is working on their self esteem and self worth. I see that whatever the case you are in. It is going to pay off. For my girlies who are being pursued by someone I see that this person is very serious about you. He want to marry you quiet literally. This person sees you as his wife or future wife. I also see that this connection is meant to be and is distant to happen even if you are not aware of it. This person is quite civilized and diplomatic. He want to make you happy and cherish you, but if you don't want him it is your choice at the end of the day. I see a lot of happiness in this pile. Guys happiness is your middle name, since the energy or the cards I'm pulling are all yellow and yellow means happiness in tarot. Another energy I'm picking up on is that this pile doesn't really want to be strong and independent. Unlike pile one who is pushing themselves to be that way, this pile is accepting the fact that you want to be a stay at home mother or a rich wife of a rich dude. Most people in this pile are Venus dominant, have taurus or libra placement or have venusian energy in general. You guys might be the pretty girl in your friend group and everyone enjoys looking at you.

Who is your future spouse?

So right off the bat what I'm seeing is someone who have a lot of options. You know that one man who is wanted by every woman because of how friendly and charismatic he is? This man has this energy. It looks like this person is someone who has been heartbroken before and now he keeps his options open by befriending many girls and keeping his options open. He have the cup of love and he is so eager to give it to someone, I'm also picking up on someone passionate and eager to explore life. This person is sooo romantic in a cheesy way. I see that many times he attempted to get in a relationship but got afraid and back off from pursuing something serious. This person believes in manifestations or he tried manifesting an SO or future wife or this person really believes that he can create the reality he wants. This person gives off the vibe of a knight in a shining armor or a Disney prince tbh. This person look like a literal baby or he have baby features. He might have round or oval face. This man can be a little overweight or fat with blonde hair and blue eyes. He is so cute I'm seeing a picture of someone who look adorable and sweet. This person gives off the vibe of "I look good as a husband". But in general this person look so childish and baby like. Could look younger than his actual age? Or this person might be younger than you, but not so much like a couple months younger. He is so friendly or he have a lot of female friendships. This man gives off the ENFJ vibes Idk if you know mbti but you can Google it if you want to. He is so emotionally mature and caring. His energy is so nurturing. I asked the cards about when will you are going to meet him and they said he will enter soon into your life and one of the signs is a female around you is going to give birth or you are going to meet a pregnant woman or one of your relatives/friends will get pregnant. There's a NOTE for this pile specifically; if you are being pursued by someone this person is your future spouse. And if you are not being pursued by anyone then you might know who your future spouse is. And if you don't have anyone then take the reading with a grain of salt but you can enjoy it anyways.

Pile 4 - Hollywood couple

Where are you coming from? Your current love life:

This pile is truly stuck. I feel like I'm bored and desperate I want to cry. Like guys what is the matter? There's both boredom and stagnation. You might be someone who is really bored with how things are in your love life. I'm picturing a girl about 16 to 18 years old who want to be open to love but there's a man in her life (could be a male caregiver) who is very strict and structured. This man literally destroyed your well to date anyone. I feel like you are discouraged by the idea of love and I feel that you are unbalanced in a way? Like you are trying to protect yourself from getting hurt but at the same time you want love so freaking bad. I'm clinching my jaw and I feel like I want to scream and yell and kick things around me. Pile four why are you so angry? Please calm down! There's nothing in this life that deserve all this anger. Please take a break and go balance yourself and life. You are still young and have no experience and life is still long in front of you. I see that you might be waiting for something to happen; for someone to come in and rescue you from your life but nothing really happens so you pour all of your anger and resentment on yourself. Please stop hurting yourself and go find a hobby or something that can help you channel this anger and resentment. I'm picking up on someone who is bottling up their feelings and not really trying to express them. I also feel headache, do you have headache pile four? Are you bloated too? You might have significant leo and Aries placements. A little Taurus placements and sun, mars and sagittarius dominate. I feel like you are waiting and waiting but the waiting itself got bored of you lol. And you end up feeling devastated and angry. This pile’s energy is so rageful, please do some meditation or workout to get rid of that anger. You might also be scared of change? And overwhelmed by the idea of change? You might be someone who doesn't really like things to change and stick to a specific routine. Anyways let's get into the reading.

Who is your future spouse?

This person is very hardworking and workaholic. I see that the main focus in his life is his career, money and stability. This man is a little bit selfish, and he became like that because of how much he suffered. This person suffered from poverty, or he was very poor. He might even get kicked out of his family house so he can work and get them money. This person got bullied a lot by his peers and saw a lot of cruelty in his life, I feel so sorry for him. This person might be closed off emotionally, it is like he is trying to shelter himself from any possible heartache because of what happened in his childhood. I also see that when you meet him he might not be ready for anything serious or he might not really have healed fully from what has happened to him. There's an age gap here, he might he older than you or more mature. Like 4 years older. He might also be a co-worker of you? Or acquaintance If it is not then he might work with you in your field. The main challenge he is facing is stability, he want stability to be able to marry you. My advice for this pile is don't try to force things out if this person is not ready for commitment. He hasn't healed yet and his main focus is on the material. He might even use you if you attempted to help him financially so please don't. What really amazed me in this pile that this man is so materialistic, his love language can be gift giving. Now his appearance; this person look so cocky and confident. He have hazel eye color and sharp features. This person's back look hot or beautiful. He is not that tall, he is medium height. His hair is dirty blonde or chestnut brown. A foreigner? He might not be from your country. This man is possessive to be honest. If you met him after he get his ish together he will spoil you rotten but if not then don't try to help and heal him. You might meet him at the end of November to the most of December.

Post date: 25th/Aug/2024 - Sun

*Feedback is appreciated

[asxgard]

Companionship | pt. 2

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You and Michael have some late night phone calls. He struggles to open up.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: wow! Y’all are really so nice omg, I really appreciate all of you who took the time to like, comment or reblog. I also appreciate all you silent readers too! I’m genuinely surprised with how much traffic part 1 got, so thank you all so much! Contemplating adding this to my AO3 account from the perspective of a f!oc, but still undecided (I prefer to keep my reader works strictly for tumblr, idk why). This is definitely going to be multiple parts (my rough outline currently has ten chapters whoops).

I don’t know much about sugar babies aside from what I’ve read, so I took some liberties with my guesstimates.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: age gap, slowburn, foul language, allusion to a panic attack, work stress, Robby trying to avoid his feelings/anxiety, my basic understanding of accounting, angst

not beta read

“You’re lucky. Someone only looking for companionship is a small pool of men. Not as lucrative as a traditional sugar baby, but if that’s more your speed, maybe reach out to some more.”

Your smile twisted, “I’m already uncomfortable with just one. Thinking about adding more makes me feel icky.”

Erin rolled her eyes, “Why? They know what they signed up for. If they wanted fidelity, then they should get a girlfriend.”

“I’m telling you, I could hook you up with a shift or two a week at the bar. I make great tips.” Marsi said, her eyes not flickering from her laptop.

You frowned. “I already gave him my number. My Google Voice number, but yeah.”

“That’s my girl!” Erin praised with a laugh.

You wondered if it was a mistake. He had not reached out since you had sent the number on the app, nearly four days prior. Perhaps he was having second thoughts. Anxiety filled your chest at the thought of having to go through the whole process again.

Or just drop it and take Marsi up on her offer.

—

Your night passed slowly, studying with your friends until dinner time, when they left. You kept your focus on the Excel spreadsheet in front of you, checking over your homework with careful eyes. Numbers were easy, they did not hold the complexities of human beings—

Your phone buzzed on the table, immediately pulling you away from your work.

You have any time to talk?

It was an unknown number. You watched as the three dots appeared immediately after, though it wasn’t hard to guess who it was.

This is Michael by the way.

So formal, you found yourself thinking with a small smile, quickly adding him to your contacts.

I have time.

It only took a few more moments before your phone started ringing. Anxiety thrummed through your system, heart beating like a drum against your ribcage. You took a long breath through your nose before answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” He answered awkwardly.

“How are you?” You asked out of habit.

There were several moments of silence. “I want to say I’m okay.”

“But you’re not?”

“But I’m not.” Came his quiet reply.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Another measured silence. “No. Yes? I don’t know.”

You hummed. “I understand your hesitation, we don’t know each other. But isn’t that the whole point? I’m unconnected to your life and you basically have anonymity. I won’t pry, so we can talk about something else, if you’d like.”

He was silent for a long time. You checked the call to make sure it hadn’t dropped. The seconds ticked away on the call, so he was still there. You waited.

“Just a…rough day.” He said, his tone sounding stressed. “I think I’d rather talk about your day right now.”

“My day?” You questioned, surprised.

He only hummed in response.

“Do you want the play-by-play or the cliff-notes?”

Michael exhaled a ghost of a laugh, “Give me all of it.”

You cleared your throat, “So my alarm went off at 5:20, no! 5:25, and then I got out of bed—”

He laughed, bringing a smile to your lips.

“I have early classes on Thursdays, so I was up earlier than I usually like to be…”

“Night owl?”

“Guilty.” You smiled. “But it was my forensic accounting class, which I’ve been enjoying, so I wasn’t too upset getting out of bed. Add in my morning coffee, and I was a pretty happy camper.” You paused, but he was quiet on the other end. “I had taxation today too, and despite the fact I love the numbers, learning tax law just isn’t my favorite thing.”

“Why do you like it? Accounting?”

“Oh, um,” you paused, deliberating. “I like turning unreadable stuff into a well-crafted report, turn a mess into an easy to read story of a company’s financial history. Plus, numbers are a lot less complicated than human beings.”

There was his quiet laugh again. “Yeah, I can see how that can be true.”

“As a doctor, I can imagine you would.” You were smiling.

“I’ve seen…a lot of complicated people.”

You waited a few moments, but he didn’t elaborate. People were the primary reason you had left the medical field early on in your college career — while you enjoyed being helpful, people could be too overwhelming.

“And my shift today was good, busy and boring, but easy enough.”

As you went on about your day as a payroll clerk (though vague about the company details), Michael was quiet. It was clear he needed the distraction from whatever his day had been. You explained your studying routine with your friends and your love of baking. You got the occasional hum of acknowledgment, but it was clear he just wanted to listen to you talk. You moved from topic-to-topic without complaint, pausing occasionally to make sure he did not want to comment, or change the subject.

It was late when you realized the time: 11:08.

“Michael? I’m sure I could keep going, but I’m not sure you want to hear my opinions on office politics.” Your tone was jesting.

Still no response. Furrowing your brows, you listened silently to the other end.

Small puffs of air, slow and steady, in and out. In. Out. He had fallen asleep.

Your first instinct was to be offended — no telling how long since he had drifted off or how long you had rambled to no one. But then you relaxed. He had clearly needed the distraction from what was going through his head when he first called, enough to quiet his brain. Or perhaps he was just that exhausted. Either way, you did not take it personally, you would have likely been up this late anyways.

You ended the call at two hours and seventeen minutes.

—

Are you available at 9?

You checked your phone when you moved into the living room, dinner cooking in the oven, finding a text from Michael. Per your agreement, you usually talked about once a week. He usually gave late notice, though it usually reflected how bad his day had gotten. Your last talk, however, had only been three days prior.

In addition to the one only days ago, you had talked two additional times since your first, typically at night, where you did most of the talking. You almost found your talks therapeutic; plus you were getting paid to just talk. Though, you wished he talked more — part of you felt like you were taking advantage of the situation and he was barely getting anything out of it.

He had already put money on the prepaid Visa card you had picked up after your first phone conversation. Michael thought the card would be more discreet and confidential than Venmo. The $400 dollars you had agreed on for the month had done wonders with relieving the pressure on making your rent payment.

Erin had encouraged you to set up an online wishlist as well, adding things periodically in case he wanted to buy something extra for you. “As a tip,” Erin had told you, a wide smirk on her face. That same day, Erin had coincidentally brought her new Valentino canvas bag that you were sure cost more than your rent payment. You held off on the wishlist, but you kept a few things in your notes app. Just in case.

You sent him a confirmation that you were fine with nine. He must work late hours. He had said he was a doctor, but you wondered in what specialty or where, but you had never broached the topic. You both valued your privacy when it came to your arrangement, not wanting to muddy the waters.

Surprisingly, he did not call at nine. He was usually pretty punctual when it came to a time he asked for. You waited patiently for several minutes before moving to start some hot water for tea, looking out the window at the rain. You figured to give him a bit of extra time before turning in.

At 9:24, your phone rang. Part of you nearly picked it up on the first ring, but you gave it a few moments before picking up. When you answered, he spoke first.

“Please just talk. About anything.” He sounded out of breath, talking quickly. His tone sounded more stressed than you had heard before.

“Are you alright?” Was your first instinct instead of doing as he asked, standing from your chair at the dining table, mug of tea forgotten.

“Fuck. No, I’m not. Please just talk to me. Your day. Your job. The fucking traffic this morning. Anything,” Your name was so quiet on his tongue, you nearly missed it.

It sounded like a plea.

You swallowed, pulse quickening, before running with it, “This asshole actually cut me off this morning, which considering his bumper stickers, wasn’t all that surprising. No blinker, nothing. I swear, sometimes the subway is less stressful, though I hate the morning crowds.”

Suddenly realizing talking about stressful things might not be the best way to calm him down, you pivoted, pacing across your apartment. Deciding quickly on something boring to most, you began to explain your most recent accounting assignment. How you came up with the financial analysis from the numbers your professor had given, to the tax implications of several of the (fake) business’s decisions. You explained it as best you could in layman's terms, trying not to make the math too complicated, before walking him through your report and your thoughts about how to help the business improve.

You paused long enough to hear his breathing, not quite as ragged but still loud and quick. “I don’t need you to respond, but think of five things you can see.”

Oh this was cliche, but you did not dwell on it.

After a few moments, “Okay, four things you can touch.” You paused, finding four things of your own to ensure he had time. “Now three things you can hear.”

“You.” He croaked, much quieter than he had been. “I can hear you.”

“That’s good. Now two more things.”

“…the rain. The cars outside.”

“Good,” you breathed out. “Two things you can smell?”

He didn’t answer, though his breathing had slowed tremendously from when you had first answered his call. It felt relieving, and you finally made your way to sit on the couch.

“Last is one thing you can taste.”

He let out a long deep breath, but kept whatever it had been to himself.

“Are you okay?” You asked again after a few moments.

“No.” He said. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

You nearly huffed, but the annoyance was fleeting. You smiled, “I can tell you more about accounting, but most people find it incredibly boring.”

“You seem to really enjoy accounting. Though, I can’t imagine being cooped up in an office all day.”

“Well I wasn’t quite cut out for psychiatry, and I’ve always enjoyed a good spreadsheet.”

“Psychiatry?” He sounded surprised. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“What does that mean?”

“You would’ve been good at it.”

Oh?

“Thank you.” You whispered. “Um, can I interest you in what my professor assigned today or how my manager nearly fucked up payroll this week?”

He cleared his throat, “I’ll take ‘how my manager nearly fucked up today’ for $200, Alex.”

Your lips quirked back up at the Jeopardy reference, trying to shake off the feeling his praise had given you. With a long sigh, you rubbed your fingers along your hairline.

“He messed up the new employee’s tax deductions by misclassifying his title. When he backtracked to fix it, he cleared out the entire category — thankfully I caught it when I was putting my own numbers in for the small team I oversee.” You told him, looking at your nails. “Led to quite a frustrating day.”

Despite the fact that it had led to quite a hectic start to your workday, adding several tasks that interrupted you workflow, you felt mildly pathetic knowing his day had clearly been so much worse. You tried not to compare, your days had just as much value as his, but it was still a creeping feeling in your gut.

You continued on after a beat of silence on his end. Fixing the problem hadn’t necessarily been the issue — it was redoing every employee's numbers that led to your annoyance. That, and the lack of accountability from your manager.

Time ticked on, Michael only adding in his thoughts here and there, mostly staying quiet.

He coughed awkwardly during a lull in your conversation, “Uh, thank you for tonight.”

Beginning to feel your exhaustion, you smiled tiredly. “No thanks necessary.”

“Goodnight,” there was your name again.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

[ Next ]

want to join the taglist? shoot me a message!

[straightouttherosebush]

𝙃𝙚𝙭𝙚𝙙 <3

Side note can we talk about how this version of Viktor and hexcore (rainbow) Viktor are the best versions of him? Did bro say Glorious Ovulation because holyyyyyyyyyyyy 0///0

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧: Viktor my beloved <3

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Just general romantic/some NSFW headcanons for my favorite boy. You can picture these with whichever Viktor you want (I guess), but I feel S1 Viktor fits best.

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜: NSFW themes (edging, eating out, praise kink on both sides if you squint, public sex fantasies), AFAB reader (mostly intended to be fem! reader but I'll be extra careful for my nonbinary/ftm friends)

𝙍𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨

First off, I wholeheartedly believe in asexual/gay Viktor, and I am 100% a JayVik shipper, but a girl can also dream that he's bisexual with a male preference. It's a stretch, I know.

That's what we get for liking our men fruity.

Absolutely adores acts of service (his favorite), but physical touch (like the forehead touch that zaunites do, and other subtle movements) and verbal reassurance are things that make him feel appreciated.

Not huge on displaying his affections anywhere but in private. Nobody would even know that you guys are together and he likes it that way. He already has enough eyes on him, though they're mainly on Jayce.

Not big on names either, and idk if Czech exists in the LoL universe (as saddening as it is). He sticks with mentioning you as his "partner," though a "love" will sometime slip out when the two of you are alone.

"Can you please pass me those notes, my love?" "Do you need any help, love? You look... frustrated." "My cane is all the way across the room, can you please bring it to me, my love?"

You have to try your damnedest to either get into his lab to see him or to get him to turn in for the night. He reasons that this research is vital to his well-being, but so is rest. It usually doesn't work, so you at least bring him something to eat/drink.

I look at that man and think "pathetic twink," but with his attitude/personality, I can actually see him as more of a dominant figure in a romantic relationship. He is very sassy, he is assertive, and he is blunt. He doesn't look like he'd be like that, so it's a welcome surprise.

Generally a patient partner and is perfectly fine with slow-moving relationships. Actually, he prefers them. Not only does he enjoy the feeling of quiet, calm yearning, but he sees no reason for turbulence if one is trying to create a lifelong connection (which is what he generally looks for).

Viktor is all-around really thoughtful, and even when you don't think he's listening, he'll remember the events of your day with perfect accuracy and even the food you mentioned eating this morning. Even the way you phrase things, he has sharp memory and is very considerate and attentive.

𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨

I headcanon that he is 100% a virgin

Switch, but top leaning. Let me explain.

Just as I said he was more dominant in romantic relationships, once he is comfortable with a partner, he also becomes more sexually dominant as well. This might take him a while but I SWEAR it's worth it.

Limited mobility hinders a lot of things he wishes he could do (he'd be more experimental if not for it). He sometimes psychs himself out and gets a little worried that he's leaving you unsatisfied.

His back specifically makes it hard for him to completely bend or move around, so he’s often either sitting or laying down. (Also suffers whenever he arches his back out of pleasure)

Please tell this man he’s perfect or even sufficient the way he is, compliment his waist/back, his thin face, his thin frame, anything he is insecure about. He secretly loves this, and he has an inferiority complex due to his many ailments and his social status (as he is still from Zaun.)

More of a giver than a receiver, he takes more pleasure in feeling your fingers in his hair while he overstimulates you with his tongue. Very skilled for someone who has NEVER done that stuff.

He is such a sweet dom, mostly ever lets out whimpers and small moans, as well as pure, sweet compliments, or the very rare tease. However, if you ever hear him curse under his breath, you know it's good.

Prettiest fucked-out expression EVER, eyes rolled back, head thrown back, back arching, the whole shabang.

Mainly has you riding him, his face, etc. One time he told you that you didn't need to hover and it was okay for a LITTLE but then he found it difficult. He still loves to have you fully seated while he works his magic.

Into edging and is really cheeky about it. He'll make the most smug expressions while eating you out or... rather, stopping before you finish. Part of him likes seeing you struggle, it's funny to him.

Absolutely communication driven, but gets a bit more confident as the relationship progresses. He doesn't want to overstep, and wants to know what you want/don't want, but will make use of that knowledge later.

Cannot be coerced out of work with sex. Thanks for trying. Maybe when he gets home, but he's usually either sleeps at the lab or is too sleepy at home. It is an unwelcome distraction and it genuinely frustrates him.

Speaking of the lab, he does feel really flustered and ashamed to admit that he has fantasies about you sitting on the desk and him going at it-- tongue, dick, all of it. It isn't a huge thing for him, but it pops into his head every once in a while.

11/10 aftercare, though you wish your already debilitated partner wouldn't try to rush around after he exerted himself so much. He rushes around to get you cleaned up, make you tea, all of it. He insists on doing things for you first.

I hope I fed the Viktor enjoyers, I love you guys and hope you're doing well after the events of S2. Stay strong Viktor nation, and as for Jayce...?

Jaybe.

This is my first Arcane headcanon post and definitely not my last. :D

Thanks for reading! Rosey <3

♡MASTERLIST HERE♡

Ⓒ Written by Rosey, please do not copy/repost/translate.♡

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 24

I feel like every chapter is slowly getting longer and longer- don't know how to feel about it... Ch 25 is over 3k long- may get longer before going live idk :))

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 24 >>next

“It’s definitely an ambush.” Your voice hummed through their minds as you sharpened the retractable blades of your metal-covered fingers. “That’s a possibility. But I’m sure you can protect us, poor damsels in distress.” You roll your eyes at Slade’s thought, however, your attention is redirected.

All three of you squinted at the figures of the men shadowed by the sun. “I could take on the skinny one with the robotic eye.” Luthor’s prideful thinking was met with an unimpressed look from both you and Slade. “I doubt it.” You cleared your throat before finally speaking out loud. “I know about you.” You cross your arms, leaning on one foot before looking right at the general. “Kregg, right? And who are you two?”

Kregg stepped forward once they landed, and Slade immediately took notice of the man’s nervousness. Hidden well, but still there. “Yes. I am General Kregg.” His hand extended to his side, directed to the buffiest man. “This is Conquest, one of our greatest. And this-“ his hand moved to point out the better-dressed figure between the three. “- is Grand Regent Thragg, our lord.”

“And savior-“ Your slipped mutter made Lex twitch, almost choking on the traitorous laugh that bubbled up. “So we’ve got war, conquest, and a prince? We’re missing famine, I guess...” You raise an eyebrow. “Alright. What do you want?”

The fur-lined cloak of Thragg fluttered in the air as he came forward this time, his tall frame going past Kregg, way too close for Slade and Luthor’s preference as their bodies shifted slightly to be a few centimeters in front of you. “I don’t know what your father told you about me. I do not care. And however prideful I may be, I’m not stupid.”

Despite all that, his frown deepened, and his face soured. “I… didn’t believe you when you first threatened us.  I have been proven… wrong.” It seemed to take a lot of pain to say that. You took note of that for later use while scoffing. “Yes. I know you’ve been watching me. And that you sent a soldier after my brother, so you better get to the point because I’m already fighting tooth and nail to not rip you three to shreds and take over Viltrumite myself. Make you the slaves for once.” Threatening them was perhaps stupid, but you just wanted to eat and sleep.

“Humans have made treaties with what you call marriage for centuries-“ Thragg didn’t finish his sentence as Lex couldn’t hold his laugh of utter shock at the implication while Slade scoffed, both men ending up saying the same thing. “No. Let’s go.” They grabbed your arms and started moving, almost stumbling as you remained unmoving. “Arranged marriages have stopped being a thing in a majority of countries, let alone as a thing to end wars. But you’ve made me curious enough to hear you out. Going through all the work of threatening an assassin to threaten a billionaire so the billionaire can ask politely- it’d be rude not to at least listen.”

The man’s eyebrow twitches as soon as he senses sarcasm. “You… and your family and allies pose a feasible threat.” Thragg truly looked like he was in pain. “But if we were to go to war, we’d still do irreparable damage. We’ll surrender, but we want to hide on Earth, amongst humans, to raise our ranks. We won’t interfere with human events.” Kregg paled when you laughed right in Thragg’s face, yet his own remained unmoving. “Oh, so you want to use humans as breeding bitches? And then- if something- or someone attacks and almost levels out Earth you’ll just what? Sit on your lazy asses and watch everyone die?”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Make them work for it. Let them think about it, they sound desperate enough.” Cecil’s voice made the heroes who were about to leave stop in their tracks, their eyes moving to the bald man as he asked Donald to pull up the images. Nolan and Thaedus rose from their chairs at the sight of the three Viltrumites. “You want all of that?” The Sorceress’ voice almost sang in a mocking tone. “There’ll be rules. My planet, my rules, not yours. First one: You’ll work yourselves to death if a threat shows up. I’ll let you think about it.”

“I don’t care.” You quickly interrupted the Viltrumite when he tried to argue. “Two weeks. No more, no less. I’ll have a set of rules that every Viltrumite will have to qualify for them to even be allowed to look in Earth’s direction.” The camera moved, showing Lex and Slade. “I guess it’s too late for the Ritz now?” Slade smirked. “I’m sure we can find a non-stop and destroy the billionaire’s kitchen.” Was the last thing everyone heard before the transmission was cut.

Cecil turned to the people present. “Seems our work needs to speed up.” Harvey looked at the balding man. “We can update our files in less than three days. We’ll be ready for a trial before the aliens return with an answer.” Dick’s eyes jumped from the people speaking to Nolan and Mark, the names of the aliens going through one ear out the other, his eye twitching as he finally got up off the floor. “Yes- yes, aliens bad, don’t like them- Why are you-“ If his mother or Alfred saw him pointing his finger like this towards the older man, Richard would be dead. “-allowing my sister around Deathstroke and Luthor?!”

“Those two will be easily dealt with. I do not like the way that Thragg kept staring at her.” Damian’s comment went unanswered as Invincible frowned and crossed his arms, the young man scoffing at the lesser Grayson. “Your sister? Since when? Last I checked you lot didn’t even know she was missing until- like last year.” Nolan spoke up too, not letting any of the bats get a word in. “Not to mention, she hasn’t been a Wayne for years. She’s a Grayson.”

“Bullshit.” Stephanie couldn’t hold the hiss that escaped her mouth. Batman was seething with rage at what he assumed was a lie. His imposing figure got up from his chair in a move that would usually threaten anyone-but them? Never. “I fear that’s the truth, Mr. Wayne.” Cecil quickly cut through.

“When Nolan came to me with the request I was ready to send the kid packing back to you, but I think you out of all people will understand the curiosity one has to discover things.” Mark has never seen Cecil ever glare like that at anyone, let alone speak to anyone with such a threatening tone in his voice. “Imagine my surprise at the many public articles of your neglect, and at the many, private, records that were swept under.”

“Everything only made me want to talk to her, and when I finally got the chance all I saw was a kid clinging onto the only female figure in the house, avoiding any male besides Invincible, more scared that I’d send her back to you rather that Omni-Man kidnapped her.” Duke took in a shaky breath, muttering something under his breath along the lines of it being harsh.

“Might be.” Cecil shrugs before his eyes settle back on Bruce. “How many times has she been sick under your watch? Does she have any allergies? What’s her least favorite color? How many times did she run away from the manor before running away from the city? Can you even answer one question?” Batman couldn’t, but Nolan was quick to when Cecil looked at him. “Five times, two of which she had to go to a pharmacy on her own to buy meds, with us she was sick three times. She has one allergy to metamizole and one skin problem that she needs creams for and has a personal vendetta against the olive green shade that looks like vomit.”

The other heroes wanted to stand up for their allies, but the more the men spoke, the more their respect dwindled. “She’s better off with them. And not only because they gave her the love you weren’t able to, but because if she ever snaps, ever goes off the hinges- it won’t be you who’ll be able to reel her back, even for a moment. It won’t even be these two. It’ll be her mom.” Cecil looked around the room. “Anyone has anything else to say?... Good. Let’s go, we’ll keep in contact.”

The league was left alone with a still-shaking Nightwing, and a more than usual, broody Batman, the other bats besides Jason seemed dejected at best. Dinah’s eyes, however, stayed on her husband’s figure. She could see the clogs turning into his head, the way his eyes narrowed at Bruce like he couldn’t quite believe it. She sighs before pulling her man towards the door, it’ll be a long month, she could feel it.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“That was reckless of you.” Lex groaned as he sunk into his uncomfortable leather couch you had covered in as many fluffy blankets as you could. “Your face is reckless.” Your voice was muffled, eating your third serving of the chicken and rice Slade had cooked. “And you two wanted me to do it- I want a vacation, by the way- Mom and Mark need it, and after dealing with those three mean mugging my ass you two owe me.”

You were really only talking to Lex as Slade found a recliner hours ago and passed out on it like the divorced, deadbeat dad he is. “Somewhere warm and quiet, preferably a private island without the Epstein bullshit.” Luthor’s lip curled at that. “Don’t even try to compare me to that low life- I may be a monster, but I have morals.”

“Bull. You tried to kill Kon when you thought he wasn’t obeying you. And you so are a weirdo for nagging me since I was a teen with your craziness. Slade is a weirdo too, hunting down kids, fighting them, and grooming them to be the perfect weapons just because his own won’t talk to him anymore- oh my god, he’s Bruce with extra steps in reverse.” Your hand dropped the fork, holding onto your face instead. “… I’m taking your bed for making me think about all of this- no thinking on my vacation! Note that down- I need a no-thinking week!“

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The trial went by… too quickly. The Judge and Jury were definitely brought off, but it wasn’t Cecil, the man was actually pouty about the fact. That was however good for you and your family. While most of Nolan’s freedoms, and consequently your own, would be stepped on and rubbed into the floor it was better than moving him on the moon… Maybe. Still debatable. You took a note to visit your dear rogues towards the end of your vacation… or when you could, really. Two-Face deserves another thanks for the show he put on.

The good part- Lex did give you the vacation you wanted. So, after Abe, as you’ve come to call The Immortal, said his goodbyes to go on his own vacation you and the babysitter your mom found were running around to pack things for the holiday. Well, you were. Poor April was watching alongside Debbie the chaos as Mark and Nolan seemed to be just as anxious, flying around the house.

Your mother sighs before reminding everyone of the no-flying rule, resulting in everyone stopping and landing on their feet. “Sorry mom- it’s just-“ Debbie smiles at you as she hands you a bag to load into the car. “You’re not used to relaxing, but it’ll be fine. If we forget something you can just teleport back and grab it and if something bad happens you and your brother will be there to protect us.” Nolan pouted as he wasn’t included but did not say anything. “Now come on, let’s load up the van so we can reach the house before dark.”

“Oh, we’re taking the car? I thought we’d be flying?” April asked as she lifted Oliver higher on her hip. “We are flying.” You smirk as Mark continues with a shrug. “But we are also taking the van. Hope you’re not car and fly sick.” April could only hum as the two young adults went back to their work, her eyes settling on Debbie’s reassuring smile.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Whoever said vacations are relaxing is a liar with fiery pants. Sure, the lazing around is nice, but the packing and unpacking is a nightmare you could do without. Alas, after a good nap and a great dinner, you were hanging with your dear brother on the balcony, enjoying the cold breeze cooling the heat left by the sun. “Mark- don’t give me that bull. You haven’t been okay since dad beat you up, and that Levy guy only made it worse.”

“You killed Vidor without remorse.” Mark wasn’t looking at you, eyes remaining on his can of soda. “I did. I’d do it again. That doesn’t mean you have to do that. You’re not me and I’m not you.” You rested your hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t- I thought he was stronger, I didn’t mean to kill him- I-…”

“Mark. From what you and everyone else told me, the man was unhinged. I… I can’t say I know how you feel, I had no remorse for the Joker or Vidor, and I don’t think I’ll have any for the others who may meet the same fate. But that’s me, that’s Nolan. You’re better than us. You want to help them get better, to fix things in a- morally correct way.”

“The world needs that. And you shouldn’t feel shame, or like you failed because you couldn’t do it. You tried.” Mark snorts at your words. “I’m supposed to be the older sibling-“ You immediately repeat his words in a deep voice. “Fuck off.” He nudges your ribcage with his elbow after you do. “I mean it. We both killed, we both got traumatized- and yet you’re like an unmoving mountain… I still have nightmares about how much worse that night could have been, mom and Oliver could have died, but all they got was a broken arm and bruised forehead.” You lean back in the recliner, taking his words in before responding. “The guilt eats me… That I wasn’t there, that I wasn’t the one to bring you back. Kinda feels like I failed.”

“Cheers to guilt eating us alive.” Mark jokes. “Cheers. As for the other thing you said… I- I don’t think most people deserve a second chance… I think everyone should get a second chance- but some people don’t want to change to be deserving of it. And if they don’t want to put their pride aside and do the work required, they’ll do what they did again, and again, and again. There’s no fixing something that doesn’t want to be fixed. Joker was like that. Bruce tried so fucking hard for a lost cause- when Jason came back, he beat him up harder than he ever did the clown.”

“I think that was when I started believing that. Bruce never hit us- them. He went out of his way to redirect his anger toward anything else, is what Jason said. He also said B reacted like that because he felt too guilt-ridden and frustrated on how he failed him- but-… I think he was furious at how right Jason was.” You shrug. “I don’t know… The fucker is something I stopped trying to detangle and understand a long time ago, but he also fits the category of if they don’t want to fix themselves they don’t deserve a second chance. Bruce is so sure that he’s right in everything, he forgets to understand that just because he feels like he did the right thing doesn’t mean it was the right choice for others.”

“Dad’s trying.” Mark mutters as if to reassure himself. “He is. You still flinch sometimes. Don’t feel bad about that, you have every right to. He was… brutal in that fight.” Your eyes meet as you nudge his shoulder with yours. “You’re stronger than me, I don’t think I would have been able to come back from that fight like you did.” Mark’s lip twitched into a smile.

“… Sometimes I just want to beat the shit out of dad. With a spiked baseball… in the middle of the night, preferably. Like he wronged me in another life.” His words earned a laugh straight from the depths of your belly. “He has a very punchable face.” You cackle as Mark joins in your gleeful laugh.

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26 @persephone-kore-law @bluevenus19 @ryuushou @asillysimp @aalunar @cxcilla @sirenetheblogger @pinkluv29 @br33zy-blizzardz @victoria1676 @of-poetry-and-dreams @djpuppy-kittens @wizzerreblogs @galaxypurplerose @burningkittenprince @swanluver @ohnoivefallen

Ch 25 sneak peek:

“You came to tell me to be a lover?” You sniffle as you chuckle. “No. I’m just being selfish and wanted to see you.” [REDACTED] nudges you. “But it won’t kill you. You’ll see, the fates have already sewn your threads. It’s just a matter of which one you decide to walk.” You didn’t move away from her, but you did wipe away your remaining tears. “Sounds like the illusion of choice.”

[dilf-docs]

"Call It What You Want" Series: Drabbles. In today's episode, Y/n L/n goes on a Chicken Shop Date! ft. Amelia Dimoldenberg

Set: Before the first part of the CIWYW series Warnings: None. Just lousy comedy. I'm sorry Word count: 974 words

"So, I heard a rumor"

You pop a fry into your mouth. "Gotta be more specific with that"

"That you like older men" she replies back in an instant. You almost choke on your fry. Almost. You're quick to recover, taken back still.

"Oh, that" you let out a laugh. "I suppose it's true"

You think back about one of your most liked instagram posts, an old one. A graphic t-shirt with the front spelling I Love Dilfs, a red heart in the middle. Pedro had teased you about it, to which you replied: Are you stalking me?

"Why not older women?" she questions, and your eyes go wide at it. You've never been one to label yourself, especially not online.

"You aren't old, Amelia"

Her character falters a bit at your comeback.

"Did you just called me old?" she jabs. "I can poison your nuggets"

"Well" you reply, "it would be a bit weird that I thought about other people while we're on a date, right?"

She contains a laugh.

"I'd say then, that you have good taste" she bites a nugget. You bite yours. "Can I ask one thing, though?"

"Sure" you lean forward, then look at the camera, pleading, "as long as it's not about my dating life-"

Finding out who you were dating was one of the Internet's favorite topics. It went wild every time a new project of yours dropped, since you seemed to have insane chemistry with your co-stars. This time, the victim was Sam Cafflin, who just happened to star in some horror flick called Bagman. You weren't even together in the movie, but the few promotions you did together were enough for fans to place their imput in your relationship. They always did, yet, so far, no one had been able to guess it right.

And you're lucky, because it's been a while now since you and Pedro were together.

"If you could choose any D.I.L.F to take my place and be on a date with you, right now, who would it be?"

"Rude. I see you insist on me cheating on you on our date"

"I'm curious" she says, her accent shinning. "The Internet loves to pair you up with older men as much as you love to pair up yourself. Have you noticed?"

It's no secret. You're as clear as ambiguous. Everyone knows your preference, but none the fact that you're even married.

"Of course. I love my fans too much" you take a sip of your lemonade. "You could say I am a fan of them"

"Alright, but who you'd pick?" Amelia insists.

"Depends on the season" you chuckle. Your mind instantly goes to your husband. Still, you decide to spice things a bit with your answer. Give the Internet something to say. Give him something to say. Shit stirrer, you hear his voice in your mind. "Right now, it's summer, and Hugh Jackman seems the right answer"

The blonde woman raises her eyebrows.

"He was here just last month" Amelia says. "Should I give him your number?"

"You don't have my number" you deadpan. "Nor his"

Her eyes go wide as she suppresses a smile.

"Say I did. Should I ask yours for him?"

You shrug. "I'm a busy woman. If they want me, they better find me"

She chuckles lightly at that. "Well, thank you for making time for me then"

"Oh, for a pretty girl, anytime. Might like you more than my D.I.L.F.S"

Yet, in your heart, there's only a space and Pedro's carved itself inside it.

"Hugh Jackman, huh?" he muses. "What the fuck is he gonna do for you, hmh?"

You wrap your arms around his neck, moving from side to side in a cheeky manner. He's been bugging you with it ever since you stepped inside the house, and you've been trying so hard for him to drop it, but you knew it was lost case ever since he started spamming your phone once the interview dropped last night.

"Pop those claws out"

"You could have a Roman general yet you chose a mutant freak"

"The Roman general dies. Wolverine is immortal" you argue back.

"You're saying that just because he's trending right now... I want to see if you hold to the same answer when Gladiator II comes out"

"Baby, be honest. Are you jealous?" you tease.

He scoffs. "Of a guy with forks for hands? Please"

"Calm down. No need to fight this war, general" you stand on your tiptoes, his lips brushing yours. "You know I'm all yours"

His grip on your waist tightens, then leans into your ear and whispers, possessively so.

"Damn right you fucking are"

You're enjoying this a bit too much. Not even the Internet had gone that crazy over your interview.

"Hugh Jackman can sing though"

"Aw, c'mon!" you laugh as he slips from your embrace. "That's it, you're sleeping on the couch tonight!"

"No, wait" you chase after him, giggling.

His face is flushed when he looks back at you.

"You know, I Iearned to sign Future Days, for Joel. But now? You get nothing, ungrateful deceiving wifey"

You feign hurt, placing a hand on your chest.

"Is it bad to say another man is hot, or have you gone too woke?"

"You're married. Don't bullshit me"

"Secretly married!" you protest.

"So that allows you to thirst out-loud for other men?" you remain silent. God, he's stubborn. "You've been a real bad girl"

You stop on your tracks. So does he. When you smile, wickedly so, he knows he's done for.

"I can be a good girl if you want"

Sultry voice. Dripping in honey, dropping in tone. Batting eyelashes. Parted glossed-up lips. His cock twitches. He feels like a fool.

Pedro just runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck, baby. You're gonna be the death of me"

[lukolathoughts]

Nicola loves the girls, the gays, and Luke Newton.

Dearest gentle readers,

Well! What an interesting few days. I'm not sure where to even start. I just want to let Jakeholes know, this isn't the blog for you, so it's best you move along now before you start foaming at the mouth.

In my first blog, I touched on subtext and reading between the lines. This is something I teach to my students and encourage their critical thinking skills. I will give out a photo and ask my students to 'infer' from what they can see in the photograph. 'Inference is a process of deriving logical conclusions from premises known or assumed to be true. It is also a guess or an opinion that is formed based on the information that you have.' In an exam, if I gave the students a photograph and they simply told me that all they could see was that the sky was blue, the grass was green, the lady is wearing a green coat and the man a hoodie and a baseball hat, they would not get very many marks.

However, if they described what they could 'infer' from the photo, such as that handhold does not look genuine and his fingers are stiff, their laughter seems over the top, the man isn't wearing a coat in January. They seem to be looking directly at the photographer, they never make eye contact in any of the photos. This would get them some more marks. Then if they went that one step further and asked WHY to all these points and backed it up with a statement explaining why - they would get even more marks. For example, why isn't the man wearing a coat in January? This could suggest the weather is not that cold in London at the moment, or the this picture might be from an earlier time period. They could look at the shop displays for evidence. Why does the lady never make eye contact with the man, could it infer that she is uncomfortable doing so or the thought never occurred to her? Why are they looking directly at the photographer? Could it possibly indicate they knew the paparazzi were there? And why would they want the paparazzi to take their photo's? What do you say to that class? Are they a couple happily in love? Write me a story on it, one, two, three go! They say a picture paints a thousand words.

Now since Deux Moi dropped the photos just as I was cooking the kid's tea (British slang for dinner) I have once again been glued to Twitter. I had to take a break for a bit and ensure my offspring didn't starve, but I thought oh god another shitshow and the day isn't even over. But I open Instagram and I swear I had the best laugh I have had all day really. I'm not sure when these photos were taken. The weather does look mild to be January and Jake is wearing a hoodie, but my husband is stupid like this and walks around in board shorts. In January. In Wales. When I tell you it's baltic cold, I mean it. But men apparently don't feel the cold especially if you're 24 and plastered to the side of your bestie or PR girlfriend, however you prefer. Us Brits love analysing the weather, probably because it's so shit here. So the timing is not really the issue for me. What made me laugh was was those two belly-laughing in some London alleyway looking like, 'look at us, we're so funny, everything is hilarious haha.' This was quite surprising to me as I genuinely did not realise Jake had a sense of humour, especially around Nic. What did she say that was so funny? We know she has the ability to make Luke belly laugh just by scratching her nose really. It was almost as if it was all a bit orchestrated for the cameras they were staring directly at. 'Smile and laugh for the camera Jake! You've been framed!'

So what was this? A PR set up that Nic and Jake were clearly aware of? Call me sceptical, but I've never seen anything so obviously fake and staged in all my life. Well except the motorbike segment on Graham Norton on the 13th of December last year. I have thought a lot about this and I know I might get some hate, but it's my opinion and I'm sorry Nic if you ever read this. Another thing us English teachers like to do is DESCRIBE things. Describe it to me Peter, or it didn't happen. Touch, smell, sound, taste, sight. Those are the five senses and if you write me a story, you bet your ass they better be in it or it's an F for you. So Nicola, describe to me how it felt racing through London on the back of a motorbike driven by a geriatric, Guinness drinking granddad (do you like my use of alliteration here fellow English teachers?). Graham Norton - 'we have a picture of you on the bike!' Erm, no you have a picture of Nicola stood next to the bike with her thumbs up. There was a video released by her PR company simultaneously that shows Nicola in a STUDIO sitting on the bike and it moving very, very slowly. We do not see her whizzing away up the road on the back of said bike into oblivion, screaming like Michelle Phieffer in Grease 2, clutching on to cool rider Guinness granddad for dear life. In fact, when asked about the experience she recalls literally nothing. If it was me, I'd have been like OMG Graham I almost died! The wind was howling, I was freezing, all I could hear was the rush of wind and the honking horns of cars. All I could see was the glare of lights and traffic and I tasted my own tears through fear.

Watch it if you don't believe me. There was nothing. Am I positive it didn't happen? Actually yes, show me the footage and I'll believe. Why did she go through this elaborate scheme? I have my theories and I will not share them here. I have said enough. But I did get an image in my mind of Luke in Rome rubbing his forehead and thinking, what is she up to now? He was probably secretly a bit proud.

Ok back to tonight's debacle. After the shit show that was Luke's disastrous family weekend than had more taps dripping than the Leaky Cauldron in Harry Potter, I find it highly convenient these photos drop today of all days. I know that Nicola HATES Deux Moi and the feeling I believe is mutual. Wouldn't DM have looked at these photos logically and thought, well these two look like besties out for a stroll? I suppose she does not care, whatever sells right? Was this to yet again spite Nicola?

Or was this Nicola who saw everything that Luke endured this weekend, and quietly told her PR team to 'drop' the photos of me with Jake to divert some attention away. Did she come charging in on her white horse (motorbike) to save the day? There is also the highly suspicious tanned photo of Nic at the WT premiere and then Luke's photo from the funeral, (I do not condone this by the way and I was upset for him this morning and his invasion of privacy) which also shows a bit of a red, sunburned face. Did Nicola once again panic and try to control the narrative? I am lately still picking up on her nervous, scared energy in my readings. She is very nine of swords in her head. Losing sleep etc.

I do love a good mystery and folks, I guess if you are reading this and nodding and not screaming obscenities at me through your screen, I guess you are stuck here with me on the ship for the long haul. I actually loved these photos tonight as it gave me a good laugh and and it proved to me even further that Jake is to Nic what Kurt Hummel is to Rachel Berry. Besties. It is also quite ironic that the first pap pics of them last October dropped the week his trailer for WT dropped and these photos land the week his film is released! What are the chances! Coincidence, Sherlock?

PS. No I do NOT believe Antonia was at Luke's family member's funeral. We have to stop treating this girl like the bogeyman. Let her go and live her life. Luke is living his I have no doubt.

PPS. It is not homophobic to recognise someone is gay. I INFER this from his own Instagram and his friends and partner's posts. I am fed up of being called homophobic when I have a lot of gay friends and two gay cousins.

PPPS. Luke and Nic sitting in a tree, KISSSING. I see you Nic, you savvy little mamma ;,)

[therogueflame]

Unlocked

Hi my little boobahs,

my feelings were hurt (over literally nothing) so i'm posting this one early. this one is based on a comment + response from this post. I did write a little drabble, but it deserved more (bc cregan is baby daddy #3 and im actually in love w brunette tom taylor). I'm giving all the credit and honoring this one to @ginarely-blog. thanks so much for supporting me!

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Summary: You’re brave in every sense, steady through storm and steel, but when he sees you, truly sees you, that courage slips. Beneath his gaze, something softer stirs, and for once, you don’t know where to put your hands.

WC: 4.3k

Warnings: 18+, angst, smuff, sex (p in v), fingering, creampie, no use of y/n or description of reader

Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader

MDNI!

The wind off the battlements has teeth, but you welcome the bite of it. The feast has long since faded into warmth and laughter behind you, tucked into the belly of Winterfell where wine and firelight keep company with those who know how to chase the cold away. You’ve always preferred the open air. Even when it hurts. Even when it cuts.

You lean forward on the stone ledge, hands bare, watching your breath curl into the night like smoke. The snow is light tonight, falling soft and steady, and you close your eyes for a moment just to feel it gather against your lashes. You don’t turn when you hear the footsteps behind you. You already know who it is.

Cregan doesn’t speak right away. He never does. It’s one of the things you’ve come to expect from him, that watchful quiet, like he’s measuring every word before it’s born. There’s no sound but the wind and the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots until he comes to stand beside you, not close enough to touch, not even brushing your sleeve. Just near enough to be known.

“Escaping?” he asks finally.

Your lips twitch. “The wine. The songs. The lord who tried to guess how many men I’ve killed.”

“And?”

“I didn’t correct him.”

He makes a soft sound. It might be a laugh. It might be something else. You don’t look over to check. There’s a steadiness to him that unsettles you, and tonight, with the snow catching in his hair and the sharp cut of his jaw barely visible in the moonlight, you feel it more than usual.

He’s watching you. You know that too. You feel it in the same way you feel the cold, slow and certain, creeping under your skin even when you try not to flinch.

“You don’t like the noise,” he says.

“I don’t like pretending.”

“You didn’t pretend in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “But they did.”

He doesn’t answer, and you let the silence stretch between you. It isn’t uncomfortable. You’ve never minded silence with him. There’s something about the way he holds it, makes room for it, that doesn’t feel like distance.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says quietly.

You let that sit for a beat. “You’ve met strong women before.”

“Yes.”

“Sharp ones.”

“Yes.”

You glance at him then, catching the edge of his profile. “So?”

His eyes flick to yours. Calm. Steady. “None who looked at me like they expected me to flinch.”

Your smile is faint, but it reaches your eyes. “Maybe I wanted to see if you would.”

He doesn’t smile back. Not exactly. But something in his expression softens. “You’re used to men who want to prove something.”

“I’m used to men who can’t hold their own without asking what it makes them.”

“And me?”

“You haven’t asked once.”

He nods, just once, like that’s enough. And maybe it is. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The wind rises again, tugging at your hair, slipping beneath your cloak like it wants to remind you of the cost of being still too long.

You tilt your head. “Why haven’t you?”

His brow furrows. “Haven’t I what?”

“Made a move. Asked. Taken.”

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you. There’s something unspoken between you that’s no longer content to stay unnamed. His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly, before he lifts it again.

“Because it’s not what you deserve.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

You swallow hard. “And if I wanted more than silence? If I wanted something real?”

His eyes search yours. You feel like he’s looking into the part of you that doesn’t speak often. The part you guard even when you don’t mean to.

“Then I’d give it to you,” he says, “like Northerners do.”

The words land deeper than you expect. Not loud, not sharp, but solid. Meant. You don’t need to ask what he means by them. You hear it in the way he says them. With purpose. With weight. Not for a moment. Not for sport.

You don’t say anything after that. You just nod. He watches you a moment longer, then steps back. Leaves without a sound.

You stay there long after the snow has soaked into your cloak and your fingers have gone stiff at the knuckles. You stare out into the dark where nothing moves, where the storm hasn’t touched yet, and you let the words settle into your chest like something you weren’t ready for but needed all the same.

Like Northerners.

You say it once, under your breath. It doesn’t sound the same in your voice. Softer. Warmer. Almost like a promise.

You don’t lock the door that night. 

You don’t leave it wide open either—just enough that the latch doesn’t catch, that if someone tried, they wouldn’t have to knock. You sit by the fire longer than usual, legs tucked beneath you, the crackle of the wood the only sound in the room. It’s nothing. It means nothing. That’s what you tell yourself. But you leave the candle burning lower than normal. You don’t dress for bed right away. You don’t sleep.

When morning comes, there’s no knock. No shift in the hall. No sign that the door ever mattered.

But everything else feels different.

You see him in the yard just after breakfast, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms dusted with frost from handling a saddle still damp with melt. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, it’s slow. Measured. Your breath hitches, only slightly. Enough to feel it. Not enough to show.

He holds your gaze a little longer than usual. Doesn’t speak.

You say something dry about the weather just to fill the air. He only nods. That’s when you feel it—he’s letting you reach. Letting you fill the space, see if you’ll close it. You hate how much you want to. You hate how much he knows it.

At midday, he passes you a wrapped bundle of cloth from a steward’s tray. Warm bread. You recognize the smell before you look down. His fingers brush yours when you take it, and your pulse kicks against your wrist like a warning.

“You’re not eating enough,” he says simply. Not unkind.

You lift a brow. “Is that your observation or the kitchens’?”

“Mine.”

You tear off a corner of the bread. He watches you chew. Doesn’t flinch. You’re the one who breaks eye contact.

The horse ride comes later. You haven’t ridden far, just a short loop along the outer edge of the walls, and when you return, the wind’s picked up and the path down into the yard is slick. He reaches up without asking. One hand to the reins, the other to your waist. He doesn’t pull, not really. Just steadies you. Guides you down as if he’s done it a hundred times, as if your weight is familiar, expected.

When your boots hit the ground, you don’t step back right away. His hand lingers. Your breath fogs in the space between you.

You try to laugh. “Should I thank you for that?”

He doesn’t smile. Just tilts his head slightly. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

You walk past him without looking back. You feel his eyes on you the whole way across the yard.

You spend the afternoon trying to ignore it. The way your skin still remembers the shape of his hand. The way your name sounded in his voice this morning—like it didn’t need to be said any louder than that. You try to keep your mind on the letters you’re meant to send, the reports you’re meant to check, the frost creeping up the panes of your window. None of it works.

He hasn’t come to you. Not really. But he’s left you nowhere to hide.

By nightfall, the sky has darkened to a heavy gray, and the fire in your chambers crackles louder than usual. You change out of your riding clothes slowly, brushing snow from the hem of your cloak, setting your belt aside like it might delay the moment you can’t stop circling.

You hear footsteps once. Think you do. But nothing follows. No knock.

It’s nearly midnight when you step out into the hall.

You find him near the great hearth on the first floor, past the main stair, half in shadow. Alone. His cloak hangs loose around his shoulders, hair damp with melt, jaw set like he’s been standing there longer than he meant to.

You stop. Not close. Just near enough.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.

“I don’t usually leave it unlocked.”

It slips out quieter than you intended, but you don’t take it back.

He looks at you then. Long enough that it starts to ache. Long enough that you think he might say something.

He just nods. Once.

You breathe in. “Then you know where to find me.”

You don’t wait for anything else. You turn and walk the same path back through the stone corridor, heart in your throat, steps careful. You don’t look over your shoulder. You don’t let yourself hope.

But you don’t lock the door.

You don't light every candle. Just a few. Enough to cast the room in a warm sort of haze. The storm outside presses against the walls like something alive, wind moaning low against the stones. The fire in the hearth crackles steadily, and you sit in front of it with your legs tucked beneath you, pretending not to be waiting.

You’ve done this before. Waited. Wanted. None of it ever felt like this.

The door stays closed.

You drag your fingers along the seam of your sleeve. Try to focus on the heat of the fire, the rhythm of the snow hitting the windowpanes, the ache in your spine from a day spent holding yourself too tightly. You don’t look at the door. You tell yourself you won’t look. Not until—

A knock.

Just once. Firm. Quiet.

Your breath slips out all at once.

You rise before you can talk yourself out of it.

When you open the door, he’s already looking at you. Not guarded. Not uncertain. Just there. Like the storm didn’t touch him. Like he knew you’d open it. His eyes search yours once. No question in them. No hurry either.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He waits.

You step back.

He crosses the threshold slowly, eyes still on you, and closes the door behind him with the same care he does everything. When he turns back to face you, the silence between you carries something heavier than it did before.

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t speak.

You look at him for a long time. His hair’s still damp. Snow melts in tiny beads along the edge of his collar. You want to say something but nothing comes. There’s nothing to say. You already said it.

He watches you like you’ve never been looked at. Not as a challenge. Not as a reward. Like he’s seeing you for exactly who you are, and has no intention of looking away.

You don’t mean to look away, but you do. His hands are on your hips, firm and steady, the kind of touch that makes you feel like nothing outside this room matters. And when his mouth brushes over your shoulder, slow and reverent, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You’ve never been shy, not with him, not with anyone—but something about this quiet, deliberate closeness leaves you undone.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you. You can feel it even when your eyes drop to the space between you, to the way his thumbs stroke idle circles against your skin. It’s too much. Not in the way you want to pull away, but in the way you want to lean in without thinking, without guarding a thing.

“You stand your ground like nothing could shake you,” he says after a moment, voice soft. “But here with me, you look like you’re afraid to breathe.”

You let out a quiet sound, half a laugh, half something unsure. “Maybe I am.”

He tilts your chin up with one hand, his touch gentle, patient. “Don’t be.”

You meet his eyes again, and it’s hard to look away. Not because of how intense they are, but because there’s something softer behind them. Something open.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says. “When it’s just us. When you let go.”

Your throat feels too tight to speak.

He kisses you once, carefully. It’s not hesitant. It’s steady, like he already knows what you taste like, like he’s been waiting for this and refuses to rush it. You lean into it before you mean to, hands fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt. The heat between you builds slowly. No rush. No grab. Just the sure slide of his fingers beneath the edge of your tunic, the press of his palm over your ribs.

When he pulls back enough to look at you, your face is already warm. You glance away again, but his hand lifts, fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s coaxing your gaze back to his.

“You’ve never backed down from anything,” he murmurs. “Why now?”

“Maybe I’ve never had reason to be nervous before.”

His expression softens. That faint curve of his mouth that never quite becomes a smile, but almost does.

“You don’t have to be.”

His voice is low, steady, full of something that steadies you too.

You nod once. It’s all you can manage.

He moves slowly, peeling your tunic over your head with a reverence you weren’t prepared for. His hands don’t rush. He doesn’t reach for more than you’re ready to give. And when you step out of your boots, your pants, everything else—when you’re bare in front of him for the first time—he just looks at you like he’s memorizing every part.

You move to cover your chest out of instinct. He stops you gently.

“Don’t,” he says. “Let me see you.”

You do.

He steps closer again, hands warm against your waist, and presses a kiss just below your collarbone. You shiver. Not from cold.

“You feel it too,” he says softly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He kisses you again, and this time you meet him fully. You kiss him like you want him to feel it in every inch of him, and he answers like he already does.

His hands explore every part of you with an attentiveness that makes you ache. You've known men before—quick, fumbling, eager to claim—but he touches you like he's learning you, like each sigh and shiver is something to remember. When his fingers trace the scar along your ribs, he doesn't ask where it came from. He just lowers his mouth to it, warm and careful, and you feel something unravel in your chest.

You reach for his clothes, impatient now where he is measured. He lets you undress him, watching your face as each new expanse of skin is revealed. The firelight catches on old wounds—a jagged line across his shoulder, the mark of an arrowhead near his collarbone. You touch each one without speaking, and he watches you do it, unashamed of what his body tells you about the life he's lived.

When he's finally as bare as you are, standing tall and unguarded in the dim light, you can't help but stare. There's a lean strength to him that speaks of purpose rather than show. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted. Just like his words.

He steps closer, and the heat of his body meets yours like a promise. You tilt your head back to look at him, and for once, you don't try to hide what's in your eyes.

"You're beautiful," he says simply.

You've heard those words before, from men who wanted something from you. But never like this—like he's stating a truth he's known for longer than tonight.

"So are you," you whisper back, and his eyes darken.

He leads you to the bed without hurry, his hand warm against the small of your back. When you lie down, he follows, his weight settling over you like something you've been waiting for without knowing it. His forearms bracket your head, careful not to crush you, and when he kisses you again, it's deeper than before. More certain.

You arch into him without meaning to, your body seeking his like it already knows the shape of him. His hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, the outside of your thigh, and back up again. Mapping you. Learning you. You feel like you're burning up from the inside out, and when his mouth trails down your neck, you can't help the soft sound that escapes you.

He lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark with want but still so clear. So focused.

"It's all right," he murmurs against your skin. "You don't have to hold back. Not with me."

You swallow hard, pulse fluttering against his palm as he cups your face. "I'm not used to this."

"To what?" His thumb traces your lower lip, gentle but insistent.

"To feeling... seen."

Something shifts in his expression then, a softening around his eyes that makes your chest ache. He doesn't smile, not fully, but there's a warmth in his gaze that feels more intimate than any touch.

"I've seen you since the first day," he says quietly. "Even when you didn't want me to."

You close your eyes at that, overwhelmed by the truth of it. You close them against the sudden, undeniable rush of feeling that his words have unlocked. Against the relief of it. The honesty. But you don’t close yourself to him, and when his lips find yours again, you kiss him with a kind of fierce need that surprises you. It’s different than before—driven, desperate, almost insistent—and you can feel him answering with the same intensity. It’s as though his confession has stripped away the last of your defenses, leaving you open and wanting and his in a way you couldn’t have anticipated.

This time when he touches you, there’s a deliberate purpose to his movements. Like he's memorized every arch and sigh and knows what you need before you do. His hand slides between your bodies, confident and sure, and finds the heat between your thighs with unerring confidence. You gasp against his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders as he strokes you with steady, knowing touches. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble. He’s so present, so unbelievably in tune with you that it’s almost too much.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “Show me how to please you.” There’s urgency there, but it’s not hurried. Not impatient. Just intense. It’s more than you’ve ever had. More than you knew to want. You’ve never had a man ask before. Never had a man who seemed to care about the answer. Your breath catches as his fingers circle and press, finding rhythms that make you tremble. That make you forget to breathe and forget everything but his touch.

“Just like that,” you whisper, and he watches your face as he follows your guidance, learning the patterns that make your breath hitch, that make your hips rise to meet his hand. Your heart is in your throat, hammering against his chest as he bends his head to kiss a line of fire across your jaw, your neck, the fragile hollow at your throat. You feel like you’re unraveling beneath him, like he’s pulling you apart and putting you back together with only his hands and his mouth and the feel of his skin against yours.

When he slides a finger inside you, then another, your back arches off the bed. You’re not used to this. To feeling like you’ll come apart at the seams. But here with him, you do. You feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with being naked. It’s in the way he sees through you, the way he reads every flutter of your lashes, every catch in your throat. Every stutter of your pulse as he moves with deliberate care, curling his fingers just so, watching every reaction like it’s something precious. Something to remember.

“You’re close,” he says, his voice low, and it’s not a question. He knows. He can feel it in the way your body tightens around his fingers, in the quickening of your breath.

You nod, unable to find words, and he lowers his head to press his mouth against your throat, teeth grazing lightly over your pulse. The dual sensation—his fingers working steadily inside you, his mouth hot against your skin—pushes you over the edge. You come with a broken sound, something between a gasp and his name, your body arching into his touch.

He works you through it, gentle but relentless, until you're trembling. Only then does he withdraw his hand, pressing a kiss to your temple as you catch your breath. You feel vulnerable in ways you never have before—not unprotected, but exposed. Seen in ways that matter.

"Come here," you whisper, tugging him closer. You need to feel his weight, need the solid press of him against you.

He shifts above you, settling between your thighs, his control still evident in the taut line of his shoulders, the careful way he braces himself. You reach between you to guide him, and the first press of him inside you draws a sound from both of you. It's not rushed. Not hurried. Just the slow, inexorable joining of your bodies, and he watches your face the entire time, gauging every reaction, every flutter of your eyelids.

When he's fully seated within you, he pauses. Holds perfectly still. His forehead drops to yours, and for a moment, you just breathe together.

"This," he whispers, voice roughened with restraint, "is what I wanted."

You can't speak. Can't find words for the fullness you feel—not just physical, but something deeper. Something that's taken root in your chest and threatens to bloom into something dangerous. Something real.

He moves then, a slow withdraw and careful return that makes your breath catch. His rhythm is deliberate, unhurried, like he's savoring every sensation. Every inch of you. His eyes never leave yours, and in them you see everything he doesn't say. The want. The need. The certainty.

You lift your hips to meet him, and the angle changes, deepens. The sound he makes—low and strained—sends heat flooding through you. His control is slipping, just slightly, and you feel a fierce satisfaction at being the one to break it.

"Don't hold back," you murmur, hands sliding up his back to feel the shift of muscle beneath his skin. "I want all of you."

His eyes darken at that, something primal flashing in their depths. His next thrust is harder, deeper, and you can't hold back the moan that escapes you. He watches you with an intensity that should frighten you but instead makes you feel powerful. Wanted. Real.

"You have it," he says, voice rough with need. "You've had it longer than you know."

The admission cuts through you, sharp and sweet. You pull him down to kiss him, desperate suddenly to taste him, to feel the ragged edge of his breathing against your lips. His control begins to fray as your bodies move together, his pace quickening, his restraint giving way to something rawer. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he groans against your neck.

"Stay with me," he whispers, and you're not sure if he means right now or something more lasting. Either way, you have no intention of being anywhere else.

You feel yourself building toward another peak, an intensity gathering strength inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each movement. This time it's more than pleasure. More than heat. It's something deeper, wider, terrifying in its scope. You can feel it consuming you, the promise of it making you shudder, and you know he’s right there with you, chasing it. His movements grow more frantic, more desperate, the steady rhythm beginning to falter as his own release draws near. You feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles strain against the effort of holding back, barely restrained against the onslaught of sensation and need. It's almost painful to watch him unravel, but there's beauty in it, too. Beauty in knowing you could do this to him, be the one to break him open.

"Let go," you breathe against his ear. "I've got you."

Something breaks in him then—that final thread of control snapping loose—and he loses himself to the moment. His thrusts become harder, deeper, more erratic as he gives in to the need that stretches between you. You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, your bodies moving in a wild, almost frantic tandem. When he reaches between you with shaking hands and touches you where you’re joined, the pleasure is instantaneous and all-consuming. You shatter around him, the force of it making you cry out his name, your body clenching and tightening until you think you might break.

He follows you a moment later, a hoarse sound tearing from his throat as he spills into you. It's not quite a word, but you know what it means. You know it's the only thing he couldn’t give voice to before. He collapses against your chest, his weight heavy and real and so damn solid that you think it might tether you to the earth forever. You want that. You want the impossible promise of it. You want what he's given you.

You lie there just breathing together, your hands in his hair, his skin damp against yours. The air is still, quiet, and you wouldn’t change a thing. 

[imaginespazzi]

Part 8: The Toxic In Intoxication

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

Your mouth is poison (your mouth is wine)

(In which an all over the place writer, writes something that's a little bit all over the place)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Jealousy,

Words: 9.0K

TW: Swearing, a little bit of violence, mentions of blood, men being men

A/N: Hi lovelies :) Unfortunately, as I've been warning y'all for a while, the deadline did finally slip through my fingers. However I'm hoping y'all will forgive me for it because I am only one day late and this chapter is quite long. I do wanna warn y'all in advance that there won't be a chapter next week because I am going on vacation and my laptop is staying very, very far away from me. There's a lot going on in this chapter and I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing but I'm hoping y'all will enjoy it anyways. I did actually edit this time but who knows how successful that was, so please let me know about typos/mistakes. As always, feel free to tell me about what you liked, what you disliked and anything you'd like to see going forward. Have a lovely rest of your weeks my loves <3

August 2025

Azzi Fudd is a spectacular liar. She excels at keeping up a façade of yes everything is perfectly fine in front of her friends and family. She’s quite good at tricking people she can barely stand into thinking oh yes i’m totally enjoying this conversation. But the person Azzi lies the most to, is without a doubt herself. As she steps out of the car into the hot Indiana air, bustling with noises from the growing crowd inside, Azzi internally repeats a lie to herself again: she did not show up to all-star weekend for a glimpse of her ex girlfriend. She’s here, as per Colleen’s managerial advice, to build connections, to further her career and to expand on opportunities in the basketball world. The fact that Paige Bueckers, who Azzi hasn’t seen in three months -the longest period of time they’d spent apart since she’d started at UConn- is definitely also going to be attending tonight’s party, is merely a happenstance. 

Taking a deep breath, Azzi puts one kitten heeled foot in front of the other, trying to ignore her heightened nerves. This isn’t her preferred scene by any means. She’d much rather be back in her hotel room, curled on her couch with a book and a pint of ice cream. It’s not that Azzi doesn’t like parties; she has her fair share of fun at Ted’s, but it’s the unfamiliarity of the environment and the lack of that once ever present comforting hand that used to tap out i’m here for you against the back of her own at big events like these, that has her yearning to crawl back into the car and hide away. 

“Azzi?” a familiar voice calls from behind her and Azzi lets out a sigh of relief as she sees Aaliyah walking towards her with a large welcoming grin, “Azeray!”

“Li-Li. Thank god you’re here,” Azzi reaches up to hug her former teammate, mentally thanking whatever god was looking out for her. She’d dreaded walking in by herself and now she wouldn’t have to. Really she probably should probably send Coach a ‘thank you’ text for having so many alumni in the league that there was bound to be a Husky she could attach herself to for the night. 

“I’m glad to see you too Az,” Aaliyah says, pulling away and looking at Azzi with a semi-concerned look, “but you seem a little extra relieved to see me? You good dude?”

“Just- just a little nervous,” Azzi admits, shuffling her feet uneasily. 

Realization dawns on Aaliyah’s face, “cause of Paige?”

“No you know I don’t like big unfamiliar places,” Azzi sighs when Aaliayh gives her a pointed look, “but I guess maybe- maybe a little cause of Paige.”

The Mystics forward shakes her head before linking her arms through Azzi’s, “I swear, I leave y’all for one year and everything implodes-," she bites her tongue, "shit was that insensitive?”

“No,” Azzi grimaces, “that’s pretty much exactly what happened.”

Something hard coils in her stomach at Aaliyah’s words. The truth is they’d been fine. Better than fine even. And then suddenly Azzi was lighting a box of matches she hadn’t even known she was holding and her whole world was on fire; an implosion of everything Azzi had once thought inflammable. She’d burned her hands trying to rescue them and all she has to show for it are invisible red hot pustules that refuse to heal. But perhaps, she thinks, that’s what a pyromaniac like her had deserved. 

Azzi cowers under the flashing lights of the cameras, clinging tighter to Aaliyah’s arm as the two of them make their way onto the orange carpet, the cameramen immediately swinging their devices to capture the college basketball player more than likely to be the number one pick in next year’s WNBA draft. She feels herself tense under their piercing gaze, anchored only by Aaliyah's strong and steady presence next to her. And as they pose for the cameras, she’s thankful for her former teammate’s company but she can’t shake the feeling that it should have been someone else. 

“And look who we have here,” Lexie Brown says excitedly as the two of them approach the interviewer, “y’all Huskies clean up nice.”

“We try, we try,” Aaliyah answers charismatically, doing a little hair flip to match her tone. 

“Aaliyah, it's your first all-star nod, how are you feeling?” 

“I feel great, you know it’s always good to see yourself being acknowledged and being an all-star has always been a goal of mine. So, I hope it’s the first of many and I’m just hoping my team gets the W tomorrow,” Aaliyah answers diplomatically.

Lexie turns to Azzi, “I bet you’re really proud of her. I mean you’ve got a couple of teammates who are first-time all stars between Aaliyah and Paige. You’ve gotta be feeling pretty proud of them”

“Y-yeah I mean,” Azzi clears her throat, trying not to flinch at the mention of Paige’s name, “It’s been- it’s been really exciting to watch them and I’m extremely proud-”

She’s cut off by the sound of excited chatter filling up the air and Azzi doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s just entered the premises. Not when she has a whole separate sensory system that flares up just for her. Azzi’s skin prickles as she registers the sound of familiar peals of laughter echoing from the orange carpet. She digs her nails into the palm of her hand, forcing herself not to turn around. 

“Speak of the devil,” Lexie says goodnaturedly, getting her hand ready to beckon the blonde over and Azzi feels panic suffocate her lungs, not quite ready to face Paige yet. 

“Oh I don’t think-” Aaliyah tries to cut in, glancing worriedly at her friend but it’s too late. 

“Paige,” Lexie calls out, beaming over Azzi’s head at the Dallas Wings’ newest star point guard. 

The world seems to move in slow motion as Azzi feels Paige getting closer and closer to her. She smells the faint scent of fresh mint weaved with a hint of citrus first. Then she hears the sound of Paige’s breathing, perfectly even to anybody else but Azzi can hear the staggered harshness hidden beneath it. And as the blonde passes over her to settle on Lexi’s other side, she feels Paige’s arm brush against her own and it hurts to breathe. The contact lasts for a second but Azzi swears it’ll last forever, tattooing itself on her bicep as a wretched reminder of a touch she’s no longer allowed to crave. 

It’s funny, there’s a hurricane swirling between them and Paige can barely look at Azzi, keeping her eyes firmly on Lexie and Aaliyah as she greets the trio. And yet, there’s a sense of calm -of peace- that seems to wash over Azzi just by having Paige near her again. The older woman seems to possess some sort of magical power that weaves itself into Azzi’s nervous system, soothing away her frazzled nerves with an unspoken promise of and if you give me the chance i’ll make it all okay. 

Despite the hectic transition from a full college season to a frantic W season, Paige looks ethereal as always. Her two piece cropped vest top and straight fitted pants match the color of her eyes and a silver chain dangles across her chest. Two strands of blonde hair hide her signature diamond studs, the rest of it pulled back into a slightly messy bun. Azzi gulps at the way the vest top parts right above her midriff, Paige’s toned abs playing peek-a-boo behind it. She lets her eyes roam over Paige’s exposed arms, trying to ignore memories of how they used to go taut under her touch, down to the blonde’s bare fingers and she feels her heart constrict. No rings. It feels wrong. But then again, nothing has felt right for three months. 

“Azzi,” Aaliyah hisses and Azzi snaps out of her thoughts, realizing she’d been asked a question. 

“Sorry,” she laughs nervously, moving a strand of her hair out of her face; Paige’s eyes intently following the movement, “what was the question.”

Lexie smiles, “I was just asking about your thoughts on Paige’s amazing rookie year so far?”

“Oh um-” Azzi hesitates, shivers inching up her spine as she feels Paige drinking in the sight of the her body like she's a woman parched, “I’m just-” their eyes lock with each other’s and everything else seems to vanish until it feels like it’s just the two of them floating in between remnants of what they used to be, “I’m just really proud of her. I always knew she’d be amazing. She’s just doing what she always does. Being the best player she can be. So yeah I’m just- I’m just really proud of her.”

And Azzi doesn’t know how they got to this point where Paige seems almost shocked that Azzi could be proud of her, to this point where there’s droplets threatening to spill over both of their water lines and they no longer have the right to wipe each other’s tears away. 

“Aww,” Lexie coos, oblivious to the tension, “well on that sweet note, off y’all go and we’ll see y’all later.”

The walk into the party is kept alive with Aaliyah’s attempt at keeping a conversation going. While Paige tries to at least entertain some of, Azzi finds herself completely zoning out until they finally make their way inside into the cacophony of music and laughter. 

“Y’all wanna get-” Aaliyah begins.

“I see Jewell and Téa,” Paige cuts her off immediately, her legs already moving in a rush, “I’ll see y’all later.”

She gives Aaliyah a tentative grin but barely looks at Azzi as she practically trips over her pant-sleeves trying to get away. It feels like something’s biting against her skin, sharp teeth indenting you did this to yourself as Azzi watches Paige walk away. She watches as the tension slowly leaves the blonde’s muscles as she’s pulled into a hug by Jewell and then by Téa. The fake smile that she’d politely kept on her face the last couple of minutes for the sake of the cameras and reporters is replaced by something far more genuine. Azzi watches as Paige is absorbed into the warmth of the growing crowd, embraced by a league that adores her, and she feels the ice cold pinch of she belongs somewhere without you now start to freeze her own heart. 

***

Azzi’s doing fine. She’s gotten through the night with Aaliyah by her side, making small talk with a bunch of different players and she’s managed to keep a friendly smile the whole time. She’d even danced for a little bit, letting loose with some of the other college basketball players that had made the trip to Indianapolis. Sure, she’d occasionally been distracted by her eyes flickering over to the bar and finding a new pretty influencer batting their fake eyelashes at Paige but really she’s doing fine. Her head’s a little dizzy and maybe the third shot of tequila, influenced by a one leggy brunette that had gotten a little too handsy, wasn’t her brightest decision of the night but really, Azzi’s doing fine. 

Until she’s not. 

And it’s Paige's fault. She had to know that it would be Azzi’s last straw. She had to know that Azzi could live with watching a thousand girls flirt with Paige as long as the blonde in question stood rigidly by the bar doing nothing but smiling politely at them. She had to know that Azzi, after having spent most of their college life watching girls fawn over her girlfriend, could deal with the flirty hands that lingered just a little too long on Paige’s bicep. But it’s when Paige leans into this one girl -whose dark curls and tanned caramel skin are just a little too reminiscent of her own- when Paige’s lips graze just a little to close this one girl’s ear, that Azzi realizes she’s decidedly not fine. 

“I need some air,” she manages to bite out, ignoring Aaliyah’s concerned look as she marches out the back door, heading towards the deck. 

Azzi buries her face in her hands as she leans back against the brick wall. She knows she’s being unfair; knows she has absolutely no right to feel this way but something burns within her anyways and the light breeze does nothing to cool it down. 

“I’m not cheating on you,” a harsh voice interrupts her pity party and Azzi sucks in a sharp breath, “We’re not together and I can flirt or kiss or fuck-” she flinches, “anyone if I want to.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Paige’s voice is laced with accusation, “because the way you just stormed out says otherwise.”

Azzi continues to keep her head in her palms, refusing to look at the blonde, “it’s hot and stuffy in there. I just needed some fresh air.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying,” Paige spits out. 

“Well what do you want me to say instead?” Azzi finally looks up, her even cadence in stark contrast to Paige’s fiery tone, “I know we’re not together-”

“Because that’s what you wanted-”

“I know,” Azzi yells, and then quieter, “I know. I know I- I know I did this. But that- that doesn’t make it any easier to see you with someone else,” she swallows, “doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

Paige scoffs, rubbing her face as she begins to pace, “you miss me? I was at Mohegan when y’all had summer camp. The whole team showed up to the game except for you and you want me to believe that you miss me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me there,” Azzi confesses in a whisper, “you were so mad at me after-after everything- and I just- I didn’t want to ruin coming back to Connecticut for you.”

“For me,” Paige lets out a laugh devoid of any emotion, “god Azzi there you go again with this fake ‘selfless’ bullshit.”

A thousand and one retorts die on the tip of Azzi’s tongue as she shakes her head and pushes herself off the wall. She can smell the alcohol on Paige, can tell the blonde is itching for an argument but all she feels is pure exhaustion. 

 “I don’t wanna fight Paige. I’m tired and I just-” she bites her lip, fighting the urge to caress Paige’s cheek, “believe it or don’t but- I really do miss you.”

Sparks of electricity dance their way through Azzi’s veins when Paige curls a hand around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks from going inside. And suddenly she doesn’t feel so cold anymore. 

“Dance with me,” Paige whispers. 

“What?” 

Paige shrugs, tugging on Azzi’s hand to pull her closer, “you said you don’t wanna fight and I- I don’t want you to go,” the confession hangs between them as Paige’s hands fall to Azzi’s waist, “so- let’s just- let’s pretend.”

“What are we pretending?” Azzi asks quietly and despite the warnings ringing in her head, she wraps her arms around Paige’s neck. It feels like coming home. 

“We’re pretending that we’re okay,” Paige says softly, holding Azzi’s hips as she begins to sway them gently, “we’re pretending that three months ago you said yes.”

“Paige-”

“Close your eyes Azzi,” the blond waves her hand gently across Azzi’s face, willing both of their eyelids to flutter shut, “we’re pretending that we’re not here- we’re in Minnesota or DC or I don’t know just- anywhere. And our families are here, laughing and talking and some sappy romantic song is playing. It's the best day of our lives and we’re both- we're both dressed in white-”

“Paige,” Azzi lets out a sob, as she begins to understand the picture Paige is painting for them; a picture drawn on a canvas that Azzi had torn up before any color could touch it

“Sshhhh just- let me have this okay,” Paige’s voice trembles as she leans her forehead against Azzi’s, “if I can’t have it for real, please just let me pretend.”

If they were both just a little bit more sober, maybe Azzi would fight Paige’s tightening grip. If they were both just a little bit more sober, maybe Paige would let go. Instead Azzi lets Paige play pretend, lets them keep their bodies pressed against each other, moving from side to side in rhythm with the wind. 

It isn’t until she hears footsteps approaching them that Azzi hurriedly moves away first and she can see the betrayal of if only you’d just let me hold you in front of the world written all over Paige’s face. They’re both quick to swap their tears for smiles that don’t reach their eyes as they turn to face the intruders. And Azzi wonders if Paige wishes she’d drank a little bit more too. Because maybe if they were both just a little more drunk, then tomorrow they wouldn’t have to remember just how right it had felt to play pretend tonight. 

April 2033 

“You look so pretty Mama,” Stephie gushes from where she’s perched on the bed as she watches Azzi put the finishing touches to her makeup

“Thanks baby,” Azzi smiles, blowing a kiss in the mirror. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie flips the running facetime call, skipping over to her mother with the phone in her hand, “doesn’t Mama look beautiful?”

Sixteen years later, and maybe it’s because of all the time they’d missed in between, but Azzi can’t help the bout of shyness that flushes across her features when Stephie places the phone, Paige’s face illuminated all over it, against the mirror so the blonde can get a proper look at Azzi’s outfit.

“You look-” Paige clears her throat, eyes dilated as they rake over Azzi’s whole body, “you look phenomenal.”

“Big word Bueckers,” Azzi teases, trying to disguise her blush, “did you just learn it?”

Paige rolls her eyes, “can’t even give you a compliment without an insult Fudd.”

“You guys argue too much,” Stephie says exasperatedly, shaking her head at the two adults who laugh. The younger girl sometimes seems far wise beyond her age. 

“We’re not arguing Stephie, we’re just-” Azzi struggles to think of a word. 

“Foreplaying,” Paige mutters under her breath and Azzi immediately glares at her. 

“Paige!”

Stephie scrunches up her nose at the screen, “what does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Azzi says shrilly, “Miss Buecks is just making up words.”

“Why would Miss Buecks do that?” Stephie asks, looking back and forth between her mother and the screen. 

“Why does Miss Buecks do anything,” Azzi babbles, as she begins to usher Stephie out of her room, “go grab your things Stephie-bean. Mama’s almost ready to drop you off at Nana and Pop’s house.”

Stephie pouts, “I wanna go to the party with you and Miss Buecks. It’s no fair you both get to go and I don’t,” she picks up the phone, looking at Paige with wide guilt-tripping eyes, “don’t you love me Miss Buecks?”

Azzi has to hand it to her daughter. She’s a smart one to choose Paige as the victim of her emotional blackmail, knowing her wiles had long stopped working on her mother. 

“You know I’d take you with me if I could Stephie,” Paige says, “but I’ll make it up to you tomorrow I swear.”

Stephie smiles and Azzi shakes her head at how quickly the five-year old’s plan had worked, “you’ll take me to the park and then we’ll get fries and then get ice cream?”

“That’s a lot of junk food Steph-”

“Ssshh Mama,” Stephie chides, “this is between me and Miss Buecks.”

“The park, then fries, then ice cream it is,” Paige concedes and Azzi rolls her eyes. 

Stephie grins brightly, puckering her lips to kiss Paige through the phone and eliciting a laugh from the older woman when she cheers, “you’re the best-est-est Miss Buecks. See you in a little bit. Don’t hang up without saying goodnight.”

“I promise I won’t,” Paige calls out after the little girl as Stepehie hands the phone back to Azzi and starts skipping towards her room. 

Azzi gives the blonde a look, “we have got to have a conversation about you learning to say no to her.”

Paige shrugs unhelpfully, “I don’t want to learn how to say no to her.”

“You’re a lost cause,” Azzi remarks, hands on hips, “and foreplay? Seriously? Us bickering is not foreplay.”

“Well it could be if you’d just let me fuck you after,” Paige grumbles and Azzi’s mouth falls open at the bluntness of it. 

“You say the most romantic things to me Paige Bueckers.”

They’re both quiet for a second as Azzi moves around her room, collecting her wallet and keys and to put into her purse. 

“You know there’s still time for me to come pick you up,” Paige says finally.

“Paige,” Azzi sighs, not wanting a rerun of the same argument they’ve been having for the last week. She knows it’s a touchy subject for Paige; that it veers a little too close to insecurities that stem from their past but she’s not quite ready to take this step yet. There isn’t quite any rhyme or reason to her logic except well, she’s haunted by memories of the last time they’d let the personal mix with the professional. Her phone still holds invitations to countless team reunions that she’d actively avoided and a group chat that she’s long muted. Azzi hasn’t stepped foot in the state of Connecticut since she’d entered the draft; she refuses to lose California too. 

“Teammates can carpool,” Paige explains vehemently, “it’s easily explainable.’

“I know-”

“Is this about Clémence?” bitterness tinges the edge of Paige’s voice as she chews her bottom lip. And there it is, the other subject they’d been tip-toeing around since it had been brought up at breakfast a week ago. Paige and Azzi are both excellent at avoiding talking about the harder topics but they’ve never quite managed to let anything go forever. 

“Why would this be about Clémence?” 

Paige narrows her eyes, sitting up from where she’d previously been lounging against her pillow, “maybe you don’t want her to see us together? Maybe you’re trying to spare her feelings I don’t know.”

“Paige-”

“You know what it’s fine,” Paige huffs, “I’ll see you at the bar Azzi.”

She hangs up before Azzi can say anything and the brunette lets out a litany of curses under her breath, annoyed with Paige’s ability to go from A to Z by skipping everything in between. There’s a part of her that knows Paige deserves an explanation about Clémence, a chance to have her lingering doubts confirmed or denied, but amidst the egoistic thoughts of well she married someone else and the self preservationist urge to prevent a potential fight, she hadn’t been brave enough to approach the topic just quite yet. Azzi’s about to step out of the room, when her phone pings with a facetime call from Paige again. 

“Are you calling to apologize for hanging up?” Azzi asks with a frown. 

“No,” Paige replies stubbornly, “I called because I hung up without saying goodnight to Stephie and just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I’m gonna miss saying goodnight to her.”

Something wonderful and warm blooms in Azzi’s chest as she silently walks over to Stephie’s room. This is a new chapter in Paige’s storybook that she’s slowly beginning to read; one scribbled with the blonde’s devotion to Azzi’s baby girl. Azzi still has every other chapter memorized; had thought nothing could be more beautiful than the words within the one that had been dedicated to her. But she’d been wrong. Because every day that she watches Paige and Stephie fall more and more in love with each other, she finds herself falling in love with how much they love each other. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie squeals, practically snatching the phone from her mother’s hand as she goofily grins at the screen, “you didn’t hang up.”

“I promised I wouldn’t,” Paige says, the hardness that had existed in her voice while talking to Azzi, dissolving into adulation, “you be good for Nana and Pops okay?”

“I’m always good,” Stephie says matter-of-factly, “can you come over really, really, early tomorrow?”

Paige laughs, “I’ll be there as soon as I wake up.”

“Good,” Stephie claps contentedly as she grabs Azzi’s hand to start walking towards the car, “good night Miss Buecks.”

“Good night Stephie-bean,” Paige echoes, blowing a kiss through the screen. 

“Paige,” Azzi says urgently, trying to stop the older woman from hanging up, “can you just hold on a second while I buckle Stephie in.”

“Az-”

“Please.”

“Fine,” Paige says, averting Azzi’s gaze as she sulks. 

Azzi lifts Stephie onto the car seat, fastening her seatbelt and pressing a kiss to her daughter’s cheek, before she closes the car door and uses it as a stabilizing structure to lean on as she pulls her phone back in front of her. 

“Hey,” she whispers. 

“Hi,” Paige says back begrudgingly, “you wanted to say something?”

“I-” Azzi swallows, “don’t go the bar-”

“Oh fantastic,” Paige cuts her off, her voice furious as she glares daggers at Azzi through the phone, “not only do you not want to go to the bar together, you don’t want me to go at all. Fine. Okay. Whatever. I won’t go. You have the time of your life with fucking Clementine or whatever-”

“Yet,” Azzi says loudly, trying to speak over Paige’s angry rant, “don’t go to the bar yet.”

“What?” 

Azzi licks her lips, “don’t go yet. I’m gonna drop Stephie off at my parents-”

“What does that have to-”

“Will you just let me fucking finish?” Azzi almost bangs her fist on the car in frustration and she’s glad to see that it makes Paige look just a little bit sheepish, “as I was saying. I’m gonna drop Stephie off at my parents and uh- your house- it’s um- it’s on the way to the bar so I thought,” she shrugs with fake nonchalance, the edge of her mouth turning upwards, “I thought maybe- maybe I could pick you up on the way.”

Paige stares blankly at the screen, eyes blinking as Azzi’s words slowly register, “you- you wanna go to the bar together?”

“I didn’t say that,” Azzi teases, eyes twinkling as she basks in the thrill of eliciting that Azzi smile from Paige’s lips, “teammates carpool right?”

“Teammates definitely carpool.”

April 2029 

“You invited Clémence to our movie night?” Jana asks in a whisper, as she walks into the kitchen where Azzi’s making popcorn. Her Saturday nights have gotten rather boring since she’s had Stephie, consisting of alternating between movie nights with Jana and dinner with her parents. It wasn’t the most thrilling of times but she looked forward to them all week, excited to not have to spend a night in solitude.

“She asked what I was doing tonight and I told her we were having a movie night and then she asked if she could join and well I couldn’t just say no,” Azzi explains, sticking the bag into the microwave. 

Jana cocks an eyebrow, “do you want me to leave?”

“Why would I want you to leave?” Azzi asks, crinkling her nose as she juts out an ear just in case the baby monitor goes off. 

“C’mon Az,” Jana says pointedly, leaning on her elbows against the kitchen counter, “you’re telling me there’s nothing going on between the two of you?”

Azzi grimaces uneasily, not quite wanting to answer the question, “nothing that would require you to leave.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it,” Jana relents, grabbing a soda from the fridge on her way back to the living room, before she pauses in the doorway to look back at Azzi, “but I know what it looks like when somebody’s in love with you. And that girl out there,” she nods her head towards where Clémence is daintily sitting on the couch, “she’s definitely getting there.”

Jana’s a rather observant person but Azzi knows that she’s at least a little bit wrong this time. Because Clémence might be a little bit in love with -even if that’s not a fact Azzi particularly wants to acknowledge- but it's impossible for her to look at Azzi the way Jana remembers someone else looking at her. That had been something completely different; a gaze that saw all the little chinks in her armor, all the imperfections carved against her walls and loved her inspite of them, maybe even because of them. Clémence might love her, but Azzi doesn’t think anyone can be in love with her the way the person she’d been hopelessly in love with, had. 

When she walks back into the living room with the popcorn in hand, still plagued by her younger teammate’s words, Azzi’s deliberate to sit on the couch next to Jana instead of the open space next to the francophone. The flash of hurt in Clémence’s eye causes guilt to trickle down her spine but Azzi thinks a flash is better than the tsunami of pain she could cause if she doesn’t start to ease herself out of this right now. There’s a selfish part of her that doesn’t want to, that’s going to miss having somebody who hangs onto her every word. Azzi likes this feeling of being wanted, even if it’s not by the person she wants. But that person isn’t hers to want anymore and she won’t torture Clémence by barricading her in the same jail that has held Azzi’s soul captive for the last four years. 

They’re about half way through the movie, awkward tension eased by Jana’s incessant chatter, when Azzi’s phone buzzes. Already confused at the timing of the call, she’s even more perplexed to see Ice’s name flashing on the screen. 

“Oooh Iceyyy,” Jana’s eyes light up when she catches a glimpse of the CallerID, “put her on speaker. Ice is one of our UConn teammates,” she explains, turning to Clémence who nods in recognition, “she probably did something dumb as fuck and need Azzi’s advice.”

“Don’t be mean,” Azzi scolds with a grin, knowing that Jana’s probably right as she picks up the call, “hello-”

“I hate you,” Azzi freezes at the sound of the familiar voice, laced with unfamiliar malice. Next to her Jana stiffens immediately while Clémence observes the scene in front of her with a guarded frown. 

“Paige who the fuck are you calling?” Ice’s voice is muffled in the background, “oh shit, Paige give me back my phone.”

“No. She needs to hear this,” Paige grits out, her pitch wavering with the effects of alcohol, “she needs to hear how much I fucking hate her. Azzi do you hear me? I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there. Did you hear what I said?”

“Paige,” Ice hisses again. 

Azzi swallows the lump in her throat, fingers digging into her bare thighs as she grips her phone so hard, she half-expects it to break into pieces in a reflection of her heart, “I heard you Paige.”

“Good. Because I do. I really fucking hate you,” Paige repeats again and Azzi flinches, “you ruined me Azzi. And now you’re ruining my marriage. My wife is perfect. She loves me. She loves being seen with me. She loves being known as my wife. Everything I ever wanted from you, she’s willing to give me. But she saw that damn hug at the Olympics and she- she’s upset with me. She thinks- she thinks I’m not over you.”

“Az maybe you should-” Jana says softly but Azzi immediately raises a hand to stop her. Maybe she’s a masochist but she can hear the hurt laced underneath the anger in Paige's voice. And if what Paige needs to get rid of her pain is a target to aim all her arrows at, then Azzi’s willing to sacrifice her heart, or at least what little is still left of it. 

“And the worst thing about it,” Paige’s voice breaks, “is that she's probably right. I have the perfect fucking woman at home and I can’t seem to get over the one who broke my heart and never looked back. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Paige,” Ice pleads again and Azzi can hear her former teammate trying her best to wrangle the phone out of Paige’s firm grasp. 

“I’m not done yet Ice. I need to talk to her and I need to talk to her now because if I don’t, I’ll never get the courage to say any of this again,” Paige is sobbing now, and her broken whimpers pierce Azzi’s heart deeper than any words could,  “why couldn’t you just have said yes Az? I know- I know your reasons but why- why couldn’t you have just loved me enough to look past them? How do you do it Azzi? How do you live without me because it’s been four years and I- I still don’t think I know how to live without you and I hate you, I hate you because you do.”

No, Azzi thinks, I really don’t. But she doesn’t say anything, rapidly blinking back tears as she avoids both Jana’s concerned look and Clémence’s more thoughtful gaze. 

“I wish I could just feel nothing towards you Azzi,” Paige confesses, heaving as she struggles to breathe through her tears, “I don’t want to hate you. I don’t want to miss you and I really- I really, really don’t want to love you. Please just make it stop. I’m so tired of this Azzi. I’m so tired of hurting. How do I make it go away? Please tell me how I make it go away? How did you make it go away?”

“I didn’t,” Azzi whispers, so soft she’s not sure Paige heard it; she’s not sure if she wants Paige to have heard it. It’s the kind of pain, she thinks, she’s destined to feel forever. It’s weaved itself into every crevice of body and now it exists as just another innate part of her. Paige thinks Azzi’s learned to live without her but really all Azzi’s learned is how to live with these permanent scars of i think i’ll miss you forever. 

“That’s enough Paige,” Ice’s voice is clearer now, having finally snatched the phone out of her teammate’s grip, “Azzi-” she begins apologetically, “she’s just drunk. She didn’t mean-”

“She did,” Azzi clears her throat, sinking into the way Jana's arms wrap around her, “she’s um- she’s gonna be really hungover in the morning. Make sure she- make sure you give her water but don’t- don’t give her coffee. She’ll want it but it’ll only make it worse because she uh- she- when she drinks too much, her stomach hurts and the caffeine- it just- it makes it worse so- don’t let her drink coffee tomorrow morning okay? And make sure- make sure she eats something before she takes painkillers. And Ice?’

“Yeah Azzi.”

“If she doesn’t remember any of this tomorrow morning, please don’t remind her.”

***

April 2033

The bar is buzzing with noise by the time Paige and Azzi finally arrive. It’s an exclusive enough place that they won’t be too bothered by fans asking for pictures and autographs but the size of the crowd still puts Azzi a little bit on edge. She can’t help the small smile that flitters across her face when she feels Paige’s hand resting on her lower back as the blonde guides the two of them through the crowd in search of their teammates. For the last eight years, Azzi has been her own protector and she’s learned to guard herself but it’s nice -it feels right- to have someone else ready to be her shield too. 

“You know Bueckers,” Joyce says as the two of them finally approach the table that had been reserved for the Valkyries, “some might say that one should be on time when meeting their new teammates. Just a thought.”

“And some might say Edwards that being fashionably late is being on time,” Paige quips back. 

Joyce grins, “alright time for introductions.”

“I’m pretty sure I know-”

“Shut up,” Joyce reprimands, throwing an arm around Paige’s shoulders, “let me introduce these brand new people to you.”

“They’re not-”

“Sssshhh. Let me have my fun. We’ll start over here with Westbeld and Booker. You might know them, their teams kicked your ass during the 23-24 season,” Joyce says with a smirk. 

“Oh I do remember that,” Paige says thoughtfully, eyes twinkling with mirth, “what happened the season after?”

“Don’t be cocky Bueckers. It’s unbecoming,” Madison chides as she rises from the table to give Paige a hug. 

“Yeah I try not to remember that Elite Eight game thanks,” Laila says, making a disgusted face. 

Joyce glares at her, “did I introduce you yet Miss Phelia?”

Laila raises her hands in surrender as Joyce continues to give Paige a tour of the Valkyrie team. Azzi had known that Paige would fit in well with her teammate -really the blonde had the uncanny ability to fit in anywhere- but seeing it realized in front of her, it seems even clearer. Paige feels like the last mosaic piece, slotting in right where she belongs. 

“Those two over there are our babies,” Joyce points to Haylen and Jayla, “they’re like five years old but we love them anyways.”

“I’m almost 25,” Haylen protests. 

“See,” Joyce remarks, “literally children. And that one,” she points to Jana who beams at Paige, “well you already know her even if you sometimes wish you didn’t probably-”

“Hey!”

“Oh shush Jana,” Joyce says airily, “and I supposed there’s no point in introducing Azzi to you since y’all came together,” she pauses to look between them, “y’all don’t live that close to each other. Why didn’t you just carpool with Jana? I’m pretty sure she lives closer to you.”

Paige opens and closes her mouth a couple of times as Azzi feels her own cheeks heat up at the innocent enough question, “we um- well it's just- you see- my house is on the way from her parents and she had to drop off Stephie so it just- it just made sense you know? For efficiency’s sake.”

“Oh yeah for efficiency’s sake. They’re both very efficient,” Jana smirks, “makes a lot of sense.”

Joyce gives all three of them a weird look, “y’all Huskies are strange. It was just a question but anyways,” she grins as she finally steers Paige towards the blonde in the corner and Azzi stiffens at the way Paige’s body immediately tenses, “a couple of our teammates aren’t here but we do have a former teammate. Paige meet Clémence.”

“We’ve met,” Paige says, attempting to school her features to resemble anything but the discomfort she’s feeling within, “during the Olympics that is. We’ve beat France a couple of times.”

It’s a purposeful word choice, beat instead of played and Azzi's fingers fidget with the hem of her top as she tries to avoid looking at either of the two women. 

“Yes. It is good to see you again,” Clémence says tersely, her French accent stronger than the last time Azzi had spoken to her. She shakes Paige’s hand rather formally before her eyes focus on Azzi and she determinedly walks towards the brunette, “and it is really good to see you Azzi. I have missed you.”

“I-” Azzi stutters at the French woman pulls her into a hug; over her shoulder she can practically see steam coming out of Paige’s ears as she hyper focuses on how Clémence makes it a point rub her thumb down Azzi’s back, “it’s um- it’s good to see you too.”

She pulls away and she can feel the disappointment reverberating from Clémence’s body as Azzi practically flings herself on the chair next to Jana, wondering what she’d done to deserve this moment as a punishment for her sins. 

“Save me,” she pleads as Clémence and Paige sit as far away from each other as possible, occasionally shooting glares when they think the other isn’t looking. 

“Save you from having two hot women fighting over you?” the center teases, “you truly have such first world problems Azzi Fudd.”

“They’re not fighting over me-”

“Azzi you will have your usual rum and coke no?” Clémence asks and Azzi looks over to where the francophone is intently staring at her, “I will go-”

“Oh there’s no need,” Paige says immediately, “you sit Clémence. You already have a drink. I was gonna go get one for myself and I’ll get Azzi’s too. Besides, Azzi's more of a fruity drink girl. Az I’ll get you a piña colada-”

Clémence narrows her eyes, “maybe she liked that when she was in college but Azzi likes something different now.”

“She might like something different now,” Paige counters, standing up aggressively so she towers over the table, “but she’s always gonna love a piña colada right Azzi?”

All eyes turn to look at Azzi who wants nothing more than to cower under the table- or hit Jana who seems to find this very unamusinging situation rather entertaining, “I um-” she swallows, “I think tonight calls for something stronger. Round of shots for the table? On me?”

It placates the situation for a while as the rest of the team cheers on the idea, beckoning over one of the bartenders to orders a round of tequila shots for the table. For a moment, Azzi tricks herself into thinking maybe that’ll be the end of ridiculous situations for the night as the team downs shots to Jana yelling “to the Valkyries” but she should have known it was wishful thinking.

Half the team ends up on the dance floor, swaying to the mixed rhythm of the music and the newly minted alcohol coursing through their bloodstreams. Azzi watches with a smile as despite her protests, Joyce manages to drag Paige onto the dance floor with her, engaging her in some eccentric dance moves as they try to outdo each other on who can look the silliest. And as the rest of the girls cheer the blonde on, it feels like Paige is chiseling out a place for herself in another part of Azzi’s world. 

“She is easy to love,” Clémence’s hot breath fans Azzi’s ear as the francophone takes Jana’s empty seat next to the brunette. 

“Clém-” Azzi sighs. 

“She fits in well with the team,” Clémence continues, something wistful in her voice, “I have seen her play. She will fit in well on the court with you guys as well. She will fit in well next to you.”

“That’s the hope,” Azzi says softly as she tilts her head to look at the other woman, “you fit in well too. I mean it Clém. We’ll miss you at GSV.”

Clémence smiles bitterly, “I would have liked to stay but they needed the cap space so they could sign her. She- she’s quite expensive. I mean considering she is casually wearing swarovski crystals on her neck in a bar on a random Saturday night, I am not surprised.”

The two of them laugh despite the gravity that looms heavily over them. Azzi and Clémence haven’t been anything in a long time but she’d never quite shut the possibility of a potential future done. She can hear the lock ready to click now. It’s bittersweet doing the right thing but as Paige glances over from the dancefloor, eyes darting cautiously between the two of them, Azzi knows that she doesn’t want to keep any other doors open. Not when the one with Paige’s name etched on the door handle, leads to home. 

“One last dance?” Clémence asks softly, holding out her hand. 

Azzi hesitates, knowing that it would irritate Paige but she thinks she probably owes Clémence this and so she smiles and takes the francophone’s outstretched hand as they join their other teammates. It’s nothing beyond friendly and they both keep their hands to themselves as they sway to the music, but Azzi can feel the annoyance radiating off of Paige from across the dancefloor. She would never admit it, perhaps it’s a little toxic of her, but there’s a certain thrill to making Paige jealous. There’s something about the way the blonde’s blue eyes flare with ice cold envy, the way her jaw hardens as she grinds her teeth. The way she looks at Azzi like if she had her way she’d drag the brunette out of the bar and mark her with a possessive you’re mine you’re mine youre mine. It makes Azzi clench her thighs together as she tries to focus on Clémence. 

“I understand now,” the francophone says thoughtfully as Azzi’s peers up at her in confusion, “when you told me that you could not be with me. I get it.”

“I don’t-”

“You are here with me but you aren’t actually. You will always be with her,” Clémence tilts her head towards Paige, “you always have been. I understand now,” she says again simply before her face hardens, “even after all those words she said to you on the phone that night.”

Azzi’s stomach curls at the reminder. She knows exactly what night Clémence is referring to. Sometimes when she closes her eyes, it’s those words, coated in anger and malice, that shower around her like acid rain, seeping into her skin and infecting her bloodstream.

“I told you, you deserved better,” Clémence says and Azzi gulps, “but you said- you said you deserved worse. I hope you don’t believe that anymore Azzi. Just because you hurt her doesn’t mean you need to let her hurt you too.”

“I-” Azzi’s cut off by a hard body ramming into her own and she feels herself going stumbling back into the unwanted arms of a random man, “I’m sorry,” she says tersely, struggling to get out his grip. 

“No worries pretty girl,” he says toothily, the heavy stench of alcohol in his breath making Azzi feel nauseous, “but now that you’re here, how about I buy you a drink.”

“No thank you,” Azzi says sternly, trying to push the man away but he’s relentless. 

“Aw c’mon don’t be like that sweetheart,” the term of endearment sounds like an insult falling from his lips and Azzi loses her patience, stomping her heel into the man’s foot to finally free herself from his grip and he yelps in surprise.

“I said no thank you.”

“What the fuck,” the man spits out, standing up as Azzi takes a step back. He’s got some muscle and although, despite his bravado, she knows she’s strong enough to take him, she’d rather not create a scene. Her plan is to walk away. Paige seems to have other ideas, suddenly materializing in between Azzi and the man, a furious look on her face as she squares him up. 

“Do we have a problem?” the blonde asks menacingly. 

“Nothing other than your little friend here being a fucking bitch.”

Paige’s eyes darken as she takes a threatening step towards him, prevented from going further only by the way Azzi immediately laces a hand around her wrist, “what the fuck did you call her?”

“I called her a-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Azzi cuts in, stepping in between a glaring Paige and a man who’s clearly underestimating her strength, “let it go Paige.”

“Yeah,” the man mocks, “let it go Paige.”

“You fucking-” Paige tries to lunge at him but Azzi’s quick to shove her back gently. 

“Don’t cause a scene,” she warns. 

“Azzi-”

“Paige please.”

“Holy shit,” the man wolf-whistles, “y’all play for the Valks. You’re Azzi Fudd. I know you.”

“Good for you,” Azzi spits out at him before turning her attention back to Paige, who looks like she could kill the man if given the chance, “c’mon let's go back to our tab-”

“It’s funny you’re acting like such a fucking prude when you have a bastard chi-”

An unmistakable crunch rings out through the bar as the man goes flying backwards. Azzi’s knuckles are bleeding as her breath comes out in ragged huffs. She hadn’t wanted to cause a scene; could have walked away from a man being a drunken idiot, could have walked away from being called a bitch or hell, even something worse. But the man had attacked the one part of her that she’d always be ready to go to war for. He’d brought up Stephie and she’d seen red. Her fist had moved of it's own accord.

Paige doesn’t say anything and Azzi can feel the anger still vibrating from the older woman’s body as she roughly grabs Azzi’s unhurt hand.

“Let’s go,” the blonde’s voice is eerily low, “we’re going home.”

***

It’s a subconscious choice to let Paige drive Azzi’s car even though they’ve both sobered up considerably, not that one shot had done much in the first place. It’s a subconscious choice that Azzi reaches over to lace her fingers through Paige’s free hand, resting it on her lap, as the blonde use her other hand to grip the steering wheel. It’s a subconscious choice that they end up driving to Azzi’s house in complete silence. She’s not sure who’s mad at who, if they’re even mad at each other or that man or just the world but she can feel the fury suffocating the air. 

“Where’s your first-aid kit?” Paige says gruffly as Azzi unlocks the door. 

“Bathroom,” Azzi says quietly and Paige is off towards it before the word has even fully left the brunette’s mouth. Azzi scrambles after her, pausing in the doorway as Paige rummages through drawers, knowing better than to interrupt to help when Paige looks livid like this.

“Sit,” Paige points to the sink once she’s finally found the sanitizer and gauze to clean up dried up blood staining Azzi’s knuckles. 

“I can do it my-”

Paige glares at her, “just sit on the fucking sink Azzi.”

Putting away her own irritation at being told what to do, Azzi lifts herself onto the flat surface of the sink, opening her legs slightly so that Paige can stand between them. Despite still quivering with barely concealed rage, Paige’s touch is gentle as she dabs at the remnants of red liquid on Azzi’s hand. 

“You should’ve just let me punch him when I wanted to,” she says finally. 

“So you could be the one bleeding?” Azzi raises an eyebrow. 

“No because he would’ve never gotten the courage to say shit about Stephie if you’d just let me kill him when he called you a bitch,” Paige bites out venomously. 

“And let you go to jail? I couldn’t do that to Stephie,” Azzi tries to lighten the tension in the room, “she’d miss you too much. 

“This isn’t funny, Azzi,” Paige seethes as she begins to wrap the white gauze around the wound. 

“I know,” the younger woman says, trailing her other hand down Paige’s arms trying to soothe her anger, “but it’s fine-”

“It’s not fucking fine,” Paige yells. 

“Baby-” the word slips out from Azzi’s lips before she can catch it. She hasn’t used it for someone other than Stephie in so long that it feels foreign on her lips and yet, it fits exactly right. 

“Did you call Clémence that too?” and there it is, the real reason behind the volcano erupting as Paige decidedly looks away from Azzi. 

Azzi narrows her eyes, “I don’t know Paige. Did you call Olivia that?”

“That’s different,” Paige grits out, “Olivia was my wife.”

Azzi flinches at the word; hates that somebody else had ever had the honor of being called that even if she knows it’s unfair of her to feel that way when she’s the one that had turned it down first. 

“Exactly,” she says slowly, “you married someone else-” she holds up a hand when Paige protests, “I know. I know I said no but you married someone else Paige. So you don’t get to be mad at me for having something with someone else too.”

Paige is quiet for a moment and Azzi sees the exact moment the fight leaves her body as she lets out a sigh, leaning her head against Azzi’s shoulder. 

“You’re right,” Paige whispers into Azzi’s neck, hands moving to rest against the brunette’s thighs. 

Azzi runs her hand through Paige’s hair, brushing it in tandem with the harmony of her breathing, “we can’t keep throwing the past in each other’s face, Paige.”

“I know,” Paige breath tickles against Azzi’s skin and she shivers in spite of the tense moment,“I just-” the blonde lifts her head to look at Azzi, “I need to know who Clémence was to you. You- you know what Olivia was to me and I- I just need to know the same about Clémence.”

“She-” Azzi hesitates, “we hooked up a couple of times,” she squeezes Paige’s hand when the blonde flinches, “but then she- she wanted more but I couldn’t- I couldn’t do that. Partly because I didn’t- I didn’t feel the same- don’t look so smug,” Azzi chides when a small grin forms on Paige’s face, “and partly because we were on the same team. I didn’t want to complicate things, not like last time. Feel like I should probably have a rule not to date teammates.”

“Right.”

Azzi watches the cogs turning in Paige’s brain and she reaches out a hand to ease the creases forming on her forehead, “what are you thinking Bueckers?”

“I just-” Paige bites her lip, “what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I mean we’re gonna be- I mean we are- we’re on the same team too,” Paige says and Azzi can hear the insecurity of will you leave me again weaved through her voice. 

“You don’t get it yet do you,” Azzi whispers, reaching up to cup Paige’s face, “baby you are the exception to all of my rules.”

[deepmochi]

Astrology notes: synastry edition 🪐💋

Read here ⚠️

Note: take what resonates. This may not apply to everyone if these notes don't resonate, just scroll. This post applies to romantic and platonic relationships.

🦋 Moon conjuct sun make people see what the other person has in themselves. Both understand the other but also judge them.

🪼 Venus in the 12th house has a veil under them. This in a synastry give "dating vibes" even for platonic friends/ relationships. For romantic ones, gives, they are secretly dating vibes "friends with benefits".

🦋 Mercury and Sun aspects in the same signs make them a very competitive couple lowkey. The sun has masculine energy that the mercurian finds "interesting" or useful.

🪼 North nodes- sun people aspects aren't for long term relationships. The north node person signifies someone who comes and goes; they don't stay too long. This is perfect for "people come and people go" D.O's line in love shot.

🪼 Asc-Venus aspects in synastry always like to compliment the other apperance. They appreciate those "that skirt looks good on you" comments. They got a self-esteem boost and a reminder that the person cares for them.

🪼 Men with their sun sign in your 1st house are perceived by you as hot. This could lead to a night stand or intense chemistry.

🧊 Venus opposition Venus gives very subtle vibes to each other like. There's is always one who is more oblivious to the other. If other aspects interfere, mind games are possible.

🪼 The same element in a placement produces a very similar reaction. You may feel very drawn to that person. For example, A Leo Mars woman will feel attracted to fire sun or venus (aries or sag) men. They have similar fiery traits. This applies to men for their Venus signs. A man with a Libra Venus will find airy personalities very attractive and (bonus points) with an airy rising even more.

🦋 Mars is about motivation, drive, your temper and temperature. Yes, First house goes checked your blood pressure and heart rate. Whenever you get mad, you should listen to your heart 👀, please.

🦋 Don't trust tik tok astrology notes. I just heard someone saying Mars in the 1st likes to work under pressure like for daily work Girl...I'm Mars in the 1st and NO. My heart cannot resist that.

💙 Also, first house mars synastry can be a feisty couple. In public or private 😗, the "I hate you" type, and then they kiss each other.

🦋 12th house-Venus synastry can be very pretty if they decide to go with the flow. Without judging the other, or forcing to be like others (society roles).

🦋 Their venus is in your 12th house, it indicates that they feel loved by you in ways they cannot describe. This sometimes also mean blurry lines. If they don't know your relationships status, communication is useful. Don't let your mind read signs.

🐦 Venus in the 2nd, guess? People likes to buy you things. If someone has their sign in your 2nd house, they will buy you things easily. Also, they can prefer to eat together or show physical love (hugs or hold hands) even for friends. Taurus rules the 2nd house.

🦋 Insecure men with your lilith sign in their Venus (conjuction) will not asking you out. THEY'RE SCARE OF YOU. They believe you will break their heart. If they do ask you out, they are ready to fight the world for you.

🦋 Love doesn't equals obssesion. Pluto in the 8th synastry repeat after me: Love isn't obssesion!

🐦 Men with your Venus sign in their Sun sign will be easy to read. If they will like you, you will see it. They cannot play mind games.

🐳 Dating your 12th house sign especially in the sun or moon, it's something I don't recommend at all. They will make you feel "confused", even if they don't try it.

🪼 Women with Mars in the 1st house make fragile men feel inadequate. You can see those men feeling threatened by these women.

🦋 If he has his Mars in your 1st house, he thinks you're hot . Girl, don't even doubt it.

📫 The venus sign in a man chart depicts his ideal type. However, what he needs could be found in the moon. Good aspects between Moon-Venus: a long-term commitment.

🦋 People in your 5th house feels very flirty with you. So, the tension is there, yes, but don't be too delusional. Flirting doesn't mean a serious deal, just be aware of respect if you are in a relationship.

🪼 🔞 If people have their sun or moon in your 8th house, you will see them as more attractive in a romantic/sexual way. It's highly posible to have sex, even if they're not your type.

🐳 🔞 Water in the 8th house in a person's chart indicates "emotions + pleasure". Usually women like to be dominated. Men prefer to dominate. Both prefer dynamic partners with a good aftercare.

🦋 🔞Men with water in the 8th house like to have sex in beaches, in the bathroom and when things gets emotional. Angry sex too.

🦋 Conjuntion and trines have good things, but we cannot ignore the bad things. For example, moon conjunct moon; good things, you understand each other; bad things, you may become twins (for good or bad), too comfortable in the relationship, forgetting romance and passion.

🦋 Sun signs are important to considered if they don't match your Jupiter sign. It could indicate possible obstacles in your marriage.

🪼 Friendly reminder, a perfect synastry doesn't equal a perfect relationship. Please, if the person doesn't respect you, leave them. Not matter how perfect is the synastry in paper.

Take care, lovelies 💚😘.

Credit: @deepmochi