#early childhood coding | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cressidagrey · 11 hours ago

Text

The Drawer

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: There is a drawer in Felicity's mind.

Warnings and Notes: Some more context for the Silverstone chapter, also some insight into Piastri family dynamics in this verse. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

There was a drawer in Felicity’s mind that no one knew about.

Not Oscar.

Not Bee.

Not even the professors who used to stare at her as if she were a marvel or a mistake.

Certainly not her parents, who had made her intelligence the defining trait of her existence, before they realised it also made her uncontrollable.

It wasn’t metaphorical. Not really. She’s always seen her thoughts as architecture—corridors, rooms, switches—and that drawer? It was real.

Smooth metal. Coded lock. Hidden behind a panelled wall, so even she had to work to reach it. She built it young, instinctively, the moment she realised how much of her mind was terrifying.

Not just brilliant.

Terrifying.

Because she knew what she was capable of.

Not just the soft brilliance people praised her for—solving equations on the train, reading journals like bedtime stories, explaining mechanical stress tolerances to a three-year-old. That was the friendly kind of smart. The kind people could admire without being afraid of it.

It was a drawer in the deepest part of her brain. Filled with truths she never let surface. Scenarios she’d played out but never spoken. Numbers she’d crunched just to see how far she could push a system, a structure, a person.

She didn’t like the contents.

Not because they were monstrous. But because they were possible.

A drawer full of the things she could do.

And that was the thing.

Felicity could do so many things.

She could write a paper that would fundamentally reshape the way the world viewed mechanical cognition. She could dismantle institutions in six bullet points and a spreadsheet. She could design systems so precise they would make countries pivot. She could break things. Build new ones. Rewrite rules.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew how dangerous it was to hold too much power in your head.

That was the terrifying part about Felicity’s mind. Not just that it could solve things. But that it could predict them. Build them. Unbuild them. Break a system with a smile, bend rules until they screamed without ever technically snapping them.

The drawer held plans she’d never use. Arguments she’d never make. Responses sharp enough to cut and leave no scar. Equations that could manipulate systems most people didn’t even know were rigged. Ideas that could change industries—ruin them, in some cases—if she ever let them out.

She never had. She never would.

Because Felicity, for all her brilliance, for all the terrifying elasticity of her mind, had made a choice very early on:

Kindness.

Kindness as rebellion. Kindness as resistance. Kindness not as softness, but as control.

It would be easy—so easy—to weaponise what she knew.

To be cold, untouchable, triumphant in the way the world sometimes worshipped people who were sharp enough to draw blood.

But Felicity had grown up under that weight.

The genius child.

The gifted girl.

The one with the test scores that could split atoms and the eyes that saw too much. She had seen how quickly awe turned to fear. How quickly people began to see you as other.

So Felicity failed the IQ tests. Not failed, exactly—but she answered just enough incorrectly.

They’d tested her, of course. Again and again.

She’d made sure to get a few wrong every time.

Not because she couldn’t get them right.

But because she’d already figured out what perfect scores meant.

Perfect scores meant more pressure.

More isolation.

More adults speaking about her instead of to her.

More expectations that stole her childhood before she could claim it.

So she let the number drop.

She missed the logic trap here, the pattern extrapolation there.

Felicity learned how to underperform just enough to be labelled brilliant, but not inhuman.

Even now, as an adult, she sometimes wondered what her real number was.

And then forced herself not to care.

160.

It was the number she gave when someone asked. A score high enough to seem impressive. Low enough to still feel human.

Kind of.

Even Oscar didn’t know the rest.

He knew she was clever. Knew she could rewire an engine with her eyes closed, design systems on paper napkins, debug code while stirring a risotto. Knew she’d earned a PhD while raising a toddler. Knew she could predict tyre degradation better than some engineers.

But he didn’t know the extent.

She never let him see it all.

Not because she didn’t trust him. But because she needed one place in the world where she wasn’t being measured. Where she could be small and ordinary and barefoot in the kitchen, with flour on her hands and Bee at her hip.

Oscar made space for that version of her. Never asked for anything else.

He called her brilliant sometimes, but always like it was a secret he was lucky to know.

Still, the drawer remained. Locked. Heavy.

Felicity could open it any time. Could unspool every thought, every possibility, every blueprint. She had the capacity to reshape things in her image—universities, companies, ideologies.

But Felicity didn’t want that.

She wanted to plant tomatoes and teach Bee how to read tire degradation charts. She wanted to place mosaics on the bathroom wall and write love notes into the margins of Oscar’s travel calendar. She wanted to bake bread and be left alone.

Sometimes, she worried what people would think if they really knew.

If they saw how far her mind stretched. If they knew the truth behind the quiet way she lived.

She wondered if they’d be afraid of her.

So she kept it hidden. Chose love. Chose patience. Choose not to win every argument, not to finish every sentence, not to prove every point. Choose not to be the sharpest thing in every room.

She built a life where brilliance could live without needing to bare its teeth.

Even Oscar—her Oscar, the one person who saw her fully—didn't know the contents of the drawer. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

Because he didn’t love her for what she could do.

He loved her for who she chose to be.

And that mattered more than any number ever had.

Felicity Piastri could break the world if she wanted.

But she'd rather raise one small girl to love it instead.

***

Oscar wasn’t stupid.

He’d never been. Not about her.

From the outside, maybe it looked like Felicity lived simply. That she liked soft things and quiet days, and teaching their daughter how to make pancakes shaped like brake callipers.

Maybe it looked like she’d set her brilliance aside—like she’d traded academia for motherhood, engineering for sourdough starters and thrifted overalls.

But Oscar had seen it.

Oscar had known for a long time that Felicity was smarter than she let on.

Her intelligence wasn’t a secret—she had a doctorate, after all, and could explain things to Bee that most engineers would struggle to unpack for adults. She could read technical sheets like bedtime stories, fix electrical issues in the garage with a sigh, and beat him at chess in nine moves while stirring dinner on the stove.

Oscar knew Felicity was brilliant.

Not in the casual, top-of-the-class way most people used the word. Not even in the terrifyingly competent, engineer-who-fixes-cars-better-than-his-mechanics kind of way.

Felicity’s mind was something else entirely.

Felicity remembered everything.

Not just formulas or wiring diagrams or where she’d last seen his keys (spoiler: it was always where he swore they weren’t).

Felicity remembered things with the kind of clarity that felt almost impossible. Entire pages of textbooks from university, word-for-word. The serial number of a broken dishwasher part she’d glimpsed once six months ago. The lyrics to a song Bee had sung in a kindergarten play, she only rehearsed at home once.

It wasn’t something she ever bragged about. Felicity didn’t do that. But Oscar had seen the way it worked, the way her eyes would go a little distant when she was accessing something buried in a mental archive no one else could reach. Like she was pulling open a drawer in her head and retrieving exactly the right file.

But there was something else. Something beneath the brilliance she allowed the world to see.

What most people didn’t realise—what even her own professors hadn’t figured out—was that Felicity Piastri was smarter than she let on.

It wasn’t that she lied. It was that she edited.

She softened the edges. She chose quiet, every time. She let other people win arguments she could’ve dismantled in seconds. She smiled through conversations she could have rerouted, rewired, rewritten.

Oscar saw it. In the way she paused before answering a loaded question. In the way she hesitated before explaining something complex, like she was calibrating, gauging how much truth to give. In the way she’d sit silently for long moments before asking a single question that dismantled the entire problem.

It was in the way she sometimes stared at a problem—not with confusion, but with hesitation. Like she already knew the answer. Had known it five minutes ago. But was weighing whether or not to share it.

It was in the way she let other people think they’d found the solution first. The way she edited down her thoughts into bite-sized pieces, digestible, unthreatening. The way she built space for others to keep up, even when she could’ve sprinted ahead.

Oscar saw it. Always had.

She never talked about it directly. Never told him the full of it. But he’d seen flashes. Once, early in their marriage, she’d rewritten the firmware on Bee’s baby monitor after it glitched. Not patched. Rewritten. In an hour. While breastfeeding.

Oscar had seen her write equations upside down on napkins. Had seen her reprogram Bee’s tablet because the parental controls were inefficient. Had watched her make an engineer go quiet with a single, softly-phrased observation.

She did it all while wearing thrifted cardigans and cutting the crusts off sandwiches.

But Oscar saw.

He never asked what else she was capable of. Didn’t want to know the limits—if there even were any. It wasn’t fear. Just reverence.

Because she never used it as a weapon. Never used it for leverage. Never made him feel small.

She could’ve built empires. She chose to build a home instead.

And Oscar thought that was the most terrifying, awe-inspiring thing of all.

He’d seen the shape of her mind in the way she mapped out their life. The way she always knew when he’d be tired before he did. The way she tracked logistics and race schedules, cross-referenced nutrition plans and school rosters and still found time to replace the smoke alarm batteries before he remembered they even existed.

He saw it in Bee, too. That fierce little spark that Felicity somehow guided with both freedom and quiet structure. Like she knew how to give Bee the right questions before she ever offered the answers.

And her memory… the older they got, the more years they layered onto each other, the more he came to realise: it wasn’t just impressive. It was intimate.

Because Felicity didn’t just remember numbers and maps, and measurements.

She remembered him.

Things he’d said in passing, half-asleep or distracted, that she somehow tucked away like treasures. The fact that he hated the sound of crinkling chip bags. That he liked exactly twelve raspberries in his porridge. That he didn’t like being touched when he was overstimulated after a bad race — but he did like having her nearby, just within reach.

She remembered the stories he only told once. The ones he hadn’t even realized were important until she brought them up again, years later, gently, like holding something fragile.

She remembered the colour of the shirt he wore the first time he kissed her.

She remembered all the versions of him — even the ones he tried to leave behind.

Sometimes, Oscar thought about how exhausting it must be. How heavy it must feel to carry everything. To have a brain that never let anything go.

Oscar had always known she was something more. That brilliance was only the surface. That Felicity could see things others didn’t, feel patterns before they existed, stretch logic so thin it became poetry.

She never showed it all. Not even to him.

But he saw it anyway.

In the way she rewrote financial models to stabilise their family income. In the way she adjusted Bee’s lessons mid-week because she sensed boredom before Bee could say the word.

In the way she rewired the battery system of his sim rig because she didn’t like the voltage drop, and did it while talking to Bee about the life cycle of stars.

Oscar knew.

He just never said so.

He never said anything. Never pushed. Never asked.

Because he knew—deep in his bones—that Felicity had spent her whole life being treated like a resource. A phenomenon. A marvel to be studied, dissected, and showcased.

He would never do that to her.

What she needed—what he gave—was safety. Space. The freedom to be clever without being dissected for it. The right to choose gentleness without being underestimated.

So he didn’t pry. Didn’t press.

He just held her hand when she needed grounding, listened when she muttered equations under her breath, and kissed her temple when she got that look—that distant, calculating look—before she blinked it away and smiled at him like she hadn’t just solved something the world didn’t even know was broken.

Felicity never showed him the drawer.

She didn’t need to.

Because he already knew what she kept inside it.

And he loved her anyway. Not in spite of it. But because she’d chosen him—and Bee—and love and bread and softness, over every sharp and brilliant thing she could have unleashed instead.

Her mind wasn’t a party trick. It wasn’t a tool. It was an act of love, the way she wielded it.

She used it to take care of the people she loved.

To take care of him.

Oscar wasn’t blind.

She was brilliant. Always had been.

But the most remarkable thing about Felicity wasn’t her mind.

It was the fact that she could’ve been anything—could’ve ruled rooms, reshaped industries, rewired entire schools of thought—and she’d chosen this.

Chosen him.

Chosen Bee.

Chosen tomato plants, and mosaic tiles, and quiet, ordinary joy.

She chose kindness. Again and again and again.

And he respected the hell out of it.

Because Oscar knew, in the marrow of his bones, that if Felicity ever opened that drawer—if she ever stopped pulling her punches, if she ever decided to stop choosing kindness—then the world would bend.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine

427 notes · View notes

nhmkhnh · 13 days ago

Text

LUXURIOUS.

PAIRINGS: DOM!GRAYSON X SUB!FEM!READER

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni)

TAGS: gentle!grayson ;; sugar mommy!grayson ;; size kink ;; strap-on sex (r.receving) ;; voice kink ;; orgasm control ;; marking kink ;; fingering (r.receiving) ;; office sex ;; after care.

navigation.

1. grayson met you by accident at a council party. you weren’t even supposed to be there—just a low-level assistant running errands. but she noticed you. the way your eyes lit up at the chandeliers. the cheap heels you clearly borrowed. the glass of water you clutched instead of wine. she noticed everything.

2. she offered you her coat that night. not because you asked, but because she saw you rubbing your arms at the tram stop, refusing a ride because you didn’t want to trouble her. that was the moment she decided: you’d never need to feel cold again.

3. her money is quiet—but limitless. new phone? already delivered. rent? she bought your whole building. designer heels you only glanced at through a window? in your size, waiting at your door, with a handwritten note:

“wear these for me tonight, sweetheart. i’ll be home late. —g.”

4. grayson is so fucking soft with you. no one believes it. not the cops. not the council. she speaks with steel, commands zaunites and piltovans alike—but she kneels when she takes off your shoes. she kisses your wrist like you’re porcelain. she calls you “my girl” like it’s sacred.

5. she loves watching you eat. like, borderline obsessed. orders you food she knows you love, watches as you take that first bite, always with a smug-ass smile. sometimes she’ll say things like:

“i work too hard for you not to eat like a queen.”

…as she wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb.

6. possessive sugar mommy af. you post a picture in a cute dress she didn’t buy? you’ll get a message in 3.2 seconds:

“where’d you get that?” you respond, teasing. “a friend gave it to me.” her next reply? “i’ll be over in 20. take it off.”

7. you’re her weakness. one pout, one sigh, one slightly sad text, and she’s leaving meetings early, gun still holstered at her hip, just to hold you in her arms and tuck your head beneath her chin.

8. she spoils you with intention. not just random stuff—she remembers what you say in passing. that childhood candy you mentioned once? she has it imported. you said your old blanket got lost in a move? she commissions an identical one. grayson is detail-oriented as hell.

9. she hates seeing you work too hard. if you have a job she thinks is beneath you, expect her to show up at your workplace one day, lean against the doorframe in her tailored coat, and go:

“pack up. you’re not working here anymore. i already paid your boss to let you go.”

(you pretend to be mad. you’re not.)

10. sugar mommy in the streets, beast in the sheets. you better believe this woman can throw you over her shoulder like it’s nothing and pin your wrists with one hand. she’ll buy you roses and then wreck you on 1,000-thread-count sheets. always rough and reverent.

11. she’s got a whole drawer of lingerie she bought for you. color-coded. lace. silk. she doesn’t make you wear them—she asks with that low voice of hers:

“put this on for me, baby.”

…and you always do.

12. she sometimes brings you to fancy events on her arm. the looks people give when grayson, in all her power and elegance, walks in with the prettiest little thing holding onto her bicep like a prized gem?? you love it. she loves it more.

13. grayson smells expensive. tobacco, clean leather, sandalwood, and warm wine. you cling to her coats when she’s gone. you steal her undershirts. she doesn’t mind. she tells you to take whatever you want—

“everything i have is yours, sweetheart.”

14. she sends you voice notes. deep, gravelly ones when she’s working late. “i miss you, little thing.” “don’t wait up.” “touch yourself if you need to—i’ll make it up to you when i’m back.” you play them on loop until she’s home again.

15. you’re the only softness she allows herself. she might be sheriff, might lead with fire and steel—but she melts the moment you crawl into her lap, kiss her throat, and whisper “i missed you.”

grayson would set the whole world on fire to keep you warm.

smut bonus.

1. grayson has a size kink.

she’s taller, broader, stronger—and obsessed with the way you look curled up beneath her.

“look at you… so tiny under me.”

she’ll stretch your legs wide with one hand and use her hips to pin you still, murmuring about how you were “made to be taken care of”—as she grinds slow, deep, and possessive into you.

2. she lives for strap-on sex.

leather harness. thigh holster. her favorite one is thick and curved just right, matching the press of her fingers when she edges you open for it.

“relax, baby. i’m not done spoiling you yet.”

she’ll tease you until you’re begging to be filled—and only then will she sink in, all slow and loving like she’s feeding you wine.

3. her voice when she talks you through orgasms? unholy.

gravelly, low, damn near feral when you’re about to come. she’ll growl against your neck, lips hot and teeth grazing:

“that’s it, baby—let go. give it to me. c’mon, that’s my good girl.”

you always come harder when she talks. she knows it.

4. grayson adores marking you.

hickeys. scratch marks. lipstick on your thighs. bruises shaped like her palms.

and when she takes you out in public the next day, she’ll gently fix your collar to just barely hide the bite on your throat—then smirk when you flinch every time her hand brushes your waist.

5. she loves using her fingers.

thick, experienced hands that always know what to do. grayson can finger you with such maddening control—slow, deep curls that keep you hovering on the edge forever.

“what’s the rush, sweetheart? i’ve got all night… and you belong to me.”

if you beg? she might let you come. might.

6. she’s the type to fuck you in her office.

desk pushed back. coat still on. you bent over the polished wood, panties pushed aside, her hand covering your mouth while she rocks into you from behind.

“quiet now, little thing. you don’t want the whole precinct hearing who this pretty cunt belongs to, do you?”

(spoiler: she wants them to hear.)

7. post-sex aftercare is everything.

grayson kisses every spot she marked. draws you a bath. feeds you fruit from her fingers while you sit on her lap, boneless and blissed out.

“you did so well for me, baby.”

she makes sure you know that even when she fucks you like she owns you—she treasures you like gold.

so obssesed with her 😋 please let this woman make her way into my life please.

#grayson x reader #grayson arcane x reader #grayson arcane #arcane #smut

557 notes · View notes

unsolicited-opinions · 1 month ago

Text

Is Israel a Settler Colonialist State?

The claim is made so often that it's hard to fault people for believing it without much thought.

Let's first look at what Settler Colonialism is, then look at the facts to see if Israel fits the definition.

What Is Settler Colonialism again…?

It’s a specific term used by historians and theorists (Patrick Wolfe and his whole "logic of elimination" thing). Features of Settler Colonialism include:

Expansionism, claiming land for its mother country/empire (monopole) and shipping natural resources back to the empire.

Foreign settlers move in to violently displace, erase, or replace the indigenous population.

Any other cultures in the land are suppressed or wiped out

Classic examples include: British Australia, French Algeria, Canada, and North America

Let’s see if the case of Israel demonstrates these features.

A Franchisee?

Settler colonialism is usually a franchise model. Some imperial HQ says, “Go forth and colonize!” and ships people over with guns, flags, and an expectation to reap wealth torn from the colonized.

The Zionist movement started as a grassroots effort by Jews who were tired of getting pogromed every other Tuesday. Sure, they got a nod from Britain in the form of the Balfour Declaration, but that’s a long way from imperial orchestration.

(While Britain controlled Palestine under the Mandate, it hardly coddled Zionist aims - especially after the 1939 White Paper, which locked Jews out even as the Holocaust raged. Zionists didn’t march under imperial flags; they were often clashing with them.)

Settler colonialism involves one imperial power shuttling in settlers from a single source. But Jewish immigration to Israel? It came from everywhere: Yemen, Iraq, Morocco, Poland, Russia, Ethiopia, Argentina, Brooklyn…everywhere in the Diaspora.

This wasn’t a colonial outpost of one empire. It was a chaotic, desperate, and diverse ingathering of people trying to survive and rebuild. Half the Jews in Israel today descend from communities that were literally kicked out of Middle Eastern and North African countries.

If it’s settler colonialism, it’s doing it very wrong.

Foreign Settlers?

Settler colonialism usually involves people showing up in a place they have zero connection to and declaring it theirs. Think: Europeans showing up in Australia and telling the Aboriginal peoples, “Nice continent—don’t mind if we do.”

Jews didn’t just randomly pick Israel from a drop-down menu. They’ve had a connection to that land for, oh, 3,000 years or so. Jerusalem isn’t just spiritually significant; it's central. They didn’t have to invent a historical claim—it’s literally baked into their religion, language, and identity. (Quick Hebrew lesson: “Zion” is kind of a giveaway.)

Jews have maintained a continuous presence in the Land of Israel for over 3,000 years, including communities in Jerusalem, Safed, Hebron, and Tiberias, long before modern Zionism emerged.

Calling Jewish return to Israel “settler colonialism” is like calling your grandma a squatter for moving back into her childhood home.

But What About Palestinian Displacement?

Let’s be clear: Yes, during the 1948 war, a large number of Arabs living in Palestine were displaced. That’s a fact, it's not disputable, and it’s not something to brush aside.

This wasn’t, however, some settler-colonial master plan with color-coded maps and a mission to erase or ethnically cleanse non-Jewish peoples.

The early Zionist movement was buying land legally (much of it from absentee Arab landlords) and building farms, schools, and towns. It was a messy nationalist project, like many others in the 20th century. The displacement of Palestinians came not from a blueprint for ethnic cleansing, but from a war.

The war was launched by neighboring Arab states who made no secret of their goal: to destroy the brand-new Jewish state before it could take its first real breath.

Five Arab armies invaded in 1948, and local Arab leaders, along with the invading forces, told many Palestinian Arabs to temporarily evacuate, assuring them they could return after the Jews were wiped out.

Things didn't go according to their plans, because Israel survived.

Historians like Efraim Karsh and Benny Morris document cases where Arab leaders advised evacuation and cases where displacement occurred amid battle. War is brutal, and real people paid the price.

The tragedy is real, but so is the context. The war wasn’t started by Israel. It was a war of survival that Israel fought while vastly outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded.

And here’s a twist that is usually ignored in modern retellings:

The term Nakba - which today refers almost exclusively to Palestinian displacement, originally meant something else.

In 1948, Arab intellectuals like Constantin Zureiq used “Nakba,” meaning "catastrophe," not to mourn Palestinian suffering, but to describe the colossal failure of the Arab world to crush Israel. In his own words: “The defeat of the Arabs in Palestine is not a small downfall. It is a catastrophe in every sense of the word.”

The shame wasn’t just about lost land—it was about how a supposedly mighty Arab and Islamic world failed to destroy a state of Holocaust survivors and refugees.

The original "Nakba" was about that failure, not the displacement narrative that would emerge decades later.

History is a lot more complicated than hashtags suggest.

But Israel Sought to Wipe Out Local Culture, right?

If Zionism had been a settler colonial project, you'd expect to see that. Settler colonial regimes tend to come in hot with cultural carpet bombing: banning languages, crushing customs, bulldozing identities.

Israel? Not so much. Israel has official protections for Christian, Muslim, Druze, and Baháʼí religious sites. Ever heard of the “status quo” agreements? They govern holy sites like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Unlike classic settler-colonial cases like the US, Canada, or Australia where indigenous languages, religions, and identities were suppressed, Israel recognizes Arabic as an official language, protects Muslim and Christian holy sites, and integrates minorities into public life with equal legal rights for all citizens.

Is the situation always perfect? No. Does Israel have a Ministry of Culture Death? Also no.

But Israel stripped the land of its natural resources in the name of their imperial project and destroyed the ecology of the land!

First, there was no empire, no monopole to ship anything to because (again) Israel was not the outpost of a foreign empire - it was a desperate refuge for Jews fleeing pogroms, fascism, and a genocide which had wiped out a third of their people.

Second, what natural resources could they have stripped the land of? Mandate Palestine was not known for its abundant natural treasures. Oil? Nope. Gold? Nada. Fertile, easily farmed land? Not much.

What Zionists did find was malaria, swamps, desert, and the occasional Ottoman tax ledger. The region was, in the words of Samuel Clemens (AKA Mark Twain), "a desolate country whose soil is rich enough, but is given over wholly to weeds."

Not exactly a paradise ripe for exploitation.

Here's a twist: rather than destroying the ecology, Israel has spent 75 years rebuilding it. The country has planted over 240 million trees, turning arid hills green and reversing desertification. Israel pioneered drip irrigation - watering crops with scientific precision to conserve every drop. It recycles nearly 90% of its wastewater (second place is Spain at about 30%). The Negev Desert is now home to solar farms, sustainable agriculture, and research centers where scientists grow cherry tomatoes in saltwater and build fish farms in sand.

Israel’s environmental stewardship of the land is so advanced that experts have come from Africa, South America, and India to partner with Israeli experts to tackle their own climate challenges. If this is what settler-colonial ecological destruction looks like, the planet could use a bit more of it.

So no, Israel isn’t extracting the land’s bounty and mailing it to a mythical European mothership. It’s been reclaiming wasteland, reforesting hills, and creating the most efficient water system in the world. And it did all that while fighting seven wars and inventing the USB stick. Not bad for a country the size of New Jersey.

It's a Colonial Struggle!!

It’s a nationalist conflict, not a colonial one. Two peoples - Jewish and Palestinian - with deep historic ties to the same land, both claiming national self-determination. That’s tragic, painful, and hard to resolve. But it’s not the same as a bunch of white Europeans setting up a Starbucks on someone else’s sacred mountain.

Trying to squeeze this conflict into the settler colonial box doesn’t make it clearer—it flattens it. It erases Jewish history and Palestinian suffering in one fell swoop.

History Deserves Better Than Hashtags

Calling Israel a "settler colonial state" might feel like a tidy moral label, but history is messier than slogans. The story is way more complex than “colonizer vs. colonized.” It’s about trauma, return, identity, nationalism, war, and a shitload of of mistakes along the way by all parties involved.

But if you want to understand it, really understand it, you’ve got to ditch the buzzwords and look at the footnotes, because the truth won’t always fit in a meme.

Aforementioned Footnotes:

Wolfe, Patrick. Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 2006.

https://www.kooriweb.org/foley/resources/pdfs/89.pdf

Veracini, Lorenzo. Settler Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview. Palgrave Macmillan, 2010.

https://link.springer.com/book/10.1057/9780230299191

Bickerman, Elias. From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees. Schocken Books, 1962.

https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.59581

Biblical and archaeological records compiled in Israel

Finkelstein & Neil Asher Silberman, The Bible Unearthed, Free Press, 2001.

https://archive.org/details/bibleunearthedar0000fink/page/n5/mode/2up

Anita Shapira, Israel: A History (Harvard University Press): https://www.hup.harvard.edu/books/9780674047426

Jewish National Fund archives of land acquisition documents.

https://archives.cjh.org/repositories/3/resources/19702

Historical Aliyah data

https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/total-immigration-to-israel-by-country-per-year

Protection of Holy Places Law, 1967

https://www.bu.edu/mzank/Jerusalem/tx/lawofholyplaces1967.htm

Shapira, Anita. Yosef Hayim Brenner: A Life. Stanford University Press, 2014.

(Documents Jewish labor ethos and rejection of exploitative structures)

https://archive.org/details/yosefhaimbrenner0000shap

On the Nakba

Benny Morris, The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited:

https://yalebooks.yale.edu/book/9780300126969/the-birth-of-the-palestinian-refugee-problem-revisited/

Efraim Karsh, Palestine Betrayed:

https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1npnkg

Efraim Karsh, 1948, Israel, and the Palestinians – the True Story, Middle East Quarterly (2008)

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/258996946_1948_Israel_and_the_Palestinians_-_The_True_Story

Constantin Zureiq, Ma'na al-Nakba (1948):

https://archive.org/details/zurayk-nakba

_____

If you want to argue with this in the replies, please do- but bring receipts.

#jumblr #Israel #Palestine #settler colonialism #i/p #facts #history #Israeli history #Palestinian history

552 notes · View notes

uncuredturkeybacon · 6 hours ago

Text

𝚖𝚒𝚌’𝚍 𝚞𝚙 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it’s just you, paige and a camera you forget is there

You’ve done this a hundred times—more, probably—but today feels different.

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of LED panels and the occasional creak of your chair as you adjust your posture for the fifth time in ten minutes. Your assistant, Em, is in the editing bay making last-minute tweaks to the intro roll, but you can still feel her watching you through the glass with that knowing grin. She’s already teased you enough this morning.

“You’re fixing your hair again,” she says into your earpiece, voice crackling through the comm. “It looks fine. You look fine. Stop.”

You roll your eyes and shoot a sarcastic thumbs-up at the one-way glass, ignoring the slight heat in your cheeks.

Fine isn’t good enough today.

Because today, your guest isn’t just a guest. She’s the guest.

Paige Bueckers.

And yeah, sure, you’ve interviewed top tier athletes before—Megan Rapinoe, Candace Parker, even Serena Williams via video call once—but something about Paige is different. Maybe it’s the way she plays like poetry in motion. Maybe it’s how she carries herself—quiet, thoughtful, deadly on the court and disarmingly soft off of it. Maybe it’s just the damn smile you’ve seen in a hundred slow motion TikToks that fans lovingly post after every Dallas Wings game.

Or maybe, more realistically, it’s that you’ve had a crush on her since UConn, and you’re two hours away from sharing a couch and a mic with her for an hour straight.

“She Scores” has always been your passion project. What started as a niche podcast in your college dorm now pulls millions of listeners every week. You’re known for being sharp, knowledgeable, casually flirty without being pushy, and for asking questions no one else thinks to ask. But beneath all the polish and prep, you’re still just a massive women’s sports nerd who gets giddy when you get to sit down with the athletes who shaped the game.

You run through your notes again—childhood, UConn, transition to the W, off-day hobbies, rapid fire—but you already know you won’t stick to them perfectly. You never do. The best conversations happen when you let things drift. You’re just hoping you don’t drift too far into Oh my god she’s so pretty, stay normal territory.

Em buzzes back in.

“Just got word—she’s on her way up.”

You freeze for a beat, then rise from your chair and take a deep breath, brushing invisible dust off your vintage Lisa Leslie hoodie. You’re wearing sneakers that cost too much and jeans that hug just right, and your hair has been sitting at an intentional degree of messy for the past hour. Cool. Collected. Professional. Mostly.

The knock at the door is soft. You turn as your producer opens it, and there she is.

Paige Bueckers.

And she’s early.

You didn’t expect that.

She’s dressed in a simple grey zip-up and black sweatpants, no makeup, hair pulled back into a loose bun. Effortlessly beautiful. A little taller than you imagined—though that might be the sneakers. Her eyes meet yours, blue and steady, and she smiles.

“Hey,” she says, voice quieter than you thought it’d be. “I’m Paige.”

As if you didn’t know.

You step forward, trying not to radiate pure gay panic. “Hey! Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. And you’re early, which automatically makes you my favorite guest.”

She laughs, short and real. “I was scared of LA traffic. Got lucky, I guess.”

You offer her water. She takes it. Her fingers brush yours for a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

“You good to hang out in the green room for a bit?” you ask. “We don’t record for another half hour, but I figured it might be nice to talk first. Get comfortable.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and your heart taps out a Morse code you hope doesn’t show on your face.

You lead her to the smaller side room off the main studio, a cozy space with a worn leather couch, some plants that are somehow still alive, and shelves lined with sports memorabilia—signed basketballs, framed jerseys, candid photos with former guests. She walks past the wall and pauses when she sees the signed Sue Bird jersey.

“You’ve had Sue on here?” she asks, blinking.

You grin. “Yeah. She wore that jersey the first time we talked. She signed it after I beat her in a game of HORSE.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “You beat Sue Bird in HORSE?”

“Well, technically, I distracted her by asking about her some dumbass question, but a win is a win.”

She smiles again—wider this time—and sinks into the couch, folding one leg under herself.

“So, do I get the same treatment?” she asks. “You gonna ambush me with personal questions?”

“Nope,” you reply, sitting across from her. “I already know pretty much a lot. Twitter’s been over that since the UConn days.”

She groans softly, tipping her head back. “God. Twitter knows too much.”

You watch her for a moment, just… existing. Relaxed. Present. And you realize she doesn��t seem like the kind of person who enjoys small talk for its own sake. But you also don’t want to jump right into deep questions.

“You nervous?” you ask instead. Simple. Honest.

She shrugs. “A little. I’ve seen your podcast before. You don’t really let people off the hook.”

You smirk. “That’s true. But you’re in good hands.”

She looks at you, and something flickers between you. Not full-blown tension yet, but something.

You glance down at your phone, pretending to check the time. You’re stalling, which is dumb. You never stall.

“You wanna run through the outline real quick?” you offer. “Just to know what’s coming.”

She tilts her head. “Or… we could wing it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Winging it with a podcaster is dangerous, Bueckers.”

“I like dangerous,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to say it quite like that.

You catch it. You catch everything.

“Well,” you say, standing, “let’s give the people what they want.”

She follows you back into the studio, her presence magnetic even in silence. Your team starts final checks—lighting, mic levels, camera angles. You settle onto the couch next to her, not too close, not too far. You adjust your notes, but your hands aren’t shaking.

Not anymore.

She turns to you, just before you go live.

“You good?” she asks.

It’s simple, but the way she says it—grounded, like she sees you—settles something in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting her eyes. “You?”

She nods once. “Let’s do it.”

The red light is on, the music fades out, and you smile into the mic.

“Welcome back to She Scores, the podcast that unapologetically talks all things women’s sports—from buzzer beaters to backdoor cuts and everything in between. I’m your host, and today… listen. You already know. I don’t even need to hype this up but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You turn your body slightly, just enough to face her.

“Joining me in the studio is a certified bucket. UConn royalty. NCAA Player of the Year, ESPY winner, national champion, and now… Dallas Wings rookie and all-around media mystery—Paige Bueckers. Paige, hi.”

She’s already smiling, eyes wide and slightly amused. She leans forward, adjusting the mic with practiced ease.

“Hey. Wow. That was… a lot.”

You smirk. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, laughing. “Just… you made me sound way cooler than I feel.”

“That’s kind of my thing,” you tease. “Making legends sound approachable.”

She lets out a little breath, like she’s trying not to smile harder than she should. Already, the chemistry crackles—not obvious to the untrained eye, but fans at home are going to pick up on this. Especially the ones with compilation and edit accounts.

“So how does it feel?” you ask. “The WNBA. First season. First media tour. Sitting across from me. Try not to be overwhelmed.”

She laughs again, easing into her seat. “It’s surreal. All of it. Some days I wake up and still feel like I’m on a college schedule. Like I’m supposed to be running sprints at 6AM.”

“Trauma.”

“Literal trauma,” she confirms, mock serious.

You nod. “We’ll get into UConn trauma in a second. But first, let’s take it back. Way, way back. Minnesota. Hopkins. Little Paigey. What’s your first basketball memory?”

She pauses thoughtfully. “I think I was maybe three? My dad had this mini hoop in our living room. The kind that’s too low for anyone over four feet tall.”

“Unfair advantage,” you interject.

“Exactly. But I remember shooting on that every day. He taught me how to pass. We’d play these one on one games—he’d let me score just enough to keep me hooked. And then when I finally beat him for real, I cried.”

“Wait, you cried?”

“Yeah,” she says, almost sheepish. “Like ugly cried. I didn’t know what to do with the win.”

“That’s deeply poetic,” you say. “Beating the person who taught you. The origin story of a future number one overall pick.”

She shrugs, but she’s glowing a little. “I just liked the sound of the ball going through the net. I still do.”

There’s a moment there—small, golden. You don’t rush it.

“You talk about that sound like it’s music.”

She glances at you. “It kinda is, right?”

Your smile deepens. “See, this is why I’m glad this isn’t a live podcast. People would already be tweeting unhinged things. Like we’re flirting.”

She laughs, but there’s something in her eyes—a flash of interest, maybe curiosity. “Are we?”

“Dunno,” you say, flipping a pen between your fingers. “We’ll let the comment section decide.”

She leans forward a bit more, playful. “Dangerous game.”

“I like dangerous,” you echo, and there it is again—like you’re circling something neither of you fully plan to name. You redirect, but only slightly. “So when did it get serious? Like, serious serious. When did Paige Bueckers go from ‘cute kid with a mini hoop’ to ‘national recruit and Gatorade Player of the Year’?”

Her smile fades into something more grounded, thoughtful.

“Probably middle school. I was playing up against older kids. My coaches were honest with me early—they told me I had potential, but I had to want it. Like, really want it.”

You nod, sipping from your water as you watch her speak. “And you did.”

“I did,” she says. “I still do. I don’t think that’s ever changed.”

You scribble something in your notebook, not because you need to, but because you need to look away for a second. The way she talks—low, deliberate, with that quiet confidence—makes it a little hard to keep your cool. You’ve interviewed charismatic people before. But Paige? She’s that rare mix of humble and magnetic. The kind that makes you forget you’re working.

“Talk to me about Hopkins,” you say. “You were a walking headline by, like, freshman year.”

Paige makes a face. “Ugh. I was also a walking awkward phase.”

“You and every lesbian born in the early 2000s,” you reply.

She laughs, covering her mouth for a second. “I didn’t even know back then—”

“Oh, sweetie,” you say, deadpan. “We all knew.”

She tilts her head, pretending to be scandalized. “Are you outing me on my own episode?”

“Absolutely not. But girl, be so for real right now.”

“Wow,” she says, laughing, “this is targeted.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Just doing my journalistic duty.”

The banter flows, faster now. She’s open, unguarded. You ask about pressure, expectations, media narratives. She gives measured but honest responses. You don’t grill—never do—but you go deep, and she meets you there.

You click your pen like it matters, but you’re not taking notes anymore. Not really. You’re just watching her speak—fluid, honest, careful in a way that doesn’t hide anything but still keeps a part of her close to the chest.

“So, let’s talk about it,” you say, leaning back in your chair, mic close to your mouth. “The elephant in the room.”

Paige raises an eyebrow, amused. “There’s an elephant?”

“There is,” you nod seriously. “Its name is Geno Auriemma.”

She laughs—light, warm, fond.

“Oh, God.”

“No, no, we’re gonna go there,” you grin. “Because we’ve talked about Minnesota, we’ve talked about middle school, we’ve talked about how you terrorized local basketball courts by age twelve. But I want to know—why UConn? Why Geno? You had offers from literally everyone.”

She exhales slowly, as if this is a question she’s answered before but never gets tired of answering.

“I think... deep down, I always knew.”

“Why though?”

“The legacy,” she says first. “The culture. The players who came before me. It wasn’t just about playing at a top program. It was about pressure. UConn has this... weight to it. You don’t go there unless you’re willing to be great.”

You tilt your head, lips curling.

“So you just wanted to be surrounded by greatness?”

She smirks back. “Yeah. Kind of like right now.”

You cough, trying to cover the grin that breaks out too fast.

“Wow,” you say, shaking your head. “Are you flirting with your host mid answer?”

“You started it.”

“Very unprofessional. I’m literally just doing my job.”

“And doing it very well,” she says, with zero hesitation.

You blink. The room feels warmer. Or maybe it’s just you. You pull it back together, even if it takes effort.

“Okay. Back on track before I combust,” you mutter. “UConn. Talk me through it. Year one. Year two. Everything.”

She exhales again, a little softer now.

“It changed me,” she says simply.

You let the pause settle. “How?”

She looks at the ceiling, then down at her hands, fingers lightly curled in her lap. “I think there’s this myth that when you get to a place like UConn, you arrive fully formed. Like, you’re already who you’re supposed to be. But I wasn’t. Not even close.”

You nod, gently. “None of us are at eighteen.”

“I was scared,” she admits. “I was confident on the court, yeah. But everything off it? The pressure. The expectations. The comparisons. It messed with my head.”

There’s no pity in your expression—just knowing. You’ve watched too many athletes burn out under the same spotlight.

“I got hurt, too,” she continues. “Sophomore year. That knee.”

Your voice softens. “I remember.”

“Everyone remembers. It’s weird, you know? Being reduced to a timeline. ‘Six weeks out. Six months. A year. Will she be back for March? Is she ever gonna be the same?’ I stopped being a person and started being... a question.”

You don’t rush in with sympathy. You just let her have the silence. She fills it naturally.

“But I had people,” she says, voice gentler now. “My teammates. The trainers. Geno.”

“What was he like through that?” you ask. “Because people love to paint him as this gruff, yelling machine.”

She grins. “He is. But also... he listens. When you let him. When I was quiet—too quiet—he noticed. And he pulled me aside one day after practice. Didn’t yell. Just said, ‘I know it sucks. But you’re still here. That matters.’”

You write that quote down before you realize you’re doing it.

You glance at her again, and she’s watching you with a kind of cautious ease, like she’s not used to people writing her words down without turning them into headlines.

You smile. “You grew up at UConn.”

She nods. “I really did.”

“Who was your rock while you were there?”

“Azzi,” she says immediately.

There’s a new kind of stillness in her voice. Familial, rooted, undeniable.

“Azzi was—she is—one of the most disciplined people I’ve ever met,” Paige continues. “Like, I’d be on the couch recovering and she’d come in from shooting for two hours and say, ‘Want to play Uno?’ Like it was nothing.”

You laugh. “What’s the Uno score between you two?”

“Oh, I stopped keeping track when I realized she cheats.”

“She what?”

“Allegedly,” Paige adds, eyes twinkling.

You grin. “I’m putting that in the episode title. ‘Paige Bueckers Accuses Azzi Fudd of Cheating at Uno.’”

“She’s gonna kill me,” Paige laughs.

“She’ll love it.” You hesitate. “It sounds like you really leaned on her.”

“I did,” she says. “But not just for the injuries or the hard stuff. For the little stuff too. Like, post-game takeout orders. Netflix recs. The stupid stuff that makes it all feel normal.”

“And what about team chemistry?” you ask. “Because from the outside, that UConn squad felt... locked in. Like you’d die for each other.”

“We would’ve,” she says softly.

You’re quiet for a beat. “That real, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, we had our fights. We had our off days. But we always knew how to come back to center. I think that’s what made it work.”

You sit in that. The weight of it. The warmth.

“What was the moment you knew,” you ask slowly, “that you weren’t just good—you were built for this?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her mouth moves around the air like she’s sifting through time.

“There was a game my junior year,” she says. “We were down at halftime. I’d missed, like, seven shots. Geno told me I looked like I forgot who I was.”

You smile at the phrasing. “Classic.”

“Yeah. But it hit me. Because he was right. I’d let doubt take over. So the second half, I didn’t think. I just played. And I think I had, like... seventeen points in the third quarter alone.”

You whistle. “That’s not just playing. That’s poetry.”

She shrugs. “That’s UConn.”

You glance down, heart still tight from the way she said all of it—like she left pieces of herself behind on that court.

“You ever miss it?” you ask gently.

She nods, quick. “All the time.”

“What do you miss most?”

There’s a pause. Then, “The routine. The locker room. The smell of old sweat and bad jokes. Running suicides and pretending not to cry. Group chats about who forgot to bring their shoes. You know—real team stuff.”

“God,” you murmur, laughing, “that’s weirdly specific and deeply nostalgic.”

She grins. “It’s the stuff no one sees that sticks.” You nod again, feeling it. You’ve never been a college athlete, but you’ve been on enough sidelines to understand how those echoes live in you long after the lights fade. “And I trusted my gut when I went there. I still do.” You lift your gaze. Her voice drops, just slightly. “It’s never let me down.”

Your breath hitches.

Something about the way she says it—low, unwavering, not for show—cracks open a tiny place in you. You mirror it without thinking.

“I know what you mean,” you say. Your voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

There’s a beat. Neither of you look away. Neither of you speak. The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, not forced. Just... full.

If Em were in the room, she’d throw something at you. If your editor were watching live, they’d be marking timestamps for clips. You only break the stare because you have to. Not because you want to. You glance down at your notes, which might as well be written in a foreign language now. Nothing on the page matters as much as the thing still buzzing between you and her. When you look back up, Paige is watching you like she’s been doing it the whole time.

You clear your throat. “Well. That was a moment.”

She tilts her head. “Was it?”

“I think I blacked out.”

She laughs, soft and low. “You should trust your gut more.”

You smile, a little breathless. “I think I just did.”

The mics are still rolling. But it doesn’t feel like they’re there.

You ease into the next part of the conversation with practiced grace, but inside, your heart’s still caught on that last moment. The weight of her words. The look that didn’t blink. You’ve had sparks with guests before, but this… this isn’t a spark. It’s a slow burn, one you feel blooming low in your chest, rising like tidewater. Dangerous. Delicious. And entirely unprofessional. But you’re past the point of pretending you don’t enjoy it.

“So,” you say into the mic, voice steadied by muscle memory more than calm, “we’ve talked childhood. We’ve talked college. Let’s talk now. Dallas. Big city. New team. WNBA life. What’s that been like for you so far?”

Paige shifts in her seat. She’s a little more relaxed now—arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly spinning the cap of her water bottle. She smiles, slow and thoughtful.

“It’s... a lot,” she admits, almost laughing at herself. “There’s no other way to say it. It’s fast. Like, faster than I expected. Not just the game—though the speed of the league is insane—but everything. Schedules. Flights. Practices. Media. I feel like I live out of a suitcase now.”

You lean forward a little, eyes on her. “No more dorm room comfort zones.”

“Exactly. I miss knowing where everything is. My spots. The routine. But this—this is pushing me. It’s making me grow. I like that.”

“Tell me about the team,” you say, pen loosely tucked behind your ear, even though you’re not using it anymore. “Because that’s not just any locker room. You’ve got Arike. You’ve got DiJonai. That’s some serious personality to walk into.”

She laughs, head tilting back for a second. “It’s wild. In the best way. Arike’s got this energy that’s just... loud in the most joyful, chaotic way. She’ll walk into practice already roasting everyone. And DiJonai is the most stylish person I’ve ever met. She’ll show up in a full fit at 8 a.m. like it’s fashion week.”

You grin. “Do you feel like the rookie?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, smiling again. “They keep me humble. Arike made me carry her bag once just because I beat her at a shooting drill.”

“That’s hazing.”

“She called it character building.”

“Same thing.”

“She’s lucky I like her.”

“You like them both?”

“I do,” she says, with warmth that feels earned. “It’s different from college. You don’t have that built-in family right away. You’ve gotta prove yourself. Earn their trust. But they’ve been really supportive. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

“Do you mess up a lot?”

She shrugs. “I think everyone does. But I try to learn fast.”

“And leadership?” you ask. “You were the leader at UConn. Now you’re the rookie again. How’s that shift been?”

She hesitates—just enough for you to catch it.

“It’s humbling,” she says after a beat. “At UConn, people looked to me. Now I’m learning to speak less, listen more. It’s weird, finding your voice again. In a new system. A new city.”

You nod. “For what it’s worth? You’re doing a good job here.”

Her eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve got presence. And you don’t dodge the real stuff.”

A pause. Not long, but full. Charged.

“I think that’s the best compliment I’ve gotten all week,” she says, voice low.

“Maybe I’ll try to beat it before we’re done.”

“Now that’s dangerous,” she says, echoing the phrase from earlier, lips twitching at the edges.

The air between you pulls tighter, warmer. You push forward before it swallows you whole.

“All right,” you say, clearing your throat like that’ll clear the heat in your chest. “Walk me through a day in the life of Paige Bueckers. Not game day. Just... a random off-day in Dallas.”

She exhales like it’s a relief to shift gears.

“I wake up late,” she admits, eyes flicking to yours like she’s confessing a crime. “I’m not a morning person unless I have to be. So maybe 9:30, 10?”

“A rebel,” you murmur.

She smiles. “I stretch. Journal sometimes. Depends on the mood. Then maybe a walk. I like walking. Especially in new places.”

“City walks? Nature? What’s the vibe?”

“City. I like the noise. Headphones in. No destination.”

You hum. “You people watch?”

“Always.”

“And the music?”

She smirks. “What do you think I listen to?”

You blink, caught off guard by the pivot. “Oh, we’re flipping the interview now?”

“Just curious,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye. “What does your gut tell you?”

You lean back, arms crossed, mock-thinking.

“You strike me as an R&B girl,” you say. “Smooth, layered, a little introverted. You’ve definitely got some SZA in rotation. Maybe Summer Walker. Some old Alicia Keys when you’re feeling dramatic.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed.

“But,” you continue, slowly, “I also think you secretly listen to sad Taylor Swift songs on planes.”

That does it. She laughs so hard she folds in on herself, hand over her mouth.

“I—how did you—”

“I knew it,” you say, victorious. “You’re a ‘Clean’ or ‘The Archer’ type, huh?”

She’s still laughing. “You don’t miss.”

“You are the archer,” you tease. “Careful aim. Hidden feelings. Lowkey brooding.”

“Oh my God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You’re exposing me.”

“You exposed yourself, Bueckers.”

She grins. “You’ve been studying me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just doing my homework.”

“Dangerous,” she repeats again, softer this time.

You catch her gaze, and there it is—something wordless passing between you. Not scripted. Not planned. Just real.

Em’s voice crackles in your ear piece again, distant but amused, “Tell them to get a room.”

You cough. “Sorry, my producer says we’re flirting too hard.”

“Is she wrong?” Paige asks, still smiling.

“Isn’t that for the audience to decide?”

You both laugh. But it’s different now—layered. Knowing. You glance back down at your outline and realize, again, that you haven’t touched it in ten minutes.

“Any hobbies?” you ask, lighter now. “Other than walking with your headphones in and contemplating your entire emotional landscape through sad pop lyrics?”

She groans. “Stop.”

You grin. “Never.”

“I read,” she offers, regaining composure. “Mostly sports bios, but sometimes fiction. Stuff that lets me disappear a little.”

“And when you want to reappear?”

She looks at you, half-tilted smile, eyes softer. “I guess… I come back to things like this. Conversations. People who see me.”

You weren’t ready for that one. You blink, breath catching in your throat.

“Well,” you say, voice suddenly a little unsteady, “hi.”

She mirrors your tone. “Hi.”

And for the third time in less than an hour, you forget entirely that there are cameras on.

You lean back into your chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“All right,” you say, tone shifting into something more playful, “you’ve survived the deep dive. You’ve given us poetry, heartbreak, growth arcs. But now it’s time for the real journalism.”

Paige raises a brow, lips twitching. “Oh no.”

“Rapid fire round,” you announce, adjusting your mic dramatically. “No overthinking. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. You ready?”

She nods slowly, suspicious but smiling. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Favorite cheat meal.”

“Chick-fil-A. Spicy deluxe.”

You fake a gasp. “Problematic and spicy. Bold choice.”

She snorts. “Gotta be honest.”

“Pre-game ritual?”

“Getting lost in the music. Right sock on before the left.”

“Superstitious or just vibing?”

“Superstitious. Like, irrationally.”

You make a note. “We’ll revisit that in therapy.”

She laughs, shaking her head.

“Biggest pet peeve?”

“People chewing with their mouths open.”

“That’s fair. What are you bad at?”

There’s a pause, a beat longer than expected. She licks her lips, almost shy.

“Texting back,” she admits.

“Oh?” You lean forward, faux serious. “We’ve found the flaw.”

“Hey,” she says, defensive but laughing. “I read them! I just… don’t reply. Or I do, like, in my head. It’s a problem.”

“You know,” you muse, “that’s dangerous behavior for someone flirting on a podcast.”

She meets your gaze, eyes gleaming. “Who says I won’t reply to you?”

The silence after that is louder than anything you’ve recorded today.

You raise your brows, smirk playing at the edge of your mouth. “We’ll circle back.”

She grins. “Looking forward to it.”

You break eye contact because if you don’t, you’ll fall face-first into it again. Instead, you shuffle your notes, breathe slowly, and shift the tone with practiced ease.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “can I tell you something?”

Paige blinks, surprised by the sudden turn, but nods. “Yeah.”

You rest your elbows on your knees, fingers laced loosely. The studio feels smaller now, intimate. Like the lights have dimmed without anyone touching a switch.

“I started this podcast in my college dorm,” you begin. “Borrowed mics. Blankets tacked on the walls for soundproofing. No sponsors. No following. Just… this need to make space for women’s sports. For athletes who were always doing the most and getting the least attention.”

Paige’s expression shifts—softer, listening in a different way.

“I was mad,” you continue. “That no one was talking about it. Mad that I had to dig through forums and niche blogs to find out when a W game was airing. Mad that girls were breaking records and getting two seconds of coverage between football updates.”

You glance at her, and she’s not smiling anymore. She’s just watching you, gaze warm and unwavering.

“So I built this,” you say. “One episode at a time. And now we’re here. You’re here. And it means a lot.”

She sits with that. Doesn’t rush to respond. Just lets it breathe.

Then she says, quiet and sincere, “Thank you.”

You look up. “For what?”

“For doing it,” she replies. “For caring. For showing up. For giving people like me space to be more than stats and soundbites.”

It hits you harder than you expect. You swallow, nod.

“Sometimes it feels like yelling into the void,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, voice steady, “I hear you.”

And God, the way she says it. Like it’s not just about this podcast. Like she sees more than you’re willing to show. Like she’s been listening to you, even before she stepped into the studio.

The moment lingers. Longer than it should. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. You’re the first to shift, eyes flicking down to your notes. But your voice is soft when you ask the next question.

“All right. Last one. No pressure.”

She leans back a little, sensing the shift. “Hit me.”

“What’s something people always get wrong about you?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Paige’s gaze drops to her hands, fingers twisting the cap of her water bottle again. She breathes in slowly, then out.

“That I’m always put together,” she says finally.

You don’t speak. You just let her keep going.

“I think people look at the highlights and the press and assume I’ve got it all figured out. That I’m calm. Collected. That I don’t break down. But I do. A lot. I get nervous. I overthink. I put so much pressure on myself it sometimes feels like I can’t breathe.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, but it thins a little at the edges.

“I smile through it, because that’s what people expect. But inside? I’m scared all the time. That I’m not enough. That I’ll mess up. That they’ll stop believing in me.”

You nod, slow. “That’s real.”

She exhales. “Yeah.”

You glance at her, and your tone gentles even more.

“Me too,” you say.

She turns toward you.

“I get nervous before every interview,” you admit. “Even now. Especially now.”

Her brows lift slightly. “With me?”

You nod. “Yeah. You’re… more than I expected.” That makes her smile again. Small. Honest. “You’re doing great,” you tell her.

“So are you,” she replies, and something shifts again in the air—like a curtain pulled back, or a room getting quieter when someone important walks in.

The lights haven’t changed. The mics are still on. But everything feels different. You don’t need to say anything else. You just sit in it. Together.

You’ve never wanted an interview to end less.

It’s not just that the episode’s been good—though, objectively, it’s been one of your best. The pacing, the banter, the rhythm. The intimacy that crept in somewhere around the midpoint and never left. It’s all been magnetic. Electric. Like your favorite kind of story, the one you fall into so deeply you forget you’re holding the book.

But time’s up. You feel it before Em signals it in your ear. Before the last question fades into a silence thick with things unsaid.

You tap the edge of the mic once and clear your throat, voice calm but low.

“Well… that’s gonna do it for today’s episode of She Scores.”

Paige’s eyes are still on you, softer than they were an hour ago.

You glance at her, smile twitching at the corners of your mouth.

“Paige Bueckers, thank you for coming through, for sharing your story, and for ruining all other guests for me from this point forward.”

She laughs under her breath. “High praise.”

“I mean it,” you say, more serious now. “This was special.”

She doesn’t speak right away. When she does, her voice is quiet.

“I had fun,” she says.

You nod once, throat tightening for some reason you don’t have time to name.

“I’m your host,” you say into the mic, still looking at her, “and if you need me, I’ll be rewatching this episode on mute just to study eye contact.”

She lets out a full laugh—quiet, disbelieving, charmed. You don’t break the stare.

“And as always,” you finish, voice slow and warm, “thanks for listening. We’ll see you next time.”

The red light clicks off.

The studio doesn’t move right away. It rarely does. Your crew’s used to your pacing, your cadence. They let the moment breathe. But eventually, lights dim to neutral, camera arms swing away, and a few muted voices pick up as people begin unplugging cables and shutting down feeds.

You lean back in your seat, drawing a slow breath.

She stretches her legs slightly, then looks over at you. “That went fast.”

You nod. “That’s how you know it’s good.”

She stands first. You do the same. Neither of you rushes.

Em walks past the set, holding a half-rolled cable over her shoulder. She catches your eye and smirks. You ignore her.

Paige lingers by the couch, hands in her pockets, looking around the studio like she wants to memorize it.

You don’t say anything. You just watch her watching everything.

After a beat, you walk over and gesture toward the door.

“I’ll walk you out.”

She nods. “Cool.”

You step into the quiet hallway side by side. The air’s cooler here, and the low hum of fluorescent lights follows you down the corridor until you reach the side exit near the green room. You stop there, under a small overhead light. It's soft. Pale. Like a halo waiting to happen.

Paige turns slightly and leans back against the wall, her shoulder brushing the cool brick, arms crossed loosely.

“You’re really good at this,” she says.

You tilt your head, amused. “The podcast?”

She shrugs. “All of it. This space. The way you talk to people. It feels... safe.”

That takes the wind out of you a little. In the best way.

You take a small step closer.

“You made it easy,” you say, voice low.

She smiles again. Not wide. Just real. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then—without a word—she pulls out her phone and holds it toward you, screen lit up on the contact page.

“In case I need help prepping for interviews,” she says. You take the phone, eyebrows raised. “Or something like that,” she adds, teasing but quiet.

You type in your number, thumb hovering for a second before you hit save. You don’t add an emoji or anything extra. Just your name. Clean. Simple. But your heart’s not moving simple. It’s skipping. Tripping.

You hand the phone back and she looks at it for a second, nods once, then locks the screen and slips it back into her pocket.

“Well,” she says.

“Well,” you echo.

The silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Just unfinished.

You don’t hug. You don’t say too much. You don’t have to.

She opens the door and steps out into the early evening light. You watch her walk down the path toward the lot—hair catching gold from the sunset, one headphone already in.

She doesn’t look back.

But you stay there, standing in the doorway, your hands tucked into your pockets like maybe they’ll keep you from feeling too much.

A moment later, Em walks up behind you, pausing in the doorway.

She glances at Paige’s retreating figure. Then at you. “You are so down bad.”

You exhale. Slow. A smile cracks the corner of your mouth.

“I know.”

You don’t deny it. You just watch the door swing slowly shut, and try not to already miss her.

It’s just past 8:30 p.m. when a knock comes.

You’re on your couch, bare-faced, in sweats, hair tied up in a lopsided bun. The post-interview high has settled into a quiet hum in your chest, the kind that doesn’t want to fade but also can’t be sustained. You haven’t eaten yet. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The remote’s resting on your stomach. You were debating rewatching the episode clips Em already sent you—Paige’s soft laugh on loop, her eyes lingering on yours like there was more she wasn’t saying.

You haven’t even touched your phone. You’ve been too afraid to find out whether she texted or didn’t.

The knock happens again.

You freeze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not food delivery, not friends, not—

No.

No way.

You rise slowly, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, and pad barefoot toward the door.

When you open it, you forget how to breathe.

Paige Bueckers is standing on your doorstep, backlit by the hallway’s overhead glow, a bunch of wildflowers in one hand and two overfilled grocery bags in the other. She’s wearing joggers and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair down, glasses slightly crooked, like she threw the whole look together in a rush.

You stare.

She blinks, then offers a crooked smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, dumbly.

She lifts the flowers a little. “So… I might’ve told Em I wanted to see you again and she might’ve given me your address.”

You narrow your eyes. “That little traitor.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘She’s down bad so don’t mess this up.’”

You groan into your hand.

“You’re not the only one,” Paige adds, laughing.

You step back and open the door wider. “Get in here before someone sees you and sells the story to DeuxMoi.”

She steps inside. You take the grocery bags from her hand, eyes scanning their contents—pasta, wine, garlic bread, salad mix, two pints of ice cream, and a suspiciously expensive-looking block of parmesan.

You blink. “This is… a lot of food.”

“I panicked,” she admits, cheeks pink. “I was going to ask you out for dinner tomorrow, but then I realized I didn’t want to wait.”

You look up at her.

She shrugs. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s—God, it’s not weird. It’s really not weird.”

“Good.” She shifts the flowers in her arms. “Because I was kind of already halfway here when I realized I didn’t actually ask.”

You reach for the flowers. “Consider me asked. And saying yes.” You pause. “Like… yes, yes.”

“Yeah?” she asks, a little breathless.

You grin. “Yeah.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re both barefoot in your kitchen. She’s stirring the sauce while you try, and fail, to open the bottle of wine. Soft music plays from the speaker you usually reserve for sad Sunday cleaning sessions.

There’s flour on your cheek, red sauce on her hoodie sleeve, and an entire salad still untouched in a bowl because the two of you got distracted talking about pre-game pump up songs and you accidentally brought up her Rookie of the Month highlight reel with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I knew you watched that ten times,” she teases, hip bumping you lightly.

“I was doing research.”

“For what? Your dreams?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

She sets the spoon down and turns to you, leaning her hip into the counter. “This is nice.”

You nod, heart thudding against your ribs. “It is.”

You’re quiet for a second. Not uncomfortable—just full again. The kind of silence where things settle without losing spark.

Then she tilts her head.

“I didn’t want the night to end,” she says, voice lower now. “After the podcast. I kept thinking about everything I didn’t say.”

“Like what?” you ask, careful not to move too fast.

She meets your gaze. “Like how I didn’t want it to be just one interview. Or one conversation. Or one night.”

Your breath catches.

She steps a little closer, the space between you narrowing to something charged.

“I know we’re both busy,” she murmurs. “Schedules. Travel. Different States. Media stuff. But I wanted you to know that I meant it—when I said you made me feel safe. Like I could be myself.”

You swallow. “You were yourself.”

“Because of you,” she says, no hesitation.

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of her, the steadiness in her voice. Her hand brushes yours on the countertop.

“So,” she says softly, “if this is just dinner, that’s okay. But if it’s something more—if it could be more—I’d like that.”

You don’t speak. You just lean in and press your forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut, everything inside you humming.

“I’d like that too,” you whisper.

Her fingers graze yours, then hold.

Outside, the city keeps moving—cars passing, lights blinking, lives rushing past. But in your kitchen, time slows down. The sauce simmers. The wine breathes. And for the first time in a long time, so do you.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige x reader #paige bueckers fanfic #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige bueckers uconn #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #dallas wings #wnba x reader #wnba #wnba players #wlw #lesbian #wuh luh wuh

272 notes · View notes

literatureloverx · 9 months ago

Text

BSD MEN x their first time meeting their darlings

Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky, Dazai Osamu, Nakahara Chuuya, Nikolai Gogol, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

BSD MEN x fem!reader

Fyodor Dostoevsky

You and Fyodor met at the museum.

He noticed you from a distance, intrigued by your beauty as you stood before a painting for longer than most would.

Drawn by an irresistible curiosity, he approached you to hear your thoughts on the artwork.

To him, you resembled a beautiful doll, exquisite and delicate, with a mind that radiated compassion toward his complex moral code and a heart that was both truthful and sincere.

Your gentle smile captivated him, sparking an interest that went beyond mere admiration; it stirred something deeper within him.

The full scenario is HERE

Dazai Osamu

You met Dazai either in his Port Mafia or in his Armed Detective Agency era. I will go with the second option, because PM!Dazai is more complicated.

Dazai encountered you on the beach at dawn.

It had been another sleepless night for him, and he was wandering aimlessly, as he often did after consuming alcohol without a care for the consequences.

The cool sea breeze tousled his hair, and the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the shore provided a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind.

Thinking the fresh air would help ease his slight headache, he walked at a slow pace, allowing the serenity of the beach to wash over him.

Scenario

As he wandered, he spotted a bench facing the beautiful water, where the dawn reflected brilliantly like molten gold. Without a moment's hesitation, he settled onto the bench, feeling the rough wood beneath him as he gazed at the horizon.

The sun began to rise, casting warm hues of orange and pink across the sky, but even that beauty couldn't quite pull him from the fog of his thoughts.

He yawned, a weary reminder of yet another night spent in restless contemplation, unable to escape the burdens that always seemed to find him.

A few moments later, someone sat beside him on the other side of the bench. His eyes widened in surprise as he turned to see you, a soft smile gracing your lips, almost apologetically.

The way the morning light played with your features was mesmerising, and for a fleeting moment, Dazai forgot the weight of his troubles.

Your gentle, melodic voice cut through the sound of the waves and reached his ears, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. "I hope it's okay for me to sit here? I also came to watch the sunrise."

The sunrise cascaded across your angelic smile, illuminating your hair as if each strand were made of stardust.

Dazai felt an unfamiliar flutter in his chest, a sensation he hadn't expected. He studied you, taking in the delicate way your eyes sparkled with the early light, and the calmness that radiated from your presence.

It was as if you were a breath of fresh air amidst the heaviness that often surrounded him.

"Of course," he replied, a hint of a smile breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. "I can't say I mind the company of such a beautiful young lady, especially at a moment like this."

You smiled, but didn’t answer.

As you both sat in silence, watching the sun rise higher into the sky, Dazai's mind raced.

The tranquility of the moment was refreshing, and he felt drawn to you in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling.

He was self-aware enough to know that this was no simple attraction he was feeling; it was something deeper, something he didn't quite know how to handle.

Nakahara Chuuya

Chuuya likely knows you either from his childhood—perhaps through the sheep—or your family has loose ties to the Port Mafia, and you happen to cross paths by chance.

I prefer the second option because it excites me more and is easier to write. (I’m really excited about this and want to write a full story with various chapters, but unfortunately, I have too many requests to finish right now.)

You know those Wattpad stories where the main character's dad has ties to the mafia, deeply indebted?

One day, the handsome mafia boss appears out of nowhere, demanding the money back—or worse, the daughter of the man. Well, this is not how Chuuya operates. He is a gentleman, after all.

Due to certain circumstances, instead of Akutagawa, Chuuya—the mafia executive himself—takes on the mission to collect the debt.

The jewelry mart of the mafia is under his care, and he decides to handle the matter personally this time.

It's a rare move for him, but something about the situation tugs at his instincts.

He circles your house, a sleek black car parked discreetly down the street, as he assesses the scene with a discerning eye.

The neighborhood is quiet, almost too quiet, and he can't shake the feeling that something is off.

The thought of confronting someone who owes the mafia money doesn't faze him, but he feels a sense of responsibility creeping in.

He pushes the thought aside; his focus is on the task at hand.

Storming in with a show of force, Chuuya enters your home, flanked by eight other men meant to intimidate.

But everyone knows that Nakahara Chuuya is a one-man army.

Scenario

The tension in the air is palpable as he strides toward your father, who stands pale and trembling.

Without hesitation, he forcefully pushes your father to the pavement, making him bite the concrete.

"You've made a grave mistake," Chuuya growls, the weight of authority lacing his words.

Your father stammers, trying to explain himself, but the panic in his eyes only fuels Chuuya's anger.

As Chuuya raises his gun, ready to make an example of your father, a pleading voice interrupts him.

You, a young woman, are being held back as you desperately try to reach your father.

"Please, don't!" you cry, your voice breaking.

Your teary eyes strike right through his heart, leaving him momentarily dumbfounded. Here's someone ready to sacrifice herself for her family.

You.

In that instant, he feels something shift within him—a stirring he hasn't experienced before. He doesn't understand what is happening; he can swear he's never felt this way before, and it unnerves him.

"Who are you?" he asks, trying to mask his confusion behind a façade of coldness.

"I'm his daughter! Please let him go! Take me! Take me instead!"

Your words are infused with desperation and bravery, resonating deep within him.

Everything else—the chaos, the noise—fades into silence. He is entirely focused on you, captivated by your beauty and your courage.

Chuuya can't help but admire your spirit. You're not begging for mercy out of fear; you're standing tall in the face of danger, ready to take your father's place. It strikes him as both foolish and incredibly brave. The dichotomy fascinates him.

As he lowers his gun, the gravity of the situation begins to weigh on him. He looks at your father, then back to you, and realizes he doesn't want to be the monster in this story. Not before your eyes, at least. Not now.

"Enough," he says, his voice steady but softer than before.

He knows he doesn’t need to be doing this. He can take the debt in more than one way. He has many options, but he chose this one because it was the quickest. However…things changed.

Without a second thought, he lowers his weapon and releases your father, taking a step back. The shock in your father's eyes mirrors the confusion swirling in Chuuya's mind, but he knows he's made the right choice.

As you rush to your father's side, Chuuya feels an unfamiliar warmth spreading through him. You’re so…mesmerising.

The way you move, the way you talk, the way you cry…he could stand there and watch you for hours, maybe even days. In fact, he felt like he could watch you for all eternity.

He tries to shake this weird feeling off.

"Consider this your lucky day," he adds, turning on his heel, his heart pounding in his chest. "But next time, you won't be so fortunate."

Nikolai Gogol

He either encountered you during a mission, where you were merely an unusual target that intrigued him, or he met you before he joined the Decay of the Angels.

For the narrative, I would lean towards the idea that "he met you on a mission where you were an odd prey."

For Nikolai to become interested in someone (be it romantically or platonically), he would need to sense a connection between the intricacies of his mind and your understanding of this complex moral system.

You were likely an unassuming office worker, perhaps even a part-timer, blissfully unaware of the corruption that plagued your workplace and why it could become a target for a terror attack.

How naive of you.

When he sees your innocent, almost silly face, he would smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he prepares to do something whimsical.

Scenario

Nikolai approached you, flashing his trademark grin—one that held a hint of danger mixed with playful charm.

"QUIZ TIIIME!!! Guess what I'm about to do to youuuu, little dove?!—“

He moves forward, his nose almost touching your cheek. His theatrical chuckle echoes through the halls left behind.

The floors are covered with blood and shards of glass, and you’re the only one remaining alive—together with this madman.

“—Yes indeedy! I'll make you feel free like a true bird! Free from everything! I’ll free you from the cage of your emotions, so that you can live as a credit to our race, a truly free homo sapiens!!"

His voice danced with mischief as he leaned against the doorframe, tugging slightly at the ropes bound around your wrists.

"P-please..." you stammered, the tremor in your voice betraying your anxiety. He ignores your quiet plea.

"Do you happen to like birds, little dove?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. Your startled expression was delightful to him.

You nod, and he follows up with, "Why is that?"

You have no idea what this strange clown wants from you. The only thing you want now is to flee—to run away, to go home, to survive. You’re not sure how you’re going to reach that goal, but you’re willing to do anything.

That’s why you start making up excuses to occupy him with your chatter for as long as possible. You’re hoping to get rescued… or at least to receive his mercy.

"Some birds are free in that sense, while others are made to remain in their cages…"

Nikolai leaned closer, intrigued by your perspective, his whole presence threatening every fibre of your being.

"So you believe that some birds are meant to be clipped, little dove?"

"N-no," you replied, trying to steady your voice despite the flutter of panic in your chest. "They are meant to be free. But even if the bird is free to go wherever it wishes, freedom is nothing but an illusion.—“

You were scared, and you didn’t know if what you were doing was the right thing to do in this situation. Your voice trembled.

“—Because even if the bird is freed from its cage, it won’t be truly free to go wherever it wishes. The laws of nature still apply—it can’t abandon its flock.”

Your heart raced, and you felt exposed, as if you were revealing too much of your own fear. His unnerving heterochromic eyes scare you, you're trying to make something up, to avoid his gaze.

"—A bird that has never known freedom won't long for it; it is simply content with its cage and the comfortable life it provides—“

You aren’t sure if this is working, but he isn’t hurting you, and he’s certainly listening. You gasp as he tugs at the ropes again, speaking in his usual whimsical manner.

“Can you think of any reason why a bird born in a cage would crave freedom? A reason for the bird to detest its own—“

He giggles.

“…’comfortable’ cage?”

“I…I don’t see a reason for that to happen…unless that comfort turns into terror—"

His façade seems to crumble for a moment. Your voice wavers, the weight of his gaze amplifying your anxiety.

"—unless the bird has been abused in its very cage, sir..."

He stepped back, contemplating your words. The thought was foreign, yet it resonated with an undeniable truth.

Too real.

It felt way too real for him.

"You're quite insightful for someone so naive.”

"Please... just let me go," you whispered, your heart pounding.

He giggles again. It’s just one of the many unnerving qualities he possesses, as you recognize.

"I can't do that," he said softly, his tone shifting. "But I can promise you this—your voice matters to me now, little dove."

"After all," he added, his grin returning with a hint of mischief, "what fun would it be to let you go without revealing some of my tricks first? Riiiight??!!"

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

He either met you during a pivotal, life-altering event, like when he was gravely wounded (edgy and intimate), or in a more everyday setting, like a grocery store or shopping mall (wholesome and adorable). I’ll go with the second option, just as you’ve chosen.

He coughs as he takes the shopping bags into his hand, nothing more than some snacks placed inside.

He feels particularly weak today, and he knows it’s best if he returns to a safe space.

It’s time to go home.

As he walks, his thoughts swirl with a familiar frustration.

Weakness gnaws at him, contradicting everything he knows he needs to know—survival of the fittest, strength above all.

He can’t even enjoy something as simple as crisps without feeling the sting of inadequacy, a reminder that he constantly strives to prove himself strong despite the frailty he sometimes feels.

However, a certain someone might change this mindset of his at some point. It’s you.

Scenario

“Excuse me!”

The soft voice cuts through his thoughts, and he turns around, annoyance bubbling to the surface.

He dislikes attention, especially in public spaces. It serves no purpose, and as a mafioso, he values his ability to blend in, to move through the world unnoticed. Drawing any kind of attention to himself, especially when he feels vulnerable, is the last thing he wants.

He scans the area, irritation rising when he realizes there’s no one in sight. His first thought is that he’s hallucinating—another sign that he needs to retreat to his quarters before the nausea overwhelms him.

But then, out of nowhere, you appear. Right in front of him.

His eyes widen slightly, just enough to betray his surprise.

His shock is mild but undeniable as he takes in the sight of you, someone warm and inviting, standing confidently before him. What could someone like you possibly want from him?

Akutagawa’s gaze flickers over you, searching for a reason, a threat, something to explain why you’re in his path. The unfamiliarity of the encounter makes him uncomfortable, and his guard instinctively rises.

“You dropped this…”

Your voice, kind and genuine, takes him off guard for the second time. Two moments of confusion in a single encounter—he’s already feeling off balance.

It would be a sight to behold had you known who he truly was—one of Yokohama’s most feared mafiosos.

You’re holding out his handkerchief. The one he uses to cough into.

His gaze shifts to the cloth in your hand, then back to your face. The urge to dismiss you rises quickly, but as he looks away, something unexpected happens.

Your eyes meet his. His cold, grey stare, which normally repels others or leaves them frozen, meets your gaze, and for a brief moment, something inside him stirs. The sensation is strange—something between discomfort and intrigue—as if, for just a second, he sees you differently. Not just as a stranger, but as something… more.

He’s not used to this. The feeling tingles at the edges of his awareness, unsettling and foreign, making him question what it is about you that sparked this unfamiliar warmth in his chest. In that instant, he feels the weight of his ideals—the relentless pursuit of strength and dominance—shift slightly, as though something in him yearns for connection despite the ferocity with which he clings to his principles.

Akutagawa hesitates, caught off guard by the genuine kindness radiating from you. He can feel the knot in his chest tightening as he grapples with the implications of your presence.

He clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “… Thanks,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper.

The handkerchief hangs awkwardly between you, and he feels a surge of irritation at the vulnerability it represents.

You smile at his gratitude, and he can’t help but find the expression both refreshing and irritating.

“You didn’t have to bother. It’s nothing important.”

You tilt your head to the side. What could he mean? Nothing important as in ‘just a handkerchief’? It looked expensive. It definitely didn’t look like something you’d throw away after using it once.

“I wanted to,” you reply, your tone light and genuine. “I couldn’t just leave it there.”

He narrows his eyes, instinctively defensive. “Most people wouldn’t bother,” he retorts, his annoyance flaring up.

Oh, he wasn’t trying to blend in at all. He was being impolite.“They don’t care about things that don’t concern them.”

Your gaze wavers slightly, making him feel uncomfortable, which catches him off guard.

“But I do care. Sometimes, it’s the little things that matter.”

He scoffs, an edge to his voice. He mumbles, ready to leave any moment. “Little things? They mean nothing.”

You either survive or you don’t.—Is what he told himself. He recognised that he stepped out of the line. The nausea surely wasn’t helping him.

“Maybe,” you say, unfazed, “but that doesn’t mean we have to give in to that. We can choose to be different.”

Akutagawa’s chest tightens at your words. What were you yapping about? Like that stupid weretiger. He shifts his weight, irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

“You think you can change anything?” he asks, skepticism lacing his tone. He wants to leave. Your presence is making him feel uncomfortable.

“I believe we can,” you answer, your conviction steady. “Even if it’s just for one person at a time.”

His heart races, battling against his instinct to retreat into his shell. He studies you, trying to dissect your motivations, to find the weakness in your resolve.

“And you think you’re that person?” he challenges, his eyes cold.

“Why not?” you reply, meeting his gaze head-on. “If you’re open to it.”

His cheeks flush slightly. He feels an unexpected pull toward you, and he knows that he needs to leave. Now.

803 notes · View notes

moonastro · 1 year ago

Text

groom persona chart

moon in the house

what is a groom persona chart? this chart exhibits qualities that your husband will have and possible placements that can be seen in their chart. it is simply a chart all about your spouse in a woman's chart. the asteroid groom can be identified using the code 5129.

as the moon represents ones feelings, emotions, intuition and deep thoughts, in the GPC the moon can give insight of emotional characteristics the fs may have, how they deal with their emotions and a bit about their early childhood years.

reminder: this is my interpretation from observations and first hand experiences, so don't take this to heart.

moon in the 1st house: fs can spend a lot of time alone and may enjoy it, they dont take it as a negative, its somewhat of a good thing for them. but can switch emotions rather fast without any hesitation. like can turn from happy to sad to angry to happy again in like 5 minutes??? they may reflect a lot on why is it the way that they feel what they feel. are born problem solvers so spouse may not hold grudges as such when upset, he actually could apologise first just to get it out of their head. and as they love to be in charge they like to take the lead and fix the problem between them and the people they have problems with. can easily become agitated when sad or emotionally vulnerable, so sadness can turn into anger because they may view being sad or emotional to be weak. spouse may have had an independent childhood, growing up could have had to learn things by themselves and figure things out alone.

spouse can have natal moon in aries, 1st house, fire sign, fire house, fire degree.

moon in the 2nd house: the spouse may act quite dominant and can get quite dramatic when emotional. like almost narcissistic also. can blame themselves to be the victim when they are not and blaming everything on their spouse. lots of shouting when upset. spouse can get upset as they feel sorry for themselves. can take action before listening and figuring out what the problem is so when upset can pick the nearest thing they are closest to that they can start a riot with. when the fs gets upset they may hold their grudge and pretend as if everything is fine in order not to make the native feel bad. the fs can also have an emotional attachment to an item in their home or something that they possess, and can get VERY upset when touched or moved. when sad fs can get clingy to the native and may not approach the problem to fix it but rather think of the problem and worry. the fs childhood could have been a nostalgic one, full of good meals, full of singing and music, lots of dancing and gifts being handed to them.

spouse can have natal moon in taurus, 2nd house, earth sign, earth house, earth degree.

moon in the 3rd house: fs is a bit immature at times when it comes to their emotional stability. they can act almost whiney and even throw tantrums when they get upset. also i noticed that with natives that have this placement, their fs don't communicate with them effectively or don't talk at all when angry or upset with their partner, like they will stay nonchalant until the native apologises first or they own up to their wrongs. quite stubborn actually with their speech. spouse can give subtle signs that they are upset so people can acknowledge that they are feeling that way, for example they can subtly say 'oh i feel a bit bad' and then the conversation goes off from there. when anxious or feeling uneasy, the fs can jitter a lot and constantly move and never rest, if their mind is not at ease and so is their body. the fs childhood could have been full of short travels and full of excitement, may have went on holidays quite a lot and travelling on bikes, cars, buses and so on.

spouse can have natal moon in gemini, 3rd house, air sign, air house, air degree.

moon in the 4th house: spouse can be very sensitive to some topics (check sign to get a better insight for example if in cancer can get emotional when people talk about their family bad or good). perhaps fs also lives farther away from their family. spouse is attentive and listens very well, engages in peoples opinions and what others have to say, resemble a rather calm and comforting presence. are caring without a doubt. spouse can have a mother instinct and solve problems for other people who are emotionally upset however when they are in that state they just let it happen and dont think much of it. can have a pure heart and may be sensitive to their surroundings that other people, can also get overwhelmed quite easily because of this. spouse worries about the ones that they love and care about, they genuinely will worry about them. spouse may have had a family oriented childhood, full of tradition and heritage, lots of family around them all of the time. spouse possibly has a great bond with their mother figure.

spouse can have natal moon in cancer, 4th house, water sign, water house, water degree.

moon in the 5th house: the fs can impose an emotional breakout response relating to their childhood. so if the fs had to go through a certain situation throughout their childhood, the way they felt and how they acted will carry out into adulthood hence marriage life also. however, can act content or happy even when feeling down, can almost mask their true feelings. when sad can act like 'i am upset why dont you care about me' mindset if that makes sense. they honestly love the attention when sad so they can shed a tear even if it is not serious and can just be a bit dramatic about the whole situation. they can repeat themselves a lot in order to get some attention. when upset they turn to their hobbies and fun stuff that they can do to make themselves feel better if its art, music, dancing, acting, sport etc. spouse may have had a fun and nostalgic childhood, full of outdoor play and full of playing around with other kids.

spouse can have natal moon in leo, 5th house, fire sign, fire house, fire degree.

moon in the 6th house: spouse can become aware of their surroundings when upset which can make them become agitated and sensitive. they feel like the whole room knows how they are feeling when upset or feeling in a state of vulnerability. they do love to cling to people when upset, they dont really like being alone when upset. spouse may critically think of a situation that made them feel off and try to figure out where it went wrong in hope to not let it happen again. (however you cant avoid certain emotions). they want everything perfect so they try to control their emotional state. can think of how their emotions affect their day to day life and sometimes may overthink how being for example upset may impact their work or life. spouse may like to clean when upset or just tidy up their space, the definition of a cleaner environment make your mind at ease. spouse may have had a practical and busy childhood, full of ground rules and routine based childhood. by routine based this could mean that they had a schedule for example had to go to piano lessons every Monday and Wednesday and such.

spouse can have natal moon in virgo, 6th house, earth sign, earth house, earth degree.

moon in the 7th house: this placement in the natives chart can mean getting split or divorced when sad or emotionally vulnerable which can also mean that the spouse can make situations worse than they are and is the one to leave the situation without any context. can turn to legal matters as well and can just take things too far when emotional. when upset can seek advice from good peers or people they are close to, as hearing advice can strengthen their opinion or weaken it. also with this placement i have noticed that they actually express how they feel to other people except the person that they are upset with, they talk it out with others and then come back to the person that they had something going on to sort it out. they just love to have opinions and options.

spouse can have natal moon in libra, 7th house, air sign, air house, air degree.

moon in the 8th house: spouse can keep their true feelings to themselves most of the time, may not tell the truth of how they feel and may lie that they are fine or ok even though they may not be. can have a personal agenda- a side of them that you may not now until later on into the marriage. when upset fs can get vulgar with their language without thinking that they are doing it. could really turn from beauty to beast when upset. 18+ fs can crave sexual intercourse when upset in a way to make up with the native, its almost like an unhealthy coping mechanism because they may not have any other way to make themselves feel better so they can also use it as a distraction to the pain they are feeling. (sorry that went very deep and detailed). on the other hand spouse can numb their emotions also and don't even acknowledge them. but can also turn to practising their spiritual themes such as meditation, some yoga, talking to their ancestors, deep breaths and so forth. the fs childhood may have been altering to their youth, so they may experienced situations that children dont usually experience at such a young age.

spouse can have natal moon in scorpio, 8th house, water sign, water house, water degree.

moon in the 9th house: fs can acknowledge the problem before the emotions come up. they have a talent for preventing situations where it can cause them pain or discomfort. spouse usually seeks to study and making themselves feel better by taking care of their mind and spirit which usually preserves to meditation, yoga, journaling and such. spouse may love to acknowledge their feelings and try to help them overcome it if negative. they accept the emotion and move on with their day. fs may also love to study beyond the obvious and may memorise how certain emotions arise. when in a vulnerable emotional state, spouse can flee the situation and have time to themselves. spouse may have had a free childhood, where they were able to express themselves freely without any restrictions. spouse could have also moved a lot from place to place.

spouse can have natal moon in sagittarius, 9th house, fire sign, fire house, fire degree.

moon in the 10th house: usually the fs are not expressive when emotional, in fact you will rarely see them portray any emotion at all. are strict and will not back down when it an argument, are very stubborn with their views and opinions. you will absolutely not be able to budge their mindset. are a hard worker though, will stick to their role to earn money. the fs may also like to bond over the traditional, vintage and aged things such as history, traditions perhaps even about their childhood. spouse can think themselves as mature when it comes to handling their emotional state, they think that they are in the right all the time so can also mean that they wont apologise even if they are in the wrong. the fs may be more mature than the native even can signify them being a lot older than the native as well. the fs childhood could have been full of strict rules, isolation, labour and lots of discipline.

spouse can have natal moon in capricorn, 10th house, earth sign, earth house, earth degree.

moon in the 11th house: for this placement, the spouse may like to detach and forget about situations that can deem themselves as emotionally hard. they can also hold an attitude of 'its not even that sad get over it' type of thing. but somehow they also enjoy to talk things out with other people before setting things right with the person they had an issue with. spouse may enjoy social company to distract themselves from hardships that they go through emotionally, it can numb them in a sense. so spouse can go to friends house, hang out with mates, play a sport with their group, go to a bar and so on to spend time away from their head. spouse may had a routine based childhood where there was lots of determination and structure within the household. spouse could have been the black sheep of the family, always the odd one out.

spouse can have natal moon in aquarius, 11th house, air sign, air house, air degree.

moon in the 12th house: the spouse can give others and themselves space when things get unsettling. they prefer themselves to distance themselves especially to able them to cool off or perhaps not worsen the situation. they dont like to make a fuss instead choose to sort things out by themselves as apposed to not make it a burden for everyone else. spouse can feel things VERY deeply, and the thing with this placement also is that they cant just rub it off their shoulder as easy, it takes a long time for them to really get back on track from an emotional output. spouse can turn to addictive behaviours when upset in order to make themselves feel better this doesn't have to be substance abuse (but could) it can also be other addictive behaviours such as biting nails, biting lip and such. fs may have had an isolated childhood, perhaps parents weren't present or spouse liked alone time in general. spouse also could have been in the presence of addiction within the household in their childhood years.

spouse can have natal moon in pisces 12th house, water sign, water house, water degree.

thank you for reading and have a lovely day <33

#groom persona chart #future spouse #future husband #asteroid astrology #astro community #astro notes #astro observations #astro placements #astrology #astrology community #astrology observations #astrology signs

1K notes · View notes