#1 and 2 are still incomplete

[fandomtrash-whataboutit]

The issue with learning to write smut is dancing around it and building up to it while not wanting to lose your motivation, so i end up writing around the scene until I’m ready to write it, so it’s sort of like I’ve written the full chapter before I’ve even gotten to the intimate scene. This isn’t about anything specific though, certainly not a four chapter sip with 24k words, 11k of which are the first completed chapter.

[peeledorangesandscurvy]

how do i say "in a universe where chen and cyrus become friends and cyrus Doesnt kill him for the autopsy pics, they would be fuck buddies" without sounding insane

[thebaffledcaptain]

my next hyperspecific poll idea is that they need to do one of those poll tournaments but for the best revolutionary war field tune

[psych0p0mp-on-ao3]

Absolutely HILARIOUS that someone just left kudos on part 1 and part 3 of my werewolf series but not part 2. Dropped the ball with that one I guess

[staysafedontdie]

anime style filler episode content?

beach episode when? swimming/the beach was mentioned multiple times with multiple companions in multiple contexts

I don't want Baldur's Gate 3 DLC I want Larian to keep adding in unfinished scenes and finishing dropped quest lines and open up the upper city and give us all the anime style filler episode content we can handle for eternity until they run out of updates to give

[hyperlexichypatia]

I've seen basically two response arguments to Kennedy's slurs about autistic people being unable to pay taxes, have a job, play baseball, go on a date, write a poem, or use the toilet.

Both the responses are good and necessary, but I think they're incomplete. The two response arguments are essentially: 1. "That's not true, there are plenty of autistic people who have jobs and go on dates and play baseball," and 2. (largely in response to 1.) "Autistic people deserve acceptance and dignity even if they can't pay taxes or write poetry or use the toilet; people's value isn't determined by their abilities or productivity."

And, again, both of these responses are true and good and necessary. But what I'm not seeing people talk about enough is why Kennedy listed those specific skills, and what he's trying to imply with them. Because, see, when people are reduced to a dehumanized stereotype, "Not everyone is like that dehumanized stereotype" isn't sufficient, and neither is "Even people who are like that dehumanized stereotype deserve respect." The problem is the dehumanization. So let's look at the list of things we supposedly can't do, which Kennedy is using to conjure an image of "Inhuman Unthinking Blob."

Having a job. This is the big one. In American culture, your value, your personhood, is solely dependent on Your Job. Are you a valuable cog in the capitalist machine, or are you a cheap cog in the capitalist machine, or are you so worthless you're not even in the capitalist machine, and therefore have no reason to be alive? So it's good and necessary and important to spell out "A person doesn't have to have a job to be a person with dignity and rights." But there's a larger question out there, which is: What, exactly, constitutes "a job"? Yes, absolutely, everyone should have dignity and rights (and material needs like guaranteed housing, food, and consensual healthcare). But also, most disabled people, including ""severely"" disabled people, can and do perform productive labor benefiting their communities. It's just often labor that capitalist society doesn't classify as "a job," like caregiving, studying, or making art. It's important to say that people shouldn't need "a job" in order to deserve rights or resources. It's also important to point out that disabled people have been doing labor this whole time, just without the dignity, rights, or pay associated with "a job." In a socialist utopia where everyone had their material needs guaranteed, labor would still be done, and a lot of it would still be done by disabled people. That's important. Disabled people's contributions to society matter. And erasing that is something ableists do on purpose -- excluding the labor done by disabled people from the category of "job" is integral to excluding disabled people from the category of "productive" and thus the category "worthy of life."

Paying taxes. This is the most transparently ridiculous one, because absolutely everybody in the U.S. pays taxes. Poor people pay taxes (too much). Rich people pay taxes (nowhere near enough). Undocumented immigrants pay taxes. You buy a Snickers? It's priced $1.79 but you pay $1.92. That's a tax. You live somewhere? You're paying property taxes. You rent your home? How do you think your landlord pays their property taxes? From your rent. You're paying property taxes. You have a crappy underpaid minimum wage job? You're paying FICA. Everybody pays taxes. What Kennedy probably means to imply is "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes." Politicians love pretending that "taxes" means "federal income taxes" so they can claim to "lower taxes" while shifting the tax burden somewhere else (cf. Trump's attempt to claim that tariffs aren't taxes). And. And also. There's another subtle implication in there, that I see a lot from parents and ableists. Because of the deep intersection of ableism and classism, Kennedy is implying "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes" (therefore they're inferior) but also "They're not smart enough to do something complicated like file a tax return." When ableists talk about disabled people who "can't take care of themselves" or specifically "can't pay their bills" or "can't pay taxes," they're intentionally trying to conflate an economic state (having enough money to pay bills/taxes) with a cognitive ability (having the skills/executive function to manage money, budget, pay bills on time, or file a tax return). Kennedy probably doesn't file his own tax return either. I'm sure he has an accountant for that. Presumed-neurotypical people are allowed to do that. The world is full of rich people who lack executive function or money-management skills, whose wealth insulates them from the consequences of that, because they can either afford to just lose money, or they can afford to hire someone to handle it for them. The world is also full of poor people for whom one missed payment has ruined them. The world is also full of disabled people for whom one missed payment has gotten them declared mentally incompetent, institutionalized, or placed under guardianship -- by abled family members who probably hire an accountant to manage their own money. Again, all this is deliberate. Kennedy and other ableists/classists/eugenicsts are intentionally trying to conflate "lacks money," "lacks money management abilities/skills," and "lacks General Intelligence" as one more-or-less interchangeable phenomenon (Note: If you've read this far and haven't figured out my angle yet: There is no such thing as "General Intelligence" and the very concept is harmful).

Write a poem. Again, this is deliberately ambiguous wording -- pretty much anyone can write a poem, including people who can't write or speak. Have you ever expressed an idea in which the words you used had an additional meaning on top of their literal meaning? Boom, you can write a poem. Maybe not a good one. But Kennedy didn't say that autistic people's poetry is bad -- plenty of neurotypical people's poetry is bad too, after all. There is a somewhat positive stereotype floating around that neurodivergent people are creative. We may be tragic, burdens on society, our parents' heartbreak, worthless, stupid, subhuman, but at least we're creative. Probably due to being more animal-like, "closer to nature." And neurobigots like Kennedy absolutely hate this stereotype. No matter how much dehumanization the "positive" stereotype is rooted in, we cannot have any positive attributes at all. They must never let us forget that we have no redeeming value whatsoever. We must be rendered as completely lacking in thought, feelings, expression, and creation. I'm seeing some echos of 18th century racism, too -- a common belief among 18th century white Europeans was that even if non-Europeans were superficially clever, they could produce no "higher culture," no great art or poetry or literature, because they were intrinsically a lower tier of human. This seems to be the root of Kennedy's implication -- not that autistic people "can't" write poetry (anyone can), or that autistic people are bad at writing poetry (most beginners are), but that an autistic person's creative output cannot constitute true poetry, true "high culture," because it comes from an inferior mind.

Play baseball. This is an especially slippery one, because like writing poetry, it's a learned skill with gradations of skill level, not an intrinsic ability that someone does or doesn't have. Most autistic people aren't pro-level baseball players, but neither are most allistic people. And again, Kennedy didn't say "Autistic people are bad at baseball." He said that we would never play baseball. "Has ever played or will ever play baseball" is such a ridiculously low bar that even I can meet it. Technically speaking, I can play baseball. I have played baseball, in school gym class. I know how! You sit there minding your business until it's your turn to stand up, and then someone hands you a bat, and then someone throws a ball, and you're supposed to try to hit the ball with the bat, and in theory, after you fail three times, you're supposed to be allowed to sit back down again and go back to imagining wild self-insert fanfic, but the coach gives you "extra tries" out of pity, so you have to humiliate yourself with five or six attempts instead of three. Yeah. I can play baseball. So what's Kennedy going for with this one? Baseball in the U.S. is associated with two things: American identity, and idyllic midcentury childhood. If autistic people can't participate in America's Pastime, can we really even be Americans? Do we really count as citizens? I don't think Kennedy is personally, ideologically all that committed to xenophobia himself; he's just hitched his wagon to a deeply xenophobic administration because they indulge his medical conspiracy theories. But he knows how to align his goals to the administration's. He knows that his boss is deeply committed to narrowing and restricting who counts as "an American," who's not really part of "our culture," who's not really a part of baseball and hot dogs and the Fourth of July, if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. Maybe I'm reaching with this one. But I'm definitely not reaching with the other association he's going for: Idyllic Midcentury Childhood. All kids play baseball. By which I mean, all boys play baseball. I'm not sure Kennedy knows that girls can play it too, or that he cares. The point is, baseball is part of childhood, and autistic people are never children. We don't play, we don't learn, we don't go through developmental stages, we're just forever Mindless Blobs. That's why things that would be considered cruelty if done to neurotypical children aren't cruelty when they're done to us. We're not really children. We never become adults, either -- how can we, if we don't go through childhood first? You can tell we're subhuman because we don't go through the universal experiences of Real People Life.

Go on a date. Okay. This one. This is the one where I get actively angry at the well-meaning, "inclusive" responses. "Just because an autistic person has high support needs and can't do XYZ doesn't mean --" no. Stop right there. There is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no impairment or disability that prevents someone from dating. There are people -- autistic and otherwise, disabled and otherwise -- who for whatever reason, choose not to pursue dating. Maybe they're aromantic, maybe they're loners, maybe they have religious objections, maybe dating just isn't something they're interested in. Fine. That's their choice. But there is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no such thing as a disability that renders people incapable of romantic relationships. There is no such fucking thing as being "too disabled" or "too severe" or "too profound" or "too high support needs" to have a romantic relationship if two or more people want one. That is not a thing that exists. That is a thing ableists made up. There is no such thing as an autistic person who "can't" go on a date. There are autistic people who aren't allowed to go on dates, because their family or caregivers control them, infantilize them, restrict their freedoms, or treat them as mindless blobs. But all disabled people (yes, all) can pursue romantic relationships. All disabled people (yes, all) deserve the human right to pursue romantic relationships if they choose to. With other disabled people. With abled people. With whomever. And yeah, dating doesn't necessarily have to be romantic or sexual, but let me be perfectly clear -- disabled people, autistic people, "high support needs" autistic people have a right to have sex, too. A multiply disabled autistic person who needs 24/7 assistance deserves the absolute, unreserved right to have wild, kinky, balls-to-the-wall, whole-chicken sex with the entire starting lineup of the Detroit Lions, if xe so chooses to, and if said Lions are on board. We should not accept the premise that there is any such thing as a disabled person who "can't" go on a date.

Use a toilet without assistance. This is the Kennedy playbook trump card, but unlike some of the other claims, this one is actually true. There's no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date, but yes, there are in fact plenty of disabled people, including autistic people, who need help with using the toilet. So what's Kennedy going for here? He's trying to evoke two things: Disgust and infantilization. We have a visceral disgust around excretory functions. Needing to eliminate waste reminds us that we're animals made of meat, not the higher intellectual beings we pretend to be. Everyone poops. So we do it in private, we describe it with euphemisms, and if someone needs help with it, well, they're not keeping up their end of the social compact to collectively pretend we're not animals with animal bodily functions. So people who need assistance with the waste process are disgusting, subhuman, a violation of imagined purity. And of course, they're babies. Babies wear diapers. Babies need help using the toilet. So an older child or adult who needs diapers or toileting help is basically a big baby. We have entire election cycles centered on "Which candidate has incontinence issues?" as a proxy for "Which candidate is a big baby unfit to lead?" as though someone's bladder leakage has any bearing on their wisdom or policy positions. And of course, since people who need help with toileting Are Babies, we're meant to assume that they can't do any of those other things, either. They can't even use the toilet, let alone write poetry or go on a date. In reality, plenty of people who need toileting help are writing poetry and going on dates. One of the biggest misconceptions that holds disabled people back from education or, in some cases, from basic communication, is this myth of linear "developmental stages" -- that if someone isn't "smart enough" to master an "easier/earlier" skill, then they can't possibly be "smart enough" to master a completely unrelated skill that some abled person thinks of as "more advanced." This is literally the primary barrier to communication access for speech-disabled people, and the reason nonspeaking people who type to communicate are so often disbelieved -- if someone isn't "smart enough" to master a "baby skill" like talking, they can't possibly be "smart enough" to read and write! Nevermind that for many speech disabled people, reading and writing are much easier than speaking. And if someone isn't "smart enough" to use the toilet unassisted, they can't possibly learn any advanced topics at all, because they must the "mind of a baby." (The only people with the minds of babies are babies. A 50 year old with incontinence has the mind of a 50 year old.)

So. To sum up: Kennedy is intentionally evoking the concept of autistic people as The Abject Unthinking, and neither "Plenty of autistic people can do those things he says we can't do" nor "Disabled people deserve respect and dignity even if they can't do those things" fully addresses the dehumanization he's trying to conjure. Maybe I'm just jaded, too, about calls for "respect and dignity" for disabled people that don't challenge the concept of The Abject Unthinking. I see behavioral therapists, institution staff, and parents pursuing adult guardianship talking about "respect and dignity." I see articles about how to restrain and forcibly drug people with "respect and dignity." Ableists literally murder disabled people in cold blood in the name of "respect and dignity." I don't know what "respect and dignity" means to these people, but it's sure not synonymous with "bodily autonomy" or "civil rights." By this point, I consider "respect and dignity" about as meaningful as "thoughts and prayers." All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, express themselves. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, make their own decisions about their own bodies. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, participate in their communities. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, pursue relationships with other people of their choice.

[whos-the-seme]

Someone should honestly write a "4 Times That Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu Accidentally Acted Like Partners (and 1 Time They Finally Realized It)" thing. That would be so fun.

Here's some of what I got so far, though they're a tad incomplete. Feel free to add on!!!

Sharing a Bed

Shen Qingqiu stumbled into the peak lord meeting right before the starting time, eyes barely even open. He was impeccably dressed, as always, but the slight puffiness of his eyes and the way he was fighting back a yawn signaled to the fact that he might have rolled out of bed barely 5 minutes before.

He ignored the stares that he received as he made his way over and slid into the seat next to Shang Qinghua, groaning. Shang Qinghua raised his eyebrow at him, mildly amused. For once, he was the slightly well-rested one and his friend was the sleep-deprived mess. Despite this, he started pouring a cup of tea for the other.

"Shen-shixiong, did you even sleep properly? You were the one who told me to go home and get more sleep." He finished pouring the tea and passed the cup to his friend, before pouring himself a cup.

Shen Qingqiu groaned even louder at his words but accepted the cup. "I know, I know. I just couldn't get to sleep, though." He took a small sip and sighed in delight. "It's just that your bed is so much more comfortable than mine, so--"

Shang Qinghua, midway through drinking his tea, choked.

Silence.

Absolute silence. Mu Qingfang slowly put down his brush while Qi Qingqi's eyes darted between Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu, a smile spreading on her face.

Shen Qingqiu's slowly turning cog wheels finally realizes what he just said and the people he just said it in front of. Shang Qinghua made a slight wheezing sound.

Yue Qingyuan set down his own teacup, smiling pleasantly. "Shang-shidi's bed?"

"His guest bed!" Shen Qingqiu nearly yells. "I meant to say his guest bed, obviously that's where I sleep when I stay over, where else would I sleep, of course! I sleep in the bed that is not his!"

Shang Qinghua begins to nod his head frantically. "Yes, yes, he sleeps in my guest bed." Noticing the still dangerous glint in Yue Qingyuan's eyes, he begins to wave his hands around as if trying to stave off his impending doom. "N-not that Shen Qingqiu sleeps over often, or anything, ahahaha! It's just a spare bed that I happen to have--"

"I see," Yue Qingyuan interrupts, still smiling. Never before has Shang Qinghua feared for his life like this. He continues cheerfully, "Thank you for the clarification. Why don't we get this meeting started."

2. Robe Mix-Up

Shit! Shen Qingqiu had completely forgotten that he had to teach a morning class and was running late. He might have had too much fun last night reading trashy novels and bitching about them with Shang Qinghua, only to forget his responsibilities to his students. Upon waking and realizing the sun was already up, he nearly shoved Shang Qinghua off the bed trying to get up.

In his hurry to look presentable and still arrive on time, Shen Qingqiu grabbed the nearest outer robe that he could find and slipped it on, while simultaneously trying to fix his hair. Shang Qinghua, the traitor, simply rolled over and muttered something in his sleep, despite the chaos. He rolled his eyes at his best friend, despite the other not being awake to see it.

Finally ready, Shen Qingqiu rushes out of his bamboo house and starts to speed-walk, doing his best to still look majestic and peak lord-like, and not like he was running late to his own class. In his hurry, he doesn't notice the wide-eyed looks he was garnering from the older disciples he passed.

It was only when he steps into the classroom, and the previously hushed whispers and laughter of the teens fall dead silent, that he notices that something is wrong. They all stare at him.

"Good morning, everyone," Shen Qingqiu says pleasantly. No response. What, did he have something on his face or something?? He discreetly wiped at his cheeks, wondering what they were looking at. "Did something happen?"

"Shizun... isn't that...?" Ming Fan hesitantly spoke up, eyeing the blue robes that his teacher was wearing.

Shen Qingqiu followed his disciple's line of sight and looked down.

Ah. An Ding Peak Lord Blue. He must have accidentally grabbed Shang Qinghua's robes when getting dressed this morning.

Wait.

Fuck.

Shen Qingqiu can feel his face freeze.

Another brave disciple spoke up. "A-are those Shang-shishu's--"

"No," Shen Qingqiu says. His eye began to switch.

"But--"

"I said no."

Unfortunately for him, word spread fast, and by midday meal, there were people whispering about the fact that Shen Qingqiu had left his residence wearing Shang Qinghua's robes.

Shang Qinghua tsk'd at him from over the tea table they were taking their lunch at on An Ding Peak. "You just had to take my robe, huh? If you wanted to wear my clothes so bad, you could have just asked." An Ding disciples gawked at them on their way to do errands. One walked into a wooden post.

Shen Qingqiu glared at him, ears still burning red from embarrassment. "Shut up, Qinghua."

[5ummit]

AO3 Ship Stats: Year In Bad Data

You may have seen this AO3 Year In Review.

It hasn’t crossed my tumblr dash but it sure is circulating on twitter with 3.5M views, 10K likes, 17K retweets and counting. Normally this would be great! I love data and charts and comparisons!

Except this data is GARBAGE and belongs in the TRASH.

I first noticed something fishy when I realized that Steve/Bucky – the 5th largest ship on AO3 by total fic count – wasn’t on this Top 100 list anywhere. I know Marvel’s popularity has fallen in recent years, but not that much. Especially considering some of the other ships that made it on the list. You mean to tell me a femslash HP ship (Mary MacDonald/Lily Potter) in which one half of the pairing was so minor I had to look up her name because she was only mentioned once in a single flashback scene beat fandom juggernaut Stucky? I call bullshit.

Now obviously jumping to conclusions based on gut instinct alone is horrible practice... but it is a good place to start. So let’s look at the actual numbers and discover why this entire dataset sits on a throne of lies.

Here are the results of filtering the Steve/Bucky tag for all works created between Jan 1, 2023 and Dec 31, 2023:

Not only would that place Steve/Bucky at #23 on this list, if the other counts are correct (hint: they're not), it’s also well above the 1520-new-work cutoff of the #100 spot. So how the fuck is it not on the list? Let’s check out the author’s FAQ to see if there’s some important factor we’re missing.

The first thing you’ll probably notice in the FAQ is that the data is being scraped from publicly available works. That means anything privated and only accessible to logged-in users isn’t counted. This is Sin #1. Already the data is inaccurate because we’re not actually counting all of the published fics, but the bots needed to do data collection on this scale can't easily scrape privated fics so I kinda get it. We’ll roll with this for now and see if it at least makes the numbers make more sense:

Nope. Logging out only reduced the total by a couple hundred. Even if one were to choose the most restrictive possible definition of "new works" and filter out all crossovers and incomplete fics, Steve/Bucky would still have a yearly total of 2,305. Yet the list claims their total is somewhere below 1,500? What the fuck is going on here?

Let’s look at another ship for comparison. This time one that’s very recent and popular enough to make it on the list so we have an actual reference value for comparison: Nick/Charlie (Heartstopper). According to the list, this ship sits at #34 this year with a total of 2630 new works. But what’s AO3 say?

Off by a hundred or so but the values are much closer at least!

If we dig further into the FAQ though we discover Sin #2 (and the most egregious): the counting method. The yearly fic counts are NOT determined by filtering for a certain time period, they’re determined by simply taking a snapshot of the total number of fics in a ship tag at the end of the year and subtracting the previous end-of-year total. For example, if you check a ship tag on Jan 1, 2023 and it has 10,000 fics and check it again on Jan 1, 2024 and it now has 12,000 fics, the difference (2,000) would be the number of "new works" on this chart.

At first glance this subtraction method might seem like a perfectly valid way to count fics, and it’s certainly the easiest way, but it can and did have major consequences to the point of making the entire dataset functionally meaningless. Why? If any older works are deleted or privated, every single one of those will be subtracted from the current year fic count. And to make the problem even worse, beginning at the end of last year there was a big scare about AI scraping fics from AO3, which caused hundreds, if not thousands, of users to lock down their fics or delete them.

The magnitude of this fuck up may not be immediately obvious so let’s look at an example to see how this works in practice.

Say we have two ships. Ship A is more than a decade old with a large fanbase. Ship B is only a couple years old but gaining traction. On Jan 1, 2023, Ship A had a catalog of 50,000 fics and ship B had 5,000. Both ships have 3,000 new works published in 2023. However, 4% of the older works in each fandom were either privated or deleted during that same time (this percentage is was just chosen to make the math easy but it’s close to reality).

Ship A: 50,000 x 4% = 2,000 removed works Ship B: 5,000 x 4% = 200 removed works

Ship A: 3,000 - 2,000 = 1,000 "new" works Ship B: 3,000 - 200 = 2,800 "new" works

This gives Ship A a net gain of 1,000 and Ship B a net gain of 2,800 despite both fandoms producing the exact same number of new works that year. And neither one of these reported counts are the actual new works count (3,000). THIS explains the drastic difference in ranking between a ship like Steve/Bucky and Nick/Charlie.

How is this a useful measure of anything? You can't draw any conclusions about the current size and popularity of a fandom based on this data.

With this system, not only is the reported "new works" count incorrect, the older, larger fandom will always be punished and it’s count disproportionately reduced simply for the sin of being an older, larger fandom. This example doesn’t even take into account that people are going to be way more likely to delete an old fic they're no longer proud of in a fandom they no longer care about than a fic that was just written, so the deletion percentage for the older fandom should theoretically be even larger in comparison.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the author of this "study" KNEW the data was tainted and chose to present it as meaningful anyway. You will only find this if you click through to the FAQ and read about the author’s methodology, something 99.99% of people will NOT do (and even those who do may not understand the true significance of this problem):

The author may try to argue their post states that the tags "which had the greatest gain in total public fanworks” are shown on the chart, which makes it not a lie, but a error on the viewer’s part in not interpreting their data correctly. This is bullshit. Their chart CLEARLY titles the fic count column “New Works” which it explicitly is NOT, by their own admission! It should be titled “Net Gain in Works” or something similar.

Even if it were correctly titled though, the general public would not understand the difference, would interpret the numbers as new works anyway (because net gain is functionally meaningless as we've just discovered), and would base conclusions on their incorrect assumptions. There’s no getting around that… other than doing the counts correctly in the first place. This would be a much larger task but I strongly believe you shouldn’t take on a project like this if you can’t do it right.

To sum up, just because someone put a lot of work into gathering data and making a nice color-coded chart, doesn’t mean the data is GOOD or VALUABLE.

[etz-ashashiyot]

Hi, I saw your post about Jewish indigeneity and as a non-Jewish, non-indigenous person, have a genuine question that I hope you will take in good faith. At what point of conflict and violence do we say that being indigenous to a region does not actually confer land rights? I understand that having land stolen is a travesty and a part of genocide, and I don't mean to be dismissive. But at some level of conflict and violence, is it not healthier for individals to learn to love the place they are at, the people around them, and the new culture they can build together? I think there are ways to do that which are not assimilationist. And I think the ongoing suffering in war cannot be justified by mere land claims. I am presenting this to you hoping you can help me understand your view better, especially if you disagree with me. What am I missing? Thank you for considering my questions.

I'm gonna be honest: the fact that this is coming from a blank blog makes me far less likely to want to answer it, especially because I haven't been on tumblr as much lately and thus don't know if this is a copypasta ask.

Who are you? Have you read my pinned post? Have you read the many, many sources in it?

I am going to give you extremely truncated answers, but understand that you have a lot of reading to do that is not possible to summarize in an answer to a tumblr ask. (Edit: this got a lot longer than I expected, but I stand by my words that these are truncated, incomplete answers. You need to read several books to actually develop a reasonable understanding of this.)

At what point of conflict and violence do we say that being indigenous to a region does not actually confer land rights?

Never. What you are asking here conflates two separate concerns: (1) the rights of an indigenous group to the land they are indigenous to, and (2) the ethical responsibilities said indigenous group has towards other human beings, in particular those who also live on that land. People don't lose their indegeneity and thus their ties to the land by being bad people. "Indigenous" is not an indicator of moral purity or uprightness. It means that they have deep cultural, historical, and (often) religious roots in a particular land that cannot be severed without totally destroying the group as such.

Eretz Yisrael will always be the homeland of the Jewish people regardless of whether we have control over it or not, whether we have a sovereign nation there or not, whether we are permitted to live there or even visit there or not. All of our religious and cultural practices tie back to eretz Yisrael, even ones that have been adapted to the diaspora. Religiously observant Jews pray facing Jerusalem three times a day, our liturgy is infused with references to the land, the Temple in Jerusalem, the redemption (of the people to the land) and/or specific attributes of the land. Our sacred texts occur in and make constant reference to the land and our observance of the mitzvot and how that relates to the land. (A ton of the religious laws we are given are land-based because it developed as an agricultural religion, and a huge number of the rest are related to the Temple in Jerusalem.) We have three pilgrimage festivals that pre- forced diaspora, all Jews would make back to Jerusalem to make specific sacrifices. We still observe these festivals in ways adapted to the diaspora, but you need to understand that the essential condition of diasporic Jewry is one of constant longing to return to the land. We observe these things today to keep the knowledge alive so that someday, future generations of Jews can use that knowledge in eretz Yisrael. Jews are of that land and can never be severed from it without becoming something entirely different.

Now. Does that give us a right to act with total impunity? Absolutely not. We still have moral obligations to our fellow human beings that we have to observe no matter what. That is true of all peoples everywhere, indigenous or not.

But the idea that you can "punish" an indigenous group by severing their roots is to say that total cultural annihilation is a valid punishment ever, which is genocidal rhetoric.

I understand that having land stolen is a travesty and a part of genocide, and I don't mean to be dismissive.

You answered your own question here, don't you see? Reread what you wrote here, as many times as you need to, until you get it.

But at some level of conflict and violence, is it not healthier for individals to learn to love the place they are at, the people around them, and the new culture they can build together?

You need to read some Jewish history.

If you are asking this question about Israel, and in particular the Israel / Palestine conflict, you need to read more Jewish history.

"....to learn to love the place they are at" Jews in the diaspora tried this. Please read this list.

"...the people around them" Do you think that Jews were expelled, pogrommed, and genocided multiple times across numerous locations because we didn't "love the people around us" enough? For real? Read about the Kielce Pogrom and get back to me on that.

"...the new culture they can build together" Ah. I see. Yes this is the thing:

We don't fucking need a new culture. We have been fighting to practice the culture we already have in peace for thousands of years.

I think there are ways to do that which are not assimilationist.

Well. You're wrong. You are one in a long long long long long long long long long long long line of gentiles who think that "Jews can just..." and (1) you're wrong; read what the Nazis did to ethnic Jews who converted to Christianity, the history of "new Christians"/conversos/etc. but also even if that were guaranteed to work (2) why should we have to change our culture instead of other people not trying to kill us for it?

And I think the ongoing suffering in war cannot be justified by mere land claims.

This war is not about land claims though; not really. Hamas wants every Jew dead. That is why they started this war. They have promised a new October 7th every day until the whole land is entirely judenfrei. Of course there are reasonable Palestinians with legitimate policy objectives, but that's not who's driving this war, and the ones in Gaza who speak up about it tend to get abducted or have their families disappeared and are tortured until they escape, die, or are silenced.

Are there legitimate things to be discussed about Israel's approach in this war and/or in general? Sure. But this isn't "mere land claims." This is about the safety, lives, and self-determination of half the global Jewish population, the vast majority of whom are only there in the first place because they themselves or their parents/grandparents/great-grandparents fled (or were forcibly relocated) there as refugees of genocide. Israel is the only remaining place in the world for certain smaller Jewish sub-ethnicities. If Israel is destroyed, so much will be lost. And, we will be back to being subjects of the whims of hostile foreign powers who have proven again and again that they will just periodically expel or murder lots of us when it is politically useful for them to do so.

That is what is at stake for us.

The fact that you think that our connection to the land is "mere land claims" and not an existential part of our identity says volumes by itself, but the fact that you don't know what is actually at stake for us says even more. It tells me that you have a lot of reading to do.

What am I missing?

Empathy. History. Context.

Read People Love Dead Jews - I think it will help you understand more of these issues. There are other helpful sources in my pinned post too.

[velvees-archive]

At 20 years old, Miles Edgeworth’s only mentor tells him never to step foot into his opponent’s territory lest he fail to crush them in court. 4 years later, Edgeworth enters Defendant Lobby No. 1 to warn opposing counsel Phoenix Wright about Redd White’s decisive testimony.

Some post-AAI1 reflections + how Phoenix unravels Miles from the very moment they meet again.

After playing through the original trilogy, up to 4-2 on Apollo Justice, and all of Ace Attorney Investigations 1, I couldn’t help but jot down my (admittedly incomplete) thoughts about Phoenix and Edgeworth’s relationship, especially as it pertains to Miles’ “unraveling,” or his departure from von Karma’s teachings.

We already know von Karma had no love for Edgeworth. Crushing the late Gregory Edgeworth’s legacy under the guise of mentoring his son (and eventually ruining his career at its peak) was von Karma’s last act of hatred towards the departed.

From Miles’ perspective, however, von Karma was an accomplished teacher to whom he owed his gratitude and career’s success. This is important because Edgeworth’s actions are fundamentally motivated by his desire to express his “gratitude,” repay debts, and honor legacies.

His debt to von Karma compels him to strive for the perfection his mentor obsesses over. Achieving perfection takes the form of absorbing von Karma’s teachings, among them the AAI1 screenshot from earlier: only face your opponent in court, and make sure you crush them when you do it.

We know for a fact that the “demon prosecutor” internalizes von Karma’s teachings. He follows them to a T.

So, following 15 years of indoctrination, 4 years of putting the von Karma creed into practice, and an entire childhood AND early adulthood’s worth of gratitude, you’d THINK Edgeworth wouldn’t dare dishonor him…

Until he does, by coming to the defendant lobby to speak to his “enemy.”

Prior to playing AAI1, I thought the impetus for Edgeworth’s character development was 1-3, wherein he reevaluated the facts of the case and helped Phoenix get Dee Vasquez a guilty verdict. I still think 1-3 was the first time he consciously acknowledged the possibility (keyword: possibility) that his prosecutorial upbringing wasn’t..sound…(lmao!)

But with this AAI1 von Karma and Bratworth interaction, I now believe it was 1-2—with Edgeworth subconsciously disregarding his mentor’s teachings and Phoenix acting as the catalyst—that shows us when he first strayed from the path of a Von Karma.

An aside: Do I think AAI1 Bratworth was perfectly characterized? Not at all; he’s much too noble for that era of his life, though I don’t think it affects my case.

Edgeworth is a man full of contradictions. He comes to the defendant lobby to tell Phoenix his case is hopeless, though he has no obligation to disclose—nor has he ever set a precedent of disclosing—decisive witnesses’ information to his opponents.

He tells Phoenix he’ll do anything to get a guilty verdict, yet he warns the defense that his witness’s testimony will be considered infallible, prompting the player (Phoenix) to dissect the following testimonies with more care.

He tells Phoenix not to expect any special treatment from him, yet his very presence in the defendant’s lobby is in direct opposition to his respected mentor’s wishes.

It takes just one appearance from Phoenix for the filaments of von Karma’s indoctrination to unravel. 4 years into his career, Edgeworth has met many attorneys—most notably, Mia Fey—who embody Phoenix’s faith in his clients, yet none could shake his foundations like Phoenix Wright.

Edgeworth may have not been ready to turn a new leaf upon his first encounter with Phoenix, but the fact that a loose thread from his childhood (that’s emblematic of his innocence, his dreams, and dare I say his father’s drive) ultimately leads to his unraveling is poetry if I’ve ever seen it.

TL;DR Phoenix deconstructs Edgeworth like he was born to do so. The moment Phoenix decided to chase after him, Edgeworth had already lost.

[lonleyhumanbeing]

Random Mechanisms moments I love:

I refuse to listen to DotM so this is incomplete, and terribly formatted.

"Wasn't it the aristocratic one with all the knives?" "Ah yes, the Marquis de AlltheKnives,"

Ashes has a lot of gold on board, 'for tax purposes'.

Jonny "I got a prescription of 1/2 an ounce of lead to be injected directly into the brain. AND IT WASN'T A PRESCRIPTION FOR ME!" *bang* d'Ville.

The first time we canonically meet Jonny he commits patricide, murder, and arson.

The card taps in One Eyed Jack scratch my brain so well.

The fact that Oedipus is called a motherfucker. Multiple times.

Guinevere's verse in Blood and Whisky being faster, because she is the fastest draw.

Seriously I’ve listened to the song 50+ times and I still get so happy thinking about the faster tempo.

“We’re not pure of heart but we’re sure of aim,”. These three I swear.

All the Suits turning up in pinstripes.

The entirety of Gunpowder Tim vs. the Moon Kaiser. It's getting its own post, and I have listened to it 27 times since 12/03. That's 270 minutes, or 4.5 hours.

The dwarf Dopey just being General Tuco DOPED up on drugs.

The Toy Solider.

The fact that, even for a moment, love won in the end of High Noon Over Camelot.

How creepy Holder of the Grail is.

The Riddle of the Sphinx’s answer is man. The riddle of the sphinx virus was also man, taking the life force for themselves.

10 caliber= X-caliber= Excalibur.

The sellguns on Fort Galfridian are the same as freelances in medieval times.

Baldur was killed by Missle Two.

“Any window with a hammer can be an emergency exit”

Tim and Brian during the tea party in Alice.

The entirety of Alice, actually. I feel like it’s a hidden gem.

Lost in the Cosmos :(

In Drunk Space Pirate, Jonny calling himself first mate is the best way to show his character growth.

Ivy died in a library fire. Her last name is Alexandria. As in the Library of Alexandria. Which burned down.

Marius “mom says hi” von Raum in the UDAD live version of Favored Son.

Orpheus being called a borderline child in UDAD live show, but in the fiction he’s like 27.

Jonny playing the drums in the UDAD live show during Sirens. Very flamboyantly/pissily

Actea and Lyssa. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it discussed but it is one of my favorites. The vocals are so so good. And the fact that Actea thought that they were both running from the Hunter, only for Lyssa to be the thing she should have been running from.

The bass line in Cinder’s Song? So good.

Once you start to notice Ivy’s music in the back you can’t stop listening. I feel like it really pulls everything together.

“Also he fought a bear…” in Hereward the Wake. Such a random line and I love it.

All of Odin’s vocals in TBI. They really said “just do whatever.” And I’m thinking specifically of Odin and Ragnarok 2.

Seriously have you tried hitting the high notes in Ragnarok 2? Impossible.

How the hell did Brian get his prophetic powers? Both as the Hanged Man Merlin and in the City.

All of the live whistling is so impressive.

I just realized that Ulysses has their own motif in UDAD. It’s the piano from My Name is No-one and also repeats in ‘Olympians’ and Torn Suits at least.

I know it’s been mentioned but Lost in the Cosmos’ melody in the background of ‘The Tower’ is such a good foreshadowing moment.

Prometheus was punished for giving the people of Ilium a FIREwall. It’s so good it loops around to being bad.

The church bells in Gunfight at Dolores Guard signifying that it’s noon.

In the DTTM records by of Hellfire Jonny pauses right before ‘flock’. To gain control of the crowd, like a preacher would.

The Mechanisms are hated in-universe. So much. You can’t tell me that Lyf was the first Inspector to have to talk to them. The others probably all quit.

[dallyna]

omg i love this freaky pics series for ateez and we need san next!!🥹🧎🏻‍♀️

Freaky pics of San and what I think of them :

Also reguested by : @cloudysannie , @mortal-advocate , @zwr1tx and another anon ♡

Yunho ver (pt. 1) , Yunho ver (pt. 2) , Hongjoong ver , Seonghwa ver , Jongho ver , Yeosang ver , Mingi ver , Wooyoung ver

1. This man is so kinky. He loves it when you blindfold and use him, riding his cock and overstimulating him until he turns into a trembling, whimpering mess. Even though he can't take it anymore, he will still be a good boy for you, coming for you again and again until you finally have mercy on him and give him a break.

2. He gets weak in the knees whenever you touch his chest and abs. It always makes him shiver, goosebumps rising on his beautiful skin as he nuzzles into your neck, telling you keep touching him. You love to tease him by occasionally trailing your fingertips over his nipples, causing them to harden and for him to sink his teeth into your neck as if trying to silence any other sounds from escaping his lips.

3. Yep, he'll definitely crawl to you as you lay down in bed, naked and needy for him. He makes sure to keep his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine, his gaze heated, almost predatory, as if he’s closing in on his prey : you.

4. He hates it when you're not there to sit on his lap, feeling incomplete without you straddling his hips. Even on stage, his mind drifts to having you on his lap, whether innocently or teasingly squirming against him. Sometimes, when you approach, he looks up at you with big, puppy eyes from his seat, spreading his legs slightly, silently pleading for you to just sit on him.

[fanfiction-obsession]

An (incomplete) list of moments from the show in which Perry the Platypus was gay as fuck:

1. This outfit.

The colors. The shapes. The button down. The teeny-tiny cactus hat. Need I say more?

2. Signing off his text messages with a personalized platypus emoticon. (Not to mention the horrendous grammar.)

3. This.

3. The entire soap opera scene. Not because straight guys can enjoy soap operas (they can and they do) but because it takes a special breed of gay sass to change the channel ON YOUR BOSS just because he’s interrupting your self care time. Absolute cunt. A straight man could never.

4. Matter of fact, every single time he rolls his eyes at monogram.

5. Whatever the fuck this was. (Sometimes I still think I hallucinated it.)

6. The boomerang throwing sequence in primal Perry. Again, he just does it with such a tasteful amount of sass.

7. His coffee order in OWCA files (oolong tea). Actually, everybody’s coffee order in that episode was gay, but his was like, pretentious-scarf-sweater-coffeeshop gay in particular.

8. I was on the fence about this disguise but I think the pose sells it for me.

9. The “krkrkrkrkrkr” “yeah I know, what a dip right?” moment in Minor Monogram. (It’s giving judgmental gay so hard and I’m here for it.) (Also Vanessa is Bi and she and Perry would totally bond over that. We love a supportive parental figure.)

10. While we’re at it, the dramatic gasp at the end of minor monogram too.

11. The quote from Agent P’s guide to fighting evil in which it says that he enjoys “horseback rides and long walks on the beach.”

12. He sings opera

[imaginespazzi]

Part 11: Free Fall

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15

How many nights did you wish someone would stay? (Lie awake only hoping they're okay?)

(In which an angst writer makes her comeback in more ways than one)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Fluff if you squint?

Words: 8.0K

TW: Swearing (that's probably it?)

A/N: Hello my lovelies <3 Y'all are the sweetest people ever for being so patient with me but it's finally here! I'm hoping that I don't put y'all through this again but it is almost finals season so...fingers crossed. While you read this chapter, I'd like y'all to keep in mind how much you love me and how much y'all wanted a new chapter and of course my favorite phrase: for the plot! I tried to edit but I hate reading my own work back and so it's not as thorough as it should be and there's probably typos so lemme know. As always, let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see next. Have a lovely week my angels!

May 2025 

It’s her first ever WNBA game -Dallas Wings vs Washington Mystics- and the first thing Paige notices as she steps onto the court is that the two courtside seats right by the Mystics bench are empty. The sound of music streaming through the speakers clashes against the raucous crowds; the lights are dimmed and there’s a riveting thrum of energy swirling the arena in anticipation for a generational talent’s professional debut. Paige has spent the days leading up to her first game immersed in basketball. Since training camps, she hasn’t let herself think of anything except how to make sure the ball went through the hoops, how to make sure the person in front of her didn’t score, how to win. 

It’s easier that way. Because then she doesn’t have to think about how empty and cold her bed feels at night, doesn’t have to think about how much she craves to press call on a number she knows she should have blocked, doesn’t have to think about how the pieces of her shattered world are barely bound together by a tape of pretend. Paige can’t think of any of that and so she’s spent every second awake, clearing her head of all potential distractions and focusing on preparing for this moment. 

Except, the moment is here now. 

And all Paige can fixate on is the empty courtside seats. 

The memories come back to her in waves; the two of them in those seats, pressed together -as close as it could be acceptable for their façade of best friends to be- as they weaved dreams of it being their turn on the professional stage. If she listens closely, Paige swears that amidst the chaos, she can still hear the echo of a promise that had once been made casually in conversation. 

“When you play here for the first time, I’ll be right here cheering you on. Every single time.”

Another broken promise. 

The truth is that the last few weeks as much as it’s felt like Paige is walking on a carpet of roses, there have been countless sharp thorns woven through the petals. She’s tried to avoid them -focusing on what she had, instead of what she’d lost- but they’d found a way to perforate through her skin anyways. And Paige knows she’s bleeding but she can’t scream, so she swallows the pain away instead. Memories of the past are piercing her feet and it feels like she’s leaving a trail of it feels incomplete without you behind her as she navigates the journey through her present, stepping towards a future that would be nothing like the one she’d imagined when she’d been a naive girl sitting in those courtside seats. 

The courtside seats that are empty tonight. 

Really it’s exactly what she should’ve expected. And there’s something so final about this moment, like the last flicker of a candle that had burned in secret. Paige hadn’t even realized she was still holding out for something but as she drags her eyes away from the seats and towards her father and brother who are practically vibrating with pride, she can feel the tautness of the string that she’d held onto. Because she hasn't told them; hasn’t told anybody about the breakup. 

Something about vocalizing it had felt just a little too real and Paige had evaded any potential situation that would warrant her having to reveal the tirth. But it hits her now, looking at those damn empty seats that should've been -in another life would’ve been- filled by her other family, that the words she’d been too scared to say out loud -for fear of them being enshrined into reality- had already probably been spoken into existence by someone else. And it hits Paige now, that maybe she’s desperately holding onto a rope that has already been let go of. 

“You good Bueckers?” she whirls around to find Arike looking at her, eyebrows raised in concern. 

“I’m fine,” Paige lies; she’s gotten so incredibly good at that, “just thinking a lot of thoughts.”

Arike nods in understanding, “fair enough. But you got this dude,” she reaches out a hand to squeeze her rookie’s shoulder, “whatever you’re thinking, when you get on that court, none of it’s gonna matter. All that matters for 40 minutes is the game and that we come out of it with a win. You gonna help us win Paige?”

“That’s the fucking plan,” Paige smirks, earning her a matching one from Arike before the shooting guard saunters onto the court, ready for tip-off.

All that matters is the game. 

Paige sucks in a deep breath, letting herself look over at the courtside seats one more time. This is her reality now. There’s no point in waiting for a regretful phone call or a surprise midnight knock on her door because it’s not going to happen. She feels a sense of hollowed acceptance as she finally turns away from the seats, plastering on a confident smile as she takes her place in the Dallas Wings starting five. And Paige is faced with the same truth that she’d learned at a far too young age; that people would leave her but the game never would. 

***

Dallas wins the game by 17 points. Paige’s statline is 21 points, 6 rebounds and 8 assists with 2 steals and a block. It’s a respectable statement from the rookie and her teammates are overjoyed. She’s surrounded by them as they celebrate winning their first game of the season and there’s a sense of hopeful excitement about how the rest of the season could go. Her eyes go over the top of them to find the cute Dallas local reporter that Paige had befriended shooting her a congratulatory wink and she blushes a little bit, looking away bashfully. In the distance, Paige can make out a small crowd of people decked in custom Wings #5 jersey, whistling in excitement. Despite the home fans, their celebration still echoes around the stadium and the loudest cheer comes from her brother who stands next to her father, both of them beaming with pride. And It’s almost enough to prevent her eyes from wandering back to the empty courtside seats. Almost. 

***

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. With the quick transition from the college season into the draft, Paige hadn’t had found time to go home inbetween. And so when the Wings had been making hotel arrangements for DC, she’d opted to stay with her dad and Drew in Maryland instead. But as she stands in the doorway to her bedroom, staring at a wall filled with pictures that are an ode to the past - collages that are practically a shrine to her broken relationship- Paige finds herself longing for the cold, unfeeling exterior of a foreign hotel room. 

Paige’s life can be split into two parts. There’s the Before Azzi and then there’s the With Azzi. And the truth is that there isn’t much from the Before Azzi left in Paige’s life. Every inch of her current life has been touched by the brunette, illuminated by her presence and now, it’s tainted by her absence. Especially in Maryland. Since she’d met the Virginia native, the DMV area had always been synonymous with the Fudds for Paige and she can’t remember a time when she’d been here -when she’d been in this bedroom- and not had plans to see them- to see Azzi. 

She takes a hesitant step inside, eyes gliding over each photograph and it’s like she’s being transported through time. The memories are as vivid as ever, bursting with color as they ellipse her mind. Paige can picture every moment like she’d lived it yesterday. She can still hear their laughter echoing through the air, can feel the softness of their hands -their bodies- brushing against each other, can still taste the lingering sweetness of their lips meeting halfway as they breathed silent promises against each other’s skin. 

A silent sob wracks through Paige’s body as she brushes her fingers over the most recent image of them from December -the last photograph she’d had time to print out. It’s one that Drew had taken of them in the kitchen- Paige propped up on the counter and Azzi in between her legs, one hand on the counter with the other resting right against Paige’s heart. Neither of them had even noticed the little boy, too wrapped up in each other; they were in their own world like they often had been. Azzi’s head is thrown back in laughter -probably at some ridiculous joke her girlfriend had cracked- and Paige has that goofy - just for Azzi- grin on her face as she gazes at the brunette with nothing but adoration. 

The picture is from barely six months ago but they look so young to Paige, so innocent, so naive, so fucking happy, so completely unaware that in a couple of months, one hesitantly spoken word would dissolve that happiness into a puddle of rubble. 

No. 

She thinks that one simple word is destined to echo through her ears, like that unpleasant screech of nails scratching against a chalkboard, for as long as she still has the ability to hear. Paige hadn’t even really heard it at first; it had been said so softly, so quietly, so brokenly and she’d barely seen Azzi’s lips move. For the briefest moment she’d tricked her mind into believing it was just the sound of the wind around them. But then there it was again. 

Louder. 

Stronger. 

No.

Paige’s hands instinctively clasp around her ears, fingers tangling tightly through her blond hair, because she can still fucking hear it. Here in this bedroom, where every corner still holds a little part of Azzi -holds a little part of them- the sting of rejection is louder than it’s been since it had first hit. Because it’s not just the pictures. It’s all the little pieces of them they’d left scattered over Christmas break, thinking they’d come back to it together.

 It’s a set of Azzi’s earrings -one Paige vaguely remembers picking out for her when they’d gone shopping a couple of weeks before- placed delicately on Paige’s dresser. It’s the pink sweater -that neither of them are sure who it originally belongs to but like most of their clothes, is basically a shared item at this point- haphazardly thrown over a chair. It’s that stupid book they’d started reading together -Paige lying across her girlfriend’s lap, toying with her curls as Azzi read the story out loud- still lying on the nightstand, waiting to be finished. 

Despite being alone in her room, Paige finds herself rapidly shaking her head. Because she can’t do this. Can’t spend a night in this room that had barely ever been just hers, had always felt more like theirs. She can’t sleep on that bed, no when her last memory of it is being tangled in the sheets with Azzi on a cold wintry morning, their legs intertwined with each other as they’d giggled to themselves in between languid lazy kisses. And maybe it’s pathetic of her but she can’t find it in herself to unmake the bed, not when her last memory of the two of them in this room is her leaning against the wall, shamelessly checking out her girlfriend as Azzi neatly made the bed, chiding Paige for the nth time on the importance of tidiness. 

“When are you gonna learn how to make your bed,” Azzi had sighed. 

Grinning, Paige had wrapped her arms around her girlfriend from behind, slotting her face into the crevice of Azzi’s neck and brushing her lips against the patch of skin, “I know how to make my bed. I just never have to because I’ll always have you to do it for me.”

Except for the last few weeks, Paige has had to make her own bed and she fucking hates it. 

Breathing sharply, Paige slowly backs out of her bedroom, gently pulling the door shut. She leans her forehead against the cool mahogany frame, trying to calm herself down. There’s been a nonstop dull ache in her chest since that night but tonight feels different, like the cold hands of the past have managed to dig under her ribcage and squeeze her heart  -something sharp digging into her arteries- so hard that it hurts just to exist. Paige gives herself a couple more seconds, creating half-moons as she digs her nails into her palms, before she finally pulls away from the door, heading towards her brother’s room down the hall. 

“You know you really should start knocking before you come into my room,” Drew says with a mock annoyance that’s betrayed by his large grin, as Paige slips into his room, “I’m almost a teenager.”

Despite the heaviness that’s still lingering between her lungs, Paige suddenly finds it a lot easier to breathe. Her little brother’s bedroom is dark, save for red LED lights and dim glow of the TV. Drew is reclined on his bed, gripping a white gaming controller between his hands. 

“You’re always gonna be a baby to me Drewski,” she teases, stepping towards him to ruffle his hair, laughing when he ducks her hand and shoots her an irritated glare in response. 

“Not the hair,” he whines and then groans as his eyes flicker back to the screen, towards the game he'd been playing, “damnit Paigey you just got me killed.”

“Hey hey hey, don’t blame me for your incompetence,” Paige chides. 

Drew rolls his eyes, before reaching over to hand over the other controller, “you wanna play?”

Paige shakes her head, gently pushing his hand away, “nah I just-” she chews at her bottom lip, shuffling her feet with uncharacteristic nervousness, “I was just uh- just wondering if I could stay in here tonight? We could have a sleepover? Like old times? Just you and me.”

It’s heartwarming the way her little bother’s eyes light up -like he’s still the little boy that used to fit perfectly in Paige’s arms, not almost a teenager who’ll eventually be taller than her- as he nods excitedly, scooching over to give his older sister space on his bed. Paige crawls gingerly onto the bed, hesitating for a second, before she lays her head on her brother’s lap, curling into herself. Drew is warm and inviting and familiar and for a second she almost forgets that serrated pain shooting through her nerves. But then it all comes rushing back and Paige has to swallow harshly to keep herself from giving into the fresh new set of tears that are re-emerging on her waterline. 

“Paigey,” Drew whispers softly as he runs his finger through her delicate blonde hair, clearly sensing something’s wrong, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine Drew,” she means to keep her voice strong but it comes out as broken as she feels. 

“Paigey,” the little boy’s voice is more worried now, “should I call Azzi?” 

This time the whimper escapes before Paige can stop it as she tightly closes her eyes. She knows her brother means well; knows that Drew doesn’t really remember Paige without Azzi- doesn’t remember a time before his sister knew how to heal without the brunette’s touch. He’d watched Paige celebrate all her victories with Azzi and he’d seen the same girl hold his sister in all her tragedies, putting her back together every time she broke with promises of you’ll have always have me. From the moment Drew was old enough to understand his sister’s feelings, he was also perceptive enough to understand that Azzi was always what she needed, no matter how she was feeling. And it’s still true, Paige thinks; she wants nothing more than to say yes, wants nothing more than for Drew to call Azzi, so Paige can tell her how much she fucking misses her- how much she fucking needs her. 

Perhaps it's pride or maybe it’s fear, but Paige doesn’t say what she wants. Instead she vigorously shakes her head in her brother’s lap, “n-no it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s late and Azzi’s busy-”

“Azzi’s never too busy for you,” Drew says indignantly, “I’m gonna call her.”

“Drew stop,” Paige’s voice is much firmer this time as she wraps a strong arm around her little brother’s knee, stopping him from moving, “we’re not calling Azzi.”

She could tell him now. After all, she’s going to have to when he inevitably asks why he hasn’t seen Azzi -why he hasn’t seen the girl who’s been a part of his life for more than half of it- in so long. But even though the words sit scratchily on the tip of her tongue, she still isn’t quite ready to spit them out; isn’t quite ready to confront reality. 

“Why not,” petulance coats Drew’s tone. 

“Because I’m fine and I don’t need- I don’t want to talk to her,” Paige lies. 

The little boy scoffs, “you always want to talk to her.”

He doesn’t know the way that simple sentence turns the cracked pieces of Paige’s heart into dust as she tightens her grips on his leg, “Drew please- please just let it go.”

“Why,” Drew argues stubbornly, “why can’t we call her.”

“We just-” Paige’s voice breaks, as she scrambles to wipe her tears before they can wet her little brother’s shirt, “we just can’t okay?”

And there must be something in her voice -the anguish that no amount of trying is able to hide- that Drew pieces together to understand that this isn’t a battle he can win, no matter how much he and Paige might both want him to. The young boy slowly droops his body back to its reclining position, his fingers returning back to Paige’s hair as he begins to stroke her head again. 

“It’s gonna be okay Paigey,” he whispers with all the hopeful innocence of a blissfully naive little boy, “everything gonna be okay.”

And god does Paige want to believe him. But the courtside seats were empty tonight. And she’s in the DMV with no plans to see the Fudds- to see Azzi. And she’ll never know the ending to that stupid book on her bedside table. 

She wants to believe Drew but Paige isn’t sure how anything’s ever going to be okay again. 

***

May 2033 

It should be a joyful moment -the three most important people in her life congregating together- but instead as Paige quietly observes the scene in her living room -Drew silently seething, Azzi fidgeting nervously with her thumbs and Stephie babbling away amidst it all- she feels suffocated by this heavy gray cloud of apprehension lingering above her head. If she’s honest with herself, she’s been on edge for a couple of days now, since training camp had begun to be precise. Since she’d moved to the Bay Area, everything else in Paige’s world had been eclipsed by Azzi and Stephie. The mother-daughter duo were all-consuming and if she’s honest with herself, Paige had been more than happy to let her thoughts -and her heart- be consumed by nothing but the two of them. 

It had been so easy to forget everything else and the tentative verbal three-way deal she technically had with the Valkyries and the Liberty had pretty much ceased to exist in her thoughts. That is until Angie Davis -the lynchpin in this agreement- had been selected, just as everyone had predicted, to the Valkyries. The Stanford PG had shown up to training camp with a shy smile and an eagerness to learn that all the rest of the vets on the team had warmly embraced. But all Paige saw in the girl was the ticking time bomb of a decision she’d forgotten she’d have to make. And it isn’t just the reminder of the decision that has Paige feeling at unease; it’s why she has to make this decision in the first place, the reason behind why she’d agreed to this deal in the first play, why she’d been so adamant for Talia to make sure she didn’t get stuck here. 

Eight years ago, Azzi Fudd had broken her heart and Paige has spent every moment since, trying to collect the shattered pieces and reassemble them. 

And the last thing Paige had wanted to do was give Azzi the hammer to smash her barely fixed heart again. 

That’s what it had felt like when Talia had first brought up the Valkyries offer. It wasn’t that she and Azzi hadn’t been in each other’s orbit the last couple of years -it was impossible not to- but since the breakup, they’d never been around each other long enough, never quite been in the right situations, for that opportunity to present itself again. But Paige had known that if she came to the Valkyries, it would be an inevitability. That belief had only been strengthened the day she’d visited the Bay Area. She’d been adamant from the second she’d gotten on the flight that she couldn’t be persuaded to join Golden State, no matter how much she respected the organization and how well she’d fit into their system; no matter how much she adored the city and its love for her favorite sport.

But then she’d met a little girl who had an identical smile to the one that had held her captive since she was fifteen and barely knew what love was. And if Stephie with her doe-eyed wisdom that Paige would look great in purple wasn’t enough, then there was Azzi. Paige had expected Azzi to tell her to decline the offer. In a way that’s what she wanted; the masochistic need to feel the sting of that rejection again so she wouldn’t be tempted to burn herself in the fire again. But the brunette had done the opposite and Paige had known by just how quick her resolve had succumbed, that she’d been right to fear the inevitability. And it was that fear that had prompted the verbal agreement with the Liberty; an escape plan she’d forgotten she’d devised. 

Because escaping had been the last thing on Paige’s mind the last few weeks. 

All of Paige’s fears and apprehension had seemed to take a backseat the moment Azzi had smiled -hesitant but real- and said she was ready to try, the moment Stephie’s tiny hands had fit perfectly into her own. 

But she can feel it all coming back now, bubbling to the surface and threatening to spill over like lava, wiping out this paradise she’s been in with Stephie and Azzi. It had started with the reminder of the Liberty deal but it’s Drew’s presence -his scowl directed at Azzi that feels like one of a brother still betrayed on his sister’s behalf- that had heightened it. Her little brother’s anger, and the genuine hurt that lingers behind it, feels like a dark reminder of Paige’s own heartbreak. 

Suddenly she feels like she’s 23, playing her first WNBA game and instead of celebrating a solid debut, she’s sobbing in her little brother’s lap over the girl who had walked away. 

“Miss Buecks,” Paige looks down to find Stephie crawling into her lap, “are we ready to order the pizza now?”

The little girl’s arms wrapping around her neck eases some of Paige’s discomfort as she smiles down at Stephie. 

“I’ve been ready for ages. You were the one yapping away,” she teases. 

Stephie pouts, “I don’t yap,” she turns her body towards Azzi, “Mama I don’t yap do I?”

Azzi’s own tense body seems to relax a little as she smirks at the two of them, “you definitely yap Stephie-”

“Mama,” Stephie protests, looking betrayed. 

“But not nearly as much as your Miss Buecks yaps,” Azzi’s eyes twinkle with mirth as Paige splutters, jaw dropping open with mock offense, “between the two of you, it’s a miracle my poor ears haven’t fallen off.”

“Just for that I’m not adding veggies to the pizza,” Paige sticks her tongue out, causing Stephie to giggle and Azzi to roll her eyes at the display of immaturity. 

Paige slips out her phone, pulling up their usual pizza place on doordash and quickly plugs in her memorized orders for everyone in the room as Stephie gets herself comfortable on the blonde’s lap. The five-year old leans her head back against Paige’s chest, who instinctively wraps her free hand around Stephie’s waist, keeping her securely in place. 

“So uncle Drew,” Stephie says with a grin, slightly leaning forward as she addresses the man sitting rigidly on the edge of the sofa, “did Miss Buecks yap a lot when she was younger too.”

“Be careful how you answer that,” Paige warns with a good natured glare in her brother’s direction, trying to lighten his mood. 

It works to an extent as a small smirk slips onto the edges of Drew’s lip, “oh she was a chronic yapper.”

“What does che-ronic mean?” Stephie asks, scrunching her nose in confusion.

Drew laughs, eyes glittering with mischief, “it means she didn’t know when to shut up.”

“Drew Thomas,” Paige guffaws, “you’re supposed to be my little brother, protecting your older sister’s honor and all of that.”

“Hey,” Drew raises his hand in surrender, “my older sister taught me to never lie, especially not to children.”

“Did you really talk that much?” Stephie asks, turning to Paige with wide eyes. 

“Don’t listen to him Stephie-bean,” the blonde says, brushing her hands through Stephie’s curls, “it’s all bullsh-”

“Paige,” Azzi hisses immediately as the older woman bites her lip to stop the curse word from escaping. 

“Bullsharks,” Paige amends, “fake news. False advertising. I was a calm and quiet kid for sure.”

Drew snorts, leaning back into the sofa and Paige lets out a soft sigh of relief at seeing her brother relax. Her eyes flicker over to Azzi, feeling a sense of calmness when she sees the younger girl’s nervous fidgeting has stilled and there’s a tentative smile on her face. 

 “You weren’t calm or quiet,” he says pointedly. 

“Was too,” Paige argues stubbornly. 

“Yes you were,” Drew presses, “Stephie if you don’t believe me, ask your Mama,” he turns to Azzi, “tell her Azzi. She literally yapped your ear off into becoming your friend.”

Azzi blanches, clearly shocked at having been so cavalierly addressed, and even Paige is a little surprised by the expectant “agree with me look” that Drew is giving the brunette after having spent the last moments practically glaring at her. But really it probably shouldn’t be that surprising. Because Drew and Paige are cut from the same material and letting Azzi into the folds seems to just come naturally to both of them. And it’s so familiar to when they’d all been years and years younger -two college students and a little boy - so familiar to the countless nights spent in Minnesota and DC and Connecticut where several silly arguments like this between Paige and Drew had ultimately ended with them both turning to Azzi -the forever moderator- in hopes that she’d side with them. 

She’d always sided with Drew -much to Paige’s chagrin, though she’d been secretly enamored by the relationship between her girlfriend and her brother- and this time is no different as Azzi shakes off the shock, replacing it with a cheeky expression. 

“Didn’t shut up for 14 whole hours,” she laments, her voice filled with teasing but she smiles at the blonde as if she’s reminiscing it, reminiscing the moment that began it all for them and Paige can’t help the hopelessly sappy smile she gives her in return. 

“14 hours? You talked for 14 whole hours, Miss Buecks?” Stephie’s eyes are comically large as she echoes the number. 

“Of course not,” Paige defends, eyebrows creasing as she glares at the other two adults in the room, “this is bullying. Stephie,” she whines, nuzzling her head into the little girl’s neck, “they’re ganging up on me.”

“There there Miss Buecks,” Stephie says diligently as she pats at the older woman’s cheek. 

“We’re just telling the truth,” Drew shrugs. 

“Exactly,” Azzi nods solemnly, “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

She grins, reaching her hand out for a high five and Paige watches as Drew raises his own hand, ready to reciprocate. For a second it feels like everything is coming together; like the past could just stay in the past. But then he stops midair. The easy smile fades from his face and the previous tautness comes rushing back. He pulls his hand back, turning away from Azzi, who’s face slowly falls back. The lightheartedness from mere seconds ago is replaced by the tension from before and that burden of all that’s happened between us returns as a heavy weight pressed against Paige’s heart. 

“Paigey used to yap a lot,” Drew says slowly, “like I said you couldn’t get her to shut up and then one day,” he pauses, angry eyes darting towards Azzi, “one day she just got quiet- she shut up- she stopped yapping all the time.”

“Why?” Stephie asks softly, her tone a mixture of concern and genuine curiosity. 

Paige’s arm tightens around the little girl in her lap as she shoots her brother a pleading look, “Drew-”

“Because someone-” there’s so much venom in the word that it makes Azzi visibly flinch and Paige wants to soothe away the creases forming in her forehead, “someone broke her heart. And it took years- it took years to get her back to normal, to get her yapping again. To get my sister back to who she was.”

There’s pindrop silence as Drew seethes at his own words and Azzi rapidly blinks back tears, until Stephie turns around in Paige’s lap, tiny hands cupping the blonde’s face as she tries not to let her emotions show in front of the little girl. 

“Someone broke your heart?” Stephie looks so upset by the idea that Paige wants to vehemently deny it, “how could anyone break your heart Miss Buecks?”

She means well -just a child concerned for one of her favorite people- but she has no idea of the dagger she’s just twisted in her own mother’s heart as a faint whimper escapes Azzi’s lips. Paige opens and closes her mouth, hopelessly looking at the brunette who’s digging her fist into the sofa, despair embedded all over her face. 

“Stephie-” Paige tries to say. 

“Don’t worry kid,” Drew cuts in instead, his voice steady and firm, “it happened once but I won’t-” his eyes burn with fire as he looks at Azzi, “I won’t let it happen again.”

“Stephie,” Paige says quietly after a moment, her gaze transfixed on Azzi whose doing her absolute best not to let her emotions show in front of her little girl, “sweetheart how ‘bout you show Uncle Drew around the house.”

“I don’t want to see the house,” Drew says petulantly as he stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest

“Yes. You. Do.” Paige grits out, trying not to curse when her younger brother rolls his eyes at her. 

“C’mon Uncle Drew,” Stephie says cheerfully as she slips off of Paige’s lap and reaches a hand out for the man instead, “Miss Buecks has a really cool house and maybe we can go steal some of her cool clothes.”

Drew sighs but he’s not immune to Stephie’s infectious energy. A hint of a grin sneaks through the cracks as he accepts the little girl’s offer. Stephie starts to pull him towards the staircase but the perceptive girl stops for a second in front of her mother, a cautious look on her face as Azzi musters up a grin to mollify the little girl's concern and Drew adamantly averts looking at the other woman. 

“Go on bean,” Azzi urges softly, keeping her shaky voice under control, “go show him the house.”

Stephie nods before gently pressing her lips against Azzi’s cheeks, eliciting a deep breath from her mother, before she practically drags Drew towards the staircase, already speaking a mile per minute.  

There’s a pause, filled with a combination of the quiet rumble of Stephie blabbering upstairs and Azzi’s uneven breathing. Then the tears that the brunette had been trying so hard to barricade behind her eyelids starts cascading down her cheeks and Paige almost trips on her own feet as she moves towards her. She falls to her knees in front of Azzi, gently brushing her against her cheek, before wrapping her hands around her tightly formed fists. 

“Baby don’t cry. Please I hate it when you cry,” Paige whispers softly, pressing her forehead against Azzi’s, “he’s just-”

“He’s right,” Azzi cuts her off, shaking her head. 

“Az-”

“He hates me-”

“He doesn’t-”

“He does,” Azzi presses, her tears falling faster now, “and he should. Paige I did break your heart,” they both flinch at the blunt statement, “and he doesn’t trust me because of it and he hasn’t forgiven me for it. I haven’t forgiven me for it.”

“Baby,” Paige echoes again, unsure what else to say. 

“Have you forgiven me?” 

The question lingers in the air as Azzi looks expectantly at her and Paige stumbles over her words, trying to find the right ones. She doesn’t really know how to answer the questions; hadn’t been expecting to be confronted with it tonight. Paige wants to say yes; she wants to take away Azzi’s guilt so fucking bad. These last few weeks had been so perfect, Paige had convinced herself she was over what had happened almost a decade ago. But if she’s honest with herself -if she’s honest to the memories of every night she’d spent sobbing into her pillows, missing the girl in front of her and resenting her for walking away- Paige doesn’t really know if she has forgiven Azzi. 

“Paige?” Azzi ask again, her voice breaking on the one syllable. 

Paige’s face crumbles as she looks at the girl defenselessly, “ Az, I-”

The doorbell rings at the exact moment and Stephie comes excitedly barrelling down the staircase as the two women scramble away from each other, trying to compose themselves. 

“Miss Buecks, Mama,” the younger girl hollers, “pizza’s here.”

Paige looks at Azzi who’s rushing to wipe away the remnants of her tears. She opens her mouth, desperately willing herself to find something, anything that could offer the girl in front of her some comfort; that could take their relationship away from the precipice of this cliff they’ve somehow found themselves on. But the right words don’t materialize and instead Paige closes her mouth and turns away, slowly heading towards Stephie as Azzi’s question continues to wreak havoc in her mind. 

And she wishes she could rewind the clock and freeze them where they had been just a couple of hours ago, freeze them in a moment where the past hadn’t weighed so heavily on the present. But perhaps the past had always been there and they’d simply just done a marvelous job ignoring it. Except tonight, they can’t seem to ignore it anymore. 

***

Paige thinks pizza has never tasted so terrible in her life. The mood at her basically unused dining table is numbingly sober; even Stephie has stopped her chatter, the little girl clearly picking up on the tense atmosphere around her as she quietly nibbles away at her slice of pizza. It’s in stark contrast to the innumerable dinners they’d had in the last three weeks; the three of them -Paige, Azzi and Stephie in between them- at the table or the counter or sometimes even the couch, raucous with laughter and smiles. Paige doesn’t understand how moments can shift like this; how last night could have been filled with giggles and grins and tonight is filled with nothing but a silence filled with too many unspoken words.

Her eyes flicker over to Azzi, who’s making a concerted effort to keep her own everted from both Bueckers siblings. The brunette’s question from before feels like a loud horn blaring in Paige’s ears, one that she can’t seem to find the off-switch for no matter how hard she searches for it. They’re barely a couple feet apart, sitting opposite each other with Drew next to Paige and Stephie next to Azzi, but the width of the table feels like it stretches for miles. Paige misses the warmth of Azzi’s body pressed against hers, misses the sly brush of their hands before their fingers would inevitably curl around each other’s underneath the table where Stephie couldn’t see. 

“Miss Buecks,” Paige swallows, trying to shake off the feeling of is this us crumbling again, as she diverts attention to Stephie who’s smiling at her with that cheeky grin that means she wants something. 

“What’s up Stephie-bean?” Paige asks and she’s convinced there’s magic in the little girl’s existence because despite the tightness she still feels in her chest, having Stephie close feels like a reason for her to breathe through it. 

“Can I have a soda?” Stephie asks, using the palm of her hands to frame her slightly tilted face as she juts out her bottom lip in a pleading. 

Paige grins, ready to concede as she often is with the little girl but Azzi speaks first, “no soda Stephie.”

Stephie pouts, “why not?”

“Because I said so,” Azzi says bluntly and Paige is taken back by the sharpness of it. 

“Mama please,” Stephie begs, “please, please, please.”

“No Stephie,” there’s a warning edge to Azzi’s tone but Stephie doesn’t pay much heed to it continuing to plead and the irritation on her mother’s face -clearly exacerbated by other things- gets more and more apparent. 

“Please Mama. Pizza just doesn’t go down right without soda,” the little girl argues, “can I please just have a little bit. Just a teeny tiny bit Please, please pretty please please-”

“Stephie, no” Azzi repeats, pinching the bridge of her nose as Drew and Paige exchange nervous glances. 

“Stephie, yes,” the little girl argues, stubbornly crossing her hands over her chest. 

“Ste-”

“I want soda. I want soda. Please, please, please, plea-”

“I said no Stephanie,” Azzi all but yells, startling Stephie into being quiet and making both Drew and Paige flinch. The little girl is wide-eyed for a second -not used to anything but her mother’s normally gentle way of dealing with her occasional brattiness- before her lips begin to tremble and big fat tears begin to spill down her cheeks. She scrambles out of her chair, beelining towards Paige and climbing onto her lap as she burrows her face into the blonde’s neck, wetting her shirt with tears. 

“Shhh, shhh sweetheart it’s okay,” Paige whispers to the little girl, gently rocking the two of them back and forth as she strokes her hair. 

She glances at Azzi, who’s adamantly looking, her face stone cold but regret gleaming in her eyes, “Az-”

“No,” the younger woman says immediately. 

“C’mon,” Paige says exasperatedly, “you don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“If it’s about giving her a soda, I don’t wanna hear it,” Azzi warns, “you can’t just give into all of her demands all the time, you have to learn to say no and she needs to learn to hear it.”

“I hear you but Az it’s a Friday-”

“Paige-”

“A tiny bit of soda to start the weekend can’t hurt. In fact,” Paige smirks down at the little girl in her lap as she coaxes Stephie’s face out of her neck so she can wipe away the tears on her blotchy red face, “I think a little soda to start the weekend is probably good for you.”

She feels her heart soar when it makes Stephie giggle, letting out a couple teary hiccoughs in between as she clutches onto Paige. 

“I think so too Mama,” the little girl echoes, looking back at her mother with a timid grin. 

“Give in Azzi,” Paige matches the pleading smile on Stephie’s face as she turns her focus onto the brunette, “she deserves a little treat 

“I know what she deserves. I think I know what’s good for my daughter,” Azzi says steely and Paige feels something cold squeezing through her ribcage, “no soda Stephie. End of discussion.”

My daughter. 

The thing is Paige doesn’t even really think she has the right to be upset over Azzi’s statements. Really, it’s nothing but the truth. Stephie is Azzi’s daughter and Azzi definitely knows what’s good for her daughter. So why does it sting like this? Why does it feel like little shards of ice piercing into her heart, leaving deep gashes that have her whole body feeling like it’s freezing over? Paige knows why, knows that these past weeks had been enough to trick her mind into believing the mirage that Stephie was hers. But now Azzi’s flicked her fingers against it causing the whole fantasy to come crashing down and Paige feels herself slowly getting buried under the rubble of it. 

“Right," she says softly, trying to keep her voice steady, “she’s your daughter and you know best,” she ignores the tinge of guilt in Azzi’s eyes as she turns to Stephie who looks like she’s ready to protest again, “you heard your Mama Stephie. No soda tonight.”

“But Miss Buecks-” Stephie whines. 

“No sweetheart,” Paige says gently, shaking her head. 

The little girl narrows her eyes before letting out a frustrated groan as she slips off of Paige’s lap. She loudly stomps her feet, glaring at all the adults in the room before she angrily storms upstairs. It’s so unlike the usually even-keeled little girl that Paige thinks it’s probably a reaction to the tension she can sense between the adults. Her eyes drift over Drew -who’s chewing at his lips in a similar manner to how his big sister often does- before locking with Azzi’s and she feels that familiar guilt of there’s always collateral damage for our mistakes pooling at the pit of her stomach. The brunette breaks eye contact first, letting out a heavy sigh before she follows behind her daughter and Paige lets her face fall into her hands, 

It feels like everything’s in free fall, like during an earthquake when everything shakes and the books -the complicatedly tangled stories of the past and present- go flying from their shelves. Paige rubs at her eyelids, trying to make this helpless feeling go away. Her fingers are coiled tightly around a rope, just like they had been on that night eight years ago and just like that night, she can feel the tips of them starting to bleed. She can feel Drew’s gaze fixated on her; can tell he’s contemplating whether to say something or not. Swallowing, Paige pulls her face out of her palms to look at her brother, a decisively defiant expression on her face. 

“Something you wanna say?” she asks him, cocking her eyebrows as if she’s daring him to speak. 

Drew hesitates for a second before an almost identical expression crosses his face, “what the fuck are you doing Paige?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paige replies airly. 

Drew narrows his eyes at her, “seriously?”

“Seriously,” Paige shrugs. 

“This was supposed to be a temporary arrangement Paige,” Drew says, ignoring the way his sister flinches at the reminder as he drops his voice lower so they can’t be overheard, “you were supposed to be with Golden State for one season, hopefully win a championship and then you’d be off to New York at the end. That was the plan but clearly all of that has gone flying out the window. You’re getting attached to this city, this life, to them.” 

A barely believable “of course I’m not,” flutters weakly off of Paige’s lip as she blinks rapidly at the accusation. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Drew curses, “Paige your bed looks like it hasn’t been slept in, in days. There’s almost no groceries in your fridge or your pantry. From what I saw of the garden, it’s basically been left for dead. Your closet is half empty and it sure as shit isn’t because they’re all in the laundry because as Stephie puts it, Azzi says that their laundry basket is three times heavier than it used to be with all your clothes.”

“I-I don’t-” Paige stutters, “that- that doesn’t- doesn’t mean-”

“It’s been two months -if even that- two months Paige and I think you're in even deeper now than you were the last time,” Drew spits the last two words out bitterly like their flames on the tip of his tongue and the sparks of it singe Paige’s skin. 

“That’s not- I’m not-” she tries to justify but it sounds hollow to her own ears. 

“You are,” Drew says exasperatedly, “what are you gonna do when she walks away again? When she lets you go again, what are you gonna do Paige?”

Her little brother isn’t cruel but Paige swears she’s never heard anything more aimed to hurt than these perfectly directed arrows he’s launching straight at her heart. The defense of she’s not going to leave me stays stuck in her throats, battling against the harsh thoughts of she already has that are taunting her. 

“She- I- you- this- I don’t- you can’t-” Paige doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say; she feels like a fish spluttering outside of the water, desperate to breathe air that seems to kill her the more she inhales it. 

Drew looks away, his face crumpling slightly, a mixture of sadness and guilt gleaming in his eyes, and Paige can tell that he hates himself a little for being the one to cause her this torment, the one to make her face the darkest possibility of her reality. 

“I was there Paige,” he says softly, “I was the one who watched you break in ways that I didn’t even think you were breakable,” his voice snaps, “and I was the one who watched how hard you had to work to put yourself back together. I don’t wanna see any of that again.”

“Drew,” Paige whispers. 

“And it wasn’t just her,” Drew continues, “you lost her family too.”

Paige gulps at the reminder, “they were still there. They came to games. They were at my wedding.”

Drew shakes his head, “but it wasn’t the same and you know it. You lost her and you lost them and this time,” he bites his lip, like he wishes the next words weren’t sitting on his vocal chords, waiting to spill out, “this time, if you lose her, you’ll lose a lot more.”

“What do you-” Paige heistates, unsure if she even wants to ask, “what do you mean?”

Her little brother pauses, mouth opening and closing like it’s painful to speak, before his eyes drift towards the stairs and Paige feels her heart sinking even before Drew says the words she knows he’s about to say. 

“You’ll lose her daughter. You’ll lose Stephie.”

“No,” the whispered syllable is out before Paige can even stop it, “no, no, no, no-”

“Paige-”

“Stop it Drew,” the blonde says louder than she wanted to as she clutches at her heart, trying to keep it whole as the tears overflow over her waterline. 

“Stop what Paige? Stop saying things you already know deep down but are choosing to ignore? Is that what you want me to stop doing?” Drew asks harshly. 

“Drew-”

“There’s a reason you didn’t want to commit to the Valkyries and you know it. There’s a reason you only wanted to be here for this season.” her younger brother says firmly. 

“I know,” Paige whispers, “I know.”

Drew’s eyes soften, “stick to plan Paige. Let the Liberty be the end goal. You’ll be in New York by the end of October.”

Paige bites her lip so hard, she can taste that morbid taste of iron on her lips as she opens her mouth to say something. She’s not sure if it’s to argue with Drew or to agree and she doesn’t get a chance to find out. Instead there’s a sharp intake of breath and then a quiet, timid voice laced with accusation and Paige feels the blood drain out of her body as she slowly turns around to find Stephie and Azzi -their faces ashen with identical expressions of betrayal- staring at her. 

“Miss Buecks, you’re moving to New York?”

[cynireth-thorne]

『Melting Point pt.2』

❀⊱ Pairing: Zayne x Reader (afab)

❀⊱ Summary: You just gave him a bj for the first time, he pays back double.

❀⊱ Tags: Oral sex, unprotected sex, mating press, creampie.

[NSFW Under the cut minors do not interact please]

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

°˖➴ 「Part 1 here」 ₊ ⊹

"Feeling better?" You ask, feeling cheeky as you raise from your spot and sit beside him on the couch.

"Mmm... your treatment does seem to be effective" he ponders as he leans down and kicks off his shoes and pants "But it's... incomplete"

"Oh? How so?" You shyly ask, suddenly feeling slightly insecure, you thought he liked it, maybe it was just ok? You were careful and let him set the pace so what did you miss?

"There's a few things..." he slowly closes the distance between you, carefully guiding you to lay back on the couch with his naked form above your fully clothed one "We can start with returning the favor, as for the rest, I believe you are far too dressed for all the things I will do to you later"

Oh...

Zayne leans in to capture your lips, tasting himself as he brushes his tongue against yours, his hands slowly move up your body tracing your thighs and hips before sliding under your shirt making you gasp at the cool sensation of his touch. Zayne moves to plant soft kisses on your neck as his hands move to lift your shirt up your head and to palm your breasts through your bra, leaning down to kiss your collarbone.

"Did you think I'd let you do that and then just... watch a movie?" He mutters into your skin as moves one of his hands to graze your nipple though the fabric of your bra while the other slides under the waistband of your pants to gently caress your still clothed core through your underwear, he can already feel how wet you are as he uses his fingers to slowly circle your clit applying just enough pressure for you feel it but not quite enough to make you feel good.

Zayne's mouth travels further down to your cleavage "Or... was that all you wanted?" his hand travels to your back and skillfully unclasps it in one swift motion, you quickly remove it letting your breasts spill in front of him and he wastes no time before sucking on one of your hardened peaks "Zayne, ah... I just wanted you to relax" you reply between gasps as he moves his attention to your other nipple swirling his tongue around it.

"Mmhm, how was i supposed to relax knowing I didn't make finish once?" Zayne moves his hands to your hips and pulls your pants and underwear off of you, after he carelessly drops your clothes to the side of the couch Zayne grabs the back of your thighs and spreads your legs lifting them enough to reveal your glistening cunt to him "How could I leave you untouched" he trails kisses from the middle of your inner thigh each closer to your core "after you were so good to me?"

Using his hands to keep your legs spread and pushed back into your chest, he softly trails his tongue from your entrance to your clit, moaning at the taste of your arousal. You can't help but gasp at the feeling and to instinctively reach out to hold onto the couch armrest as you let him feast on you.

Zayne eagerly laps at your cunt, taking every sigh and moan that slips past your lips as encouragement he repeatedly prods at your entrance with his tongue burying his face on your pussy and rubbing his nose on your clit as he does so. Zayne then lifts his face just enough to get a good look at your cunt as he uses one of his hands to spread open your lips in front of him, he gathers the saliva in his mouth and lets it slowly roll off his tongue and into your clit before using his pointer and middle fingers to spread it down on your cunt and gently pushing them inside you.

His other hand snakes around your leg and reaches for your clit, slowly rubbing circles on it with his thumb as his fingers lazily move in and out of your core, Zayne plants soft kisses on your inner thigh as he looks up at you with a tenderness you would find endearing if you weren't so desperate for more than a gentle touch.

As if sensing your desire, Zayne uses his thumb to softly lift the hood of your clit before diving back in, flicking his tongue on your sensitive nub as he pumps his fingers faster into your pussy edging you closer and closer to your orgasm each time he curls his fingers into you. The tension building in your belly finally snaps when he sucks hard on your swollen clit, your orgasm makes you arch your back off the couch and loudly moan his name as he continues to help you ride out the waves of pleasure that overcome your entire body.

Zayne only slows down when you start coming down of your high, he removes his fingers from your dripping cunt and licks from your entrance to your overstimulated clit as he uses your slick on his hand to pump his half hard cock back to life and when he's finally ready for you again he rises from between your trembling legs and pushes your knees to your chest to align himself with your entrance.

Anticipation courses through you as Zayne carefully enters you, his thick length fills you up slowly until he finally bottoms out with a deep growl in his chest, he kisses you softly then, the taste of yourself on his lips and tongue making your core throb. He then slides nearly all the way out before thrusting back in, his pace starts slow and steady but soon he is plunging into you relentlessly.

He captures your lips in a messy kiss you can barely keep up with as he uses his tongue, lips and teeth on you while he pounds into your pussy without mercy, each of his hard thrusts rubs his pelvis on your clit in a way that dissolves you into a broken mess of moans that only drive him on.

"Fuck... you're doing so good, Darling. I need you to cum again, ok? can you do that?" he asks, his nose nearly touching yours. You can only nod, already feeling near your climax again "Good, good..." he leans down to kiss you hungrily again moaning into your mouth each time your walls flutter around him.

"Ah, I'm close... Where-" "Inside" you answer before he can finish his question, his eyes widen and he stops while your words register. Inside. "Zayne, please..." And how could he ever deny you when you look at him with glossy eyes and his cock deep inside you? He pounds into you with renowned vigor then, the strength of his thrusts nearly knocking the air out of your lungs.

Your orgasm hits you hard, unexpectedly so, and the feeling of your cunt convulsing around his cock pushes Zayne over the edge too, he pumps himself deep inside you to shoot his load into you repeatedly and finishes with a broad thrust as the last drops of his cum leak into you.

Zayne then gently brings your legs down and wraps them around his waist, his softening cock still inside you as he kisses you softly on the lips. "If this is your treatment for relaxation, I can only hope I'm your only patient" you huff a laugh before playfully punching on his shoulder "With you under my care, I dont think I'd have the stamina for other patients!" You bring him down to rest his head on your chest and Zayne rests his ear right where your heart is "Good..."

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

°˖➴ 「Masterlist」 ₊ ⊹

[incoherent-orca]

to hell with fate and to hell with destiny—i'll hold onto you

[image description: a digital drawing of Suletta and Miorine from the show Gundam: Witch From Mercury. They are floating in space, back-to-back and holding hands, softly lit by starlight. Miorine is facing the viewer and holding onto a pair of scissors in her other hand. She has an angry, determined expression. A red string is tied to the pinky of the same hand, which leads out of frame. Suletta is facing away and her face can't be seen. Her hand is outstretched. A red string is also tied to her pinky but this one is broken, and we can see the frayed end. end description.]

thoughts below

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+ some closeups on the details

So I have. Extremely many thoughts about Sulemio and the idea of destiny

I love soulmate AUs, but choosing love IN DEFIANCE of fate is one of my favorite tropes. I prefer the idea of choice > fate

whether or not this is a Soulmate AU, here are some thoughts that inspired this art i guess

1) Scissors (not just for the lesbianism)

So early Miorine values absolute freedom above all else. As an heiress she's weighed down by so many expectations that other people call "destiny".

She reminds me a lot of a trapped-animal, especially in episode 1. Her brain is locked in survival mode and she can't see anything else (no personal dreams, goals, etc) besides freedom.

Even later on when she begins caring for Suletta, she still idealizes total freedom but now she wants it for Suletta. It's so meaningful when you realize she willingly creates ties (asking Delling for funding, making that deal with Prospera) to protect Suletta's right to choose.

Clearly, she views the threads of destiny as a cage.

Suletta helps her realize that she actually has dreams other than running away. Early Miorine is afraid to care/get attached, but she clearly does care and is just as soft-hearted & compassionate as Suletta; someone just had to show her that her attachments wouldn't be used against her. That it's not the absence of destiny/attachment that makes her free, but being able to live according to her own goals and dreams.

2) Suletta's broken string

In relation to Mio, this represents the divorce arc, kind of. Miorine is trying to free Suletta because she loves her, but doesn't yet realize that Suletta finds comfort and meaning in her attachments.

BUT I also had the idea that she was born with an incomplete string because she's a clone.

Eri has a destiny, but Suletta has a PURPOSE.

Because yeah Prospera loved her, but in the end Suletta was created in service of a goal.

Through Miorine advocating for her and pushing her to ask for what SHE wants, Suletta finds the courage to defy her mom and create her own destiny *outside* of her purpose. Not by cutting Prospera out of her life, but choosing to tighten their ties instead. Suletta isn't weak for being unable to live alone; she finds the strength to create a world where she doesn't have to give up anyone she loves.

3) The strings leading away from each other

I wanted it ambiguous whether or not their strings actually connect. How much of their chemistry is compatibility, and how much is their extremely specific circumstances?

So their strings may or may not connect. Maybe Miorine managed to cut them, or maybe Suletta always had a broken one. Maybe they were never "destined" for each other.

But throughout the show we watch them transcend their preordained destiny and *become* soulmates through their choices.

To me their clasped hands are a stronger bond than fate.