#left wing logic

[the-fruit-tea-devil]

*ahem* This has got to be one of the most out-of-touch, brain dead tweets I have seen.

[arowitharrows]

tbh I really dislike how aphobia tends to be discussed whenever there's some kind of incident that makes it visible to general society. The most common response seems to be some variation of "why would anyone hate asexual/aromantic people, they aren't even doing anything" and it just always sits wrong with me. It paints such a passive picture of our existence and feels like a comment influenced by the level of invisibility that aspec people have in society. Why would you be annoyed by someone who is practically invisible? Just go back to ignoring their existence, it's easy!

But despite the invisibility, aspec people are actually doing quite a lot of things that will piss off queerphobic, right-wing and religious people (and hell, even left-wing people). And the most obvious point is that we are actively not performing heterosexuality the way they want us to. People who's entire world view is "cis men and women should be in monogamous, heterosexual marriage and have (white) babies" are not going to lean back and say "oh but those asexuals and aromantics are fine". They will also hate our guts, and they will come up with all sorts of reasons, including insinuating we're all secretly into bestiality, or mentally ill, or not human, or attention seeking children. It's just plain old queerphobia, and like all queerphobia, there's no inherent logic to it which you can worm your way out of by "not doing anything".

And like, there's a lot more that aspec people do which people hate. Raising awareness about amatonormativity? People feel attacked, they hate it. Asexual people having sex? Or not having sex? People hate it! Aromantic people being in (seemingly) romantic relationships? People fucking hate it! Aromantic people having sex? Ohh people hate that!!

I guess the existence of aphobia can be confusing when you haven't spent much time thinking about asexuality and aromanticism, but in the end, these are identities that aren't heteronormative and they will be hit with the same or similar bigotry as any other queer identity. I just get tired of this response after seeing it recycled for 10 years without ever seeming to go any further.

[vamptastic]

I am trying very VERY hard to not be too optimistic about the election but I will say as someone in the Republican trenches I think Trump is getting progressively crazier and crazier and the fans of his that still think they're voting for gas prices seem to be having a bit of a wakeup call. Most of the rhetoric seems to be directed at criticizing Harris which is just not as easy of a target as Biden. I even saw some conservatives poking fun at him for his performance in the debate on a local forum. Think she might have a good chance of winning.

[theboyonthehighcastle]

FUCKING WOKE PEOPLE. THEY DON'T LOVE AT ALL.

[mahalachives]

Part 1: The Meet Cute

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

There were worse ways to die, you supposed.

You could've been mauled by a rabid Suriel.

Or trampled by a particularly aggressive herd of Illyrians during training.

But no. Your fate was to perish from sheer mortification, sprawled across the chest of the most feared male in Velaris.

And, in all likelihood, take him down with you.

Twelve Hours Earlier...

Life in Velaris was, for the most part, peaceful. You loved it here: the bustling markets, the shimmering Sidra, the endless opportunities to get lost in one of the city's many bookstores or cafés.

You had grown up in the Night Court, an ordinary High Fae with no claim to power, no noble name. No extraordinary skill besides the ability to make friends with everyone. (And, perhaps, your uncanny ability to trip over nothing.)

That was why you worked where you did. The Velaris Botanical Archives was the perfect job. Curating and cataloging the history of rare flora, researching the best ways to preserve the Night Court's unique plant life.

You adored every part of it.

Except for the fact that the bookshelves were designed for Illyrians.

Which was how you ended up in this situation.

All you'd wanted was a book on Moonbloom flowers. A single book. But when you asked the head librarian for assistance, she'd waved you off, muttering something about "independent young fae" before disappearing.

So. That left you and your greatest foe.

A ridiculously tall bookshelf.

The logical solution? Climb.

Was it your smartest idea? No. But it wasn't the first time you'd scaled one of these shelves, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

You had nearly reached the book when...crack.

The shelf trembled beneath you.

Your stomach plunged.

"Oh, no," you breathed, right before the entire world tilted.

And then you were falling.

Present Moment.

The only upside to your current predicament was that you hadn't been crushed beneath an avalanche of books.

The downside?

You were currently draped over Azriel.

The Azriel.

The Shadowsinger. The Night Court's lethal spymaster. A legend whispered about in the darkest corners of Prythian.

And you had just fallen on top of him.

The world had gone deathly silent.

You didn't dare breathe.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, you lifted your head.

And...oh. Mother above.

Azriel lay beneath you, sprawled against the floor like he'd been tackled from the heavens. His wings flared slightly behind him, dark as the night sky, his hands firm on your waist where he had somehow instinctively caught you.

His hazel eyes, rich and unreadable, blinked up at you in pure disbelief.

You, meanwhile, were a very mortified starfish.

"I am so sorry," you gasped, scrambling to move. In your rush to not be straddling the Night Court's most terrifying male, you made a fatal mistake.

Your foot slipped on a fallen book.

And like a damn fool, you face-planted right back onto his chest.

Azriel let out a very slow, very deep breath.

You felt the rumble of it beneath you, his self-restraint practically vibrating through his muscles.

His voice, when it finally came, was dangerously calm.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

You squeaked, immediately trying to push yourself up again, but your elbow landed on his stomach.

Azriel made a very small, very controlled noise. A sound that might have been a grunt.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, wait, no! I just..." You sucked in a breath. "This isn't what it looks like."

Azriel arched a slow, painfully unimpressed brow. His gaze flickered to your current position: fully draped over him like an overeager blanket.

"Really?" he drawled.

You swallowed. "Okay," you admitted, "this is exactly what it looks like."

A choking noise came from somewhere nearby.

And that was when you realized you had an audience.

At the entrance of the library, standing in a semi-circle of unholy amusement, were Rhysand, Cassian, Mor, and Amren.

Cassian's entire face was rapidly turning purple as he tried and failed to hold in his laughter.

Mor gasped before cackling so hard she stumbled against Rhys.

Rhysand's lips twitched, but his violet eyes gleamed with utter delight.

And Amren? Stoic, ancient Amren?

She merely crossed her arms and muttered, "Well. This is interesting."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Just spontaneously combust into fae dust.

Azriel, to his credit, was silent. Completely unreadable. But the way his wings twitched, the way his hands were still on your waist...

You felt it then.

A shift.

A sensation that curled into your ribs, warm and terrifying.

Your eyes met his again.

And there, in the depths of those night-kissed irises...

Recognition.

The world tilted.

Your breath caught.

"Oh no," you whispered.

Azriel blinked, his expression sharpening, like something had just slotted into place. Like he felt it, too.

A single second stretched into eternity.

Then, finally, finally, Azriel exhaled.

"Oh no."

And that was the exact moment Cassian completely lost his mind.

The roar of his laughter shattered the silence. His wings flared as he doubled over, hands on his knees, absolutely howling.

Mor collapsed against Rhys, wheezing.

Rhysand sighed through his smirk, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order."

Azriel was still beneath you.

Still touching you.

Still looking at you like you'd just flipped his entire existence upside down.

And you?

You did the only thing your panicked, humiliated, fate-cursed mind could think to do.

You covered your face with your hands and wailed,

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?"

Note: Wrote this during an eight-hour layover. Gotta love airport inspiration! Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be tagged for future chapters! ☺️

[unsolicited-opinions]

The Israel thing confuses the shit out of me, I've gotta say.

I consider myself left wing politically. Pretty darn left. (Or what I thought "left" meant.) I have voted for progressive parties/candidates in every election (local, national, EU-wide) since I was legally able to do so. I am a Pride-flag-waving lesbian, a feminist (I legally changed my surname to my mothers last name in solidarity when I was still a teenager!), a vegan, an environmentalist (I don't drive a car, I don't fly, my home is fossil fuel free, powered entirely by wind and solar generated electricity) and a union member. I'm very careful about everything I buy, always looking for the most ethical option. No "fast fashion". No Twitter since Musk took over. No Amazon Prime.

I try pretty hard, every day, to walk the walk, y'know? Not just talk the talk. I try to live my beliefs. Not just perform them. Even though it is often inconvenient. (Having to constantly look stuff up. See where my money would be going. Check for bad business practices. Who owns what. Who do they vote for. Who do they donate to. How and where is it made. Who made it. How are they treated. What's the carbon footprint. What's the energy efficiency rating. Etc, etc, etc.)

When the October 7th attacks on Israel happened, I immediately realised 'I don't know enough about this' and so started reading about the history (and present) of Israel and Palestine. There were things I felt I needed to know and understand before I threw my lot in with anyone.

One of the earliest things I learned was that Israel existed before Palestine (fact one. And it seemed important.) and Jewish people existed thousands of years before there were Muslims. I learned (fairly quickly and not in great depth) about the Hebrew Bible, the Bar Kokba revolt, the origins of Islam, the Arab conquest of the Levant, the Edict of Expulsion, the Alhambra decree, the 19th century pogroms and the Pale of Settlement, Theodor Herzl and the origins of Zionism, WW1 and the fall of the Ottoman Empire, the Holocaust, the first Arab/Israeli war, Black September, the Munich Olympics, the first and second intifada, Hamas and Fatah, culture and laws in modern Israel...

I feel like I did my homework. And I concluded, given what I had read, that I was quite broadly on Israel's side. It seemed to me that the Jewish people have every right to be there. Israel has every right to exist. It's where the Jewish people originated. They purchased land there legally. They achieved polity and declared independence. They have fought and won wars over it. What more could anyone ask for? They're indigenous to the land, they have always been there (to a greater or lesser degree), the ones who left paid for the land when they returned, they fought wars for the land and won. What other ways can they prove or earn their right to be there? They have done more to "earn" their existence on that land than any other people on Earth.

I do not understand the "left"'s antipathy toward Israel, Israelis or Zionism. It makes no sense to me.

Yes, war is awful. Of course. Innocent people dying is awful. Of course. But that does not seem to be what is being protested. It is Israel's very existence that they object to. And I do NOT understand that. I have tried. I have read what I believe to be a fairly thorough account of the history of the land and its people. And I simply cannot get onboard with what my comrades (...) on the left are saying and doing. It just does not make sense to me. It doesn't fit.

And at the moment (since October 2023) it is in all left wing spaces. Feminist bookshops I once frequented. Environmental organizations I was once a member of. Pride parades I once marched in. All are now obsessed with the BDS movement and bashing Israel and Zionists. And it's not even a question. It's just a given. If you are a feminist or queer or an environmentalist you must also (obviously!) hate Israel. And I just cannot logically understand WHY.

Jews don't often encounter non-Jewish progressives these days who can be normal about Jews, rational about Israel, and see what we see...so I can't tell you how much I appreciate this and you, Anon.

Thank you for sharing these thoughts.

I have so much respect for the integrity required to tell oneself "I don't know enough to have an opinion, so I'm going to make an effort to learn more."

I can count the non-Jews I know who have done that on one hand.

The LGBTQ+ Jews I know (including family) all tell me that while they feel secure, safe, and included as LGBTQ+ persons in Jewish spaces, they don't feel at all safe as Jews in LGBTQ+ spaces, and that breaks my heart because I know how important that sense of community is to my LGBTQ+ family and friends and I understand how much that loss must hurt.

Like most of us, LGBTQ+ Jews are liberals who thought they shared values with other progressives until October 7th taught us that while we might have felt solidarity with them, they didn't feel solidarity with us...and jumped at the opportunity to feel righteous about being hateful.

Many (perhaps most) of us similarly lost communities because you're right that all the progressive spaces aren't just unthinkingly hostile and willfully ignorant, but actively hateful and parroting Jew-hatred tropes from the middle ages, the Czars, the Soviets, and a Fuhrer. In liberal spaces. While claiming to be progressives. While claiming to be AntiFa. While claiming to despise Nazis and bigotry. While allying themselves with Islamist movements which favor genital mutilation, child brides, and honor killings.

If you'd like to get in touch without the anonymity, I'd welcome that - because I'd like to see more of your writing.

Again, thank you. This made my day.

[shanastoryteller]

i know supernatural is the show of missed opportunities but man. the trials really get to me - what a perfect way to reboot and reset this show that you're artificially extending for ratings. it could have been really, really good, actually

so the trials of god is a way for someone to gain the ability to seal the gates of hell and the gates of heaven

they have the translation for hell, they know that slamming the gates of hell shut means calling all the demons back home and locking the key. it's logical, then, to for them to believe the same is true of the one for heaven - that it calls all the angels back home and locks them away where they can't do any more damage

peace, for the people of earth, outside of the influence of angels and demons. that's got to be worth it, right?

so while sam is completing the hell trials, they get the angel tablet, kevin gets translating, to figure out the angel trials. or maybe metatron helps nudge them along to figuring it out, since him being the big bad here isn't really relevant and they are in a bit of time crunch

canon doesn't tell us what the heaven trials are, except that the first one involves a ritual using the heart of a nephilim. they make it sound like they're carving it from their chest, but what i would do is

have a nephilim offer you their heart from their chest (gain their loyalty in a binding ceremony)

create grace from freshwater (there is no rain that falls anywhere on earth that is safe to drink and god said let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters)

find a human soul to guide you to heaven (babel fell but the stairway was built and those with wings have no need of stairs)

so sam is in the midst of the hell trials when dean sort of accidentally on purpose completes the first heaven trial and then the brothers are on parallel train tracks heading in the opposite direction

sam works to close the gates of hell

dean works to close the gates of heaven

demons and angels both working to stop them

sam completes the trials. he restores crowley's humanity and he dies and the gates of hell are closed

but that's not the end

metatron says they can close the gates if they're willing to pay the price. canon says the price is sam's death, but frankly that doesn't make any sense. what's the death of one human against the horrors of hell? and remember, metatron doesn't know the winchesters. maybe another angel would make this comment, knowing how the winchesters have weighed the safety of the world against their brother and left the world out to dry, would think this a price worth warning for. but metatron wouldn't bother, wouldn't even think of it, if that was the only price

the gates of hell close and malevolent spirits explode across the globe, evil spirits and angry ghosts causing death and destruction everywhere

hell serves a function and now the gates are closed and every evil human soul is forced to stay on earth, causing as much destruction as it can

that's the price for closing the gates of hell

except. except. aren't the hell trials interesting?

kill a hellhound. rescue an innocent soul and return it to heaven. purify a demon and restore their humanity.

the trials are not to prove if someone is worthy of closing the gates of hell. it's to prove they're capable of setting hell to rights

the trials are if things got too out of hand, if things were taken too far, and hell had to be put back in it's place. sam dies and ends up exactly where azazel wanted him - ruler of hell. all the demons and souls are trapped with him and what he has to do, while he has them all there, while they can't escape, is exactly what he did to get there

he kills the hellhounds, leaving only those meant to patrol hell. he releases every innocent soul bound there. he purifies the demons one by one, who he either releases as innocent souls or who to pledge to do their job as demons of hell - punishing evil, containing evil - in penance for what they did before (how do i even begin to make up for what i've done, crowley had asked, and this is the answer)

meanwhile, dean, heartbroken, completes the heaven trials and dies

and the gates of heaven slam shut and all the angels are stripped of their grace and expelled from heaven and dean finds himself in charge of an empty heaven

the trials are for when things have gone too far and heaven must be rebuilt, after all

good souls pile up, no one who dies able to truly leave earth, and given enough time they become twisted things that must be hunted along with the spirits of evil men and women who cause chaos from their last breath

dean has work to do. he has one angel - the nephilim whose loyalty he earned in the first trial - and this is what he has to do. he recruits more, to replace the ranks, he creates grace and hands it out judiciously. he sends them to guide the good souls home, using the stairway that the former angels wouldn't be able to use even if they wanted to, and each good act and deed earns them a little more grace. former angels throw themselves into the fight for humans, because they know it's the only way that dean will return their grace to them and lift them back into heaven

and in fighting for them, in living like them, they learn to love these creations of their father that they'd despised. they see what he saw and the thought of destroying this place in a civil war becomes unthinkable to them. they are once more the angels god intended them to be

in this, dean and sam fulfill their destiny as lucifer and michael's vessels. not in letting them in, but in pushing them out, in doing the work each was intended for but refused

only when there is only evil human souls being punished and caged, only once the demons are once more working to run hell and earn their release to heaven, does sam reopen the gates of hell

only when there's a full choir of angels once more, committed to their cause, only once there are souls working with reapers as it once always was, does dean reopen the gates of heaven

they're called the god trials for a reason. above and below, sam and dean act as god, putting things back in their intended places

they could stay. they should stay. keeping house, making sure it all goes smoothly, eternally keeping earth safe from angels and demons both

they're called the god trials for a reason. not even god could resist the paradise inbetween that he'd created

dean doesn't know if sam is going to return to earth. he might stay in hell, and if dean becomes human once more, then what's the point? he'll live and die a human, get stuck in heaven, and be forever separated from the brother he loves

sam doesn't know if dean is going to return to earth. he migh not be able to, might be stuck doing his work - sam assumes if the hell trials did this to him, then the heaven trials did the same to dean, and the idea that dean could have failed the heaven trials after he dies doesn't even cross mind. if he returns and dean's not there then he loses it all, he never again gets to see the brother he loves

but when, exactly, haven't they been willing to risk everything for each other?

dean falls as lucifer fell, throwing himself towards earth

sam rises as michael did after the fall, pulling himself towards earth the same way michael once pulled himself to the top of heaven

what's the use of being a god without his brother, after all?

dean and sam are reunited on earth, human once more

no more angels, no more demons, heaven and hell functioning once more as they should. we're back to basics, a clean slate, all of the rest remade and set aside by their own hands (it's literal and a metaphor, the way the show could have remade itself with the trials, after setting aside kripke's plan while at the same time recognizing that the design of it - two brothers who love each other going across america and fighting evil - is the thing that made it worth watching to begin with) and now it's them again, brothers forged in blood and sacrifice and love, and a new appreciation for the humanity they gave up and returned to

and then we get my beloved monster of the week with no stupid too high stakes, convoluted bullshit involved, beyond the occasional angel who dean refused to reinstate and demon tracking down miscreant souls and, every once in a while, a person or creature or something in between squinting at them and going - weren't you two gods?

nah, they say, all corn fed grins and the dimples their momma gave them, we're brothers

[slttygeto]

Hot Ones! With Suguru Geto & (Name)!

pairing: music producer/singer! Suguru x singer! fem! reader

genre: fluff, crack.

📊 Video Stats

12M views| 350K likes| 87K comments

Geto Suguru was almost like an urban legend. No one knew if he actually existed—I mean, he had to if his voice could be hard on almost every trending song. 

But he never ever made an appearance. Not on any talk show, interview or even famous award shows he had been invited on to win. 

And so logically, no one knew a single thing about the famous producer/singer. They only knew his birthday because Gojo Satoru, a famous actor and his childhood best friend, would always post him while covering his face. 

Which would set the internet on fire for at least two weeks after.

The picture showed that Suguru Geto was a man with a large build, almost as tall as Satoru himself. He had two sleeve tattoos that were barely visible in the picture but enough for people to comment ‘as if this man wasn’t attractive enough’. They can only make out that he has long dark hair, tied in a bun with a long strand of hair dangling on the side. 

However, when Satoru posts his best friend this year to celebrate his 33rd birthday, the internet can’t help but fixate on a detail they hadn’t seen before. Something that was never able to appear because Suguru always hid his hands in his pockets, a shiny band wrapped around his ring finger that was visible to the camera because the producer was jokingly choking his best friend.

Suguru Geto was married, and the internet needed to find out who the lucky person was. 

—

“This week on hot ones! Geto Suguru and (Name) will play a hot game. Tune in tomorrow at 8PM, ET!”

The tweet goes viral the moment that it gets posted. The picture used shows you and Suguru with your backs facing the camera wearing a Hot Ones T-shirt and pointing with your thumbs to the logo. 

And when the video finally gets uploaded, people are losing their minds.

“Welcome to Hot Ones!” You are already sitting on your stool when Suguru finally joins you, sitting across from you at the table. “On a scale from 1 to 10, how excited are you?” You pretend to shove a mic his way and he chuckles.

“4.”

You gasp dramatically, placing your left hand on your chest to show off your wedding ring as well. “Four? How disappointing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Suguru keeps eyeing you as you look at the plate of hot chicken wings and the bottles of hot sauce. “Are you excited?”

“I’m doing it with you, so yeah.” You flash him a grin before scooting closer to the table. 

You had been in the music industry for a while—in fact, you were known to be one of the few artists who gradually rose to fame. Suguru’s producer tag was a recurring theme in your songs.

Suguru produced more than five albums of yours before you decided to chime in and teach yourself some skills of your own. So a couple of years into your career, people never suspected that there was ever something going on between you and the producer.

Despite the signs being there.

He would hop on songs that were intimate, songs where you’d explicitly express the wild rollercoaster which was your sex life. Romantic songs that showed how happy you were, how this one person was finally worth you giving love a second try. 

And yet people never put two and two together.

Not until this video at least.

“Okay so it’s either I answer the question or I eat a hot wing?”

“Not quite,” you grab the cards before shuffling through them. “You eat the hot wing anyway, and you have to answer the questions.”

“...did you just make that up?”

“Because I know you’ll avoid answering the questions!”

And just based on your demeanor and how comfortable you are whining to the man, the audience could tell that the dynamic between the two of you was the result of years of knowing each other. 

“I’m still not doing that” 

“First question, you have been in the music industry for quite some time—some might even consider you to be a legend–”

Suguru snorts. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“Describe an instance where you didn’t feel like working with an artist because they were being difficult.” You laugh as you read through the question. The internet doesn’t know this about your husband, but he tends to be brutally honest. You lean back in your chair and watch as he carefully thinks about the question.

“Honestly–”

“Suguru!” you warn him, giving him the look that makes a chuckle escape him.

“Alright then, which sauce should I use?” 

—

“Okay princess,” Suguru shuffles through his cards now, carefully picking the first question. “Are you ready?”

“Mhm,” 

“What is your least favorite song that I produced?” Your jaw drops at his question, covering your mouth while your husband is having the time of his life. He knew how hard it was for you to tell the truth when it could risk hurting someone else—especially when that person was your spouse.

“I can’t do that!”

The tall man gestures towards your plate. “Then eat a hot wing,” 

You think about it for a good ten seconds, eyeing the plate of chicken wings and the hot sauce that made your husband sweat so much his cheeks were flushed. 

Fuck it. 

“...the light is coming.” 

“The light is coming.”

Your eyes widen when you hear him answer at the same time as you, his shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle a laugh.

“If you knew it then why would you ask me?!”

“Because I needed you to come clean once and for all.” Suguru wipes a stray tear, still laughing. Then he turns to the camera. “Every single time someone brings up that song, you can see her face drop. She’s denied it for so many years, but the truth has finally come out.”

You roll your eyes at him. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“Okay final question,” he grabs the last card, and you notice a smirk painting his features. “Favorite thing about me?”

“Is that actually the question?” You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. Suguru then shows you the card.

“I don’t lie, darling.”

“I can’t pick one thing,” you rest your chin on the palm of your hand, gazing lovingly at your husband. “But if I could really choose, I would say that you are unapologetically you and I wouldn’t change it for the whole world.” 

After a beat of silence and a shared loving look, Suguru finally speaks up.“You know, I was going to tease you and say ‘I know one thing you really like about me’ but your answer is so wholesome I feel like a teenage boy.”

You shake your head. “I can’t believe you.”

🗨️ Top Comments

💬 [somethingsgottagive]: THE (Name) AND THEEEE SUGURU ARE MARRIED??? (6k likes)

💬 [somuchtosay]: Oh my god we are so blind (5k likes)

💬 [onehastogo]: their wedding rings im going to cry (7,3K likes)

💬 [theboyismine]: they suit each other so well im:(((( (1.8K likes)

💬  [sweetnsourchicken] replied to  [theboyismine]: the perfect dynamic

💬 [alltheavocadoes]: this is what dream thought his face reveal would be like (923 likes)

💬 [albumoftheyear]: revealing his face AND whom he’s married to in one day is crazy (508 likes)

💬 [cmontryme]: can someone check on that (name) and suguru fanpage we were all clowning. I fear they were right (392 likes)

💬  [name&suguru4life] replied to  [cmontryme]: I TOLD YALL AND NO ONE BELIEVED ME

💬 [cmontryme] replied to [name&suguru4life]: we owe you a big apology

2025 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, complex family dynamics, ableism.

Notes — This chapter has given me SUCH a hard time. Please enjoy it, I feel like I put my entire soul into it. Also… Fernando’s return is announced in the next chapter (everyone cheer).

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2020

Silverstone came around in the blink of an eye.

Amelia sat perched on the edge of the engineering desk, her legs swinging absently, trainers knocking gently against the metal drawer units below. Her gaze swept across Alex’s side of the garage, quick, focused, restless. She wasn’t here to be social. She was here to figure something out.

Something wasn’t right.

She’d been quietly monitoring it since Austria; since testing in Barcelona, even. The data, the footage, the telemetry. There were too many inconsistencies between Max’s car and Alex’s. And sure, she understood the baseline logic. Max was Max. His driving style demanded everything from the car and then some. His feedback loop with the team was honed to a science. But even so, there shouldn’t be this much of a disparity.

Not in identical machinery.

Not at this level.

Her brows pinched, eyes narrowing at the readout on the nearest screen. She hated the term “second driver” with a passion. It grated against every instinct she had. But watching Alex’s side of the garage felt like watching a different team operate altogether. Different priorities. Different urgency. It wasn’t malicious. Not outright. But it was subtle. It was systemic. And it was stupid.

A puff of frustration escaped her nose. She’d already brought up some of her theories to Adrian, offhanded and careful, like she was floating curiosities instead of suspicions. He hadn’t disagreed. Hadn’t confirmed anything either. But she could see it — how he was watching now, too.

Still, it was driving her crazy.

The way Max’s floor and rear suspension packages were being iterated on faster. The microscopic setup tweaks that were tailored to his style but never translated for Alex. The way team radio responses came faster, the tone of them just slightly more reactive. She could hear the difference because she listened for it. 

It wasn’t cheating. But it wasn’t fair either.

And it was messy. Amelia didn’t like messy.

A burst of compressed air hissed across the garage as a mechanic adjusted Alex’s front wing, and Amelia’s head jerked toward it instinctively, eyes narrowing again. Her fingers twitched against her tablet, the internal debate warring louder than the buzz of the pit crew.

She lifted her ear defenders from around her neck and settled them over her ears. All of the noise softened to a low hum.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted Max on the far side of the pit lane, deep in conversation with Christian by the pit wall. Calm and focused. He always looked like that before qualifying. Grounded. Unshakable.

Alex, by contrast, looked tense. He stood near his engineer, shoulders drawn tight, brows pinched as he nodded along, but his eyes kept flicking to the floor. Amelia watched for a beat longer, her heart tugging faintly. She wanted to fix it, whatever it was, but there was only so much she could do.

She looked down at her trainers.

They were her usual white ones, a little scuffed from the garage floors, but dependable. Comfortable. Familiar. But now, right at the edge of the left sole, something new: a messy swipe of orange marker.

LN4.

Her chest did something funny when she saw it.

Lando had crashed in her hotel room again, something that had quietly become routine. He always had his own room, but more often than not, he ended up in her bed instead of his. She didn’t mind. Would never say a word about it.

He was a good hugger now. He’d figured it out, finally, exactly how she liked to be held. Firm and tight enough to feel anchored. He’d taken to wrapping around her like a human shield, heartbeat steady, breath soft against the back of her neck. She hadn’t slept so consistently well in years.

He was usually gone before she woke up.

That morning had been no different. She’d blinked awake to an empty bed, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to the hotel bedsheets. But when she’d gone to pull her trainers on, there it was; bright orange ink catching her eye.

Initials. A number. A quiet claim.

She didn’t know whether to roll her eyes or smile.

So she did both.

— 

The McLaren garage had its usual pre-quali buzz. Max Fewtrell leaned against the back wall, wearing a team guest lanyard and a vaguely amused expression as he watched Lando loll around in his race suit. 

“Alright, you’re being weirdly calm,” Max said, eyeing him. “You’re never this chill before quali. What is this? Zen Norris?”

Lando didn’t even look up from the banana he was unwrapping. “Just had a good night’s sleep, mate.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Let me guess. In someone else’s hotel room?”

Lando gave him a slow, infuriating grin, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

Max stared at him. “No. Oh fucking hell. You’re not…?”

Lando just bit into the banana.

“You are,” Max said, half-laughing. “You’re back with her?”

Lando shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘back with’ like that, since we were never together in the first place, but yeah. We’re...talking.”

“Right,” Max said, drawing the word out. “Talking. In her bed. At night. Sounds familiar.”

Lando shot him a look. “Don’t start, mate. I’m still pissed at you for telling me to bin her off in the first place. Worst mistake of my life.”

“I stand by what I said then,” Max said, folding his arms. “And now she works for Red Bull. The actual enemy. She's probably hardwiring your secrets into Verstappen’s car while you’re asleep.” He said, eyes narrowed. 

Lando rolled his eyes. “She literally tells me nothing technical. I tried a few weeks ago, asked her what they changed on the rear wing. She said ‘carbon things’ and then threw a tortilla at my face.”

Max laughed. “Okay, yeah, that’s… okay, that’s funny.”

Lando looked a little too smug. “Exactly. Mate, I know what I’m doing. She’s worth it, you know? Just wish I’d realised it sooner.”

“Oh, you definitely don’t know what you’re doing,” Max scoffed. “You’re back in your feels, acting like it’s not completely mad that your maybe-girlfriend works for a team that would pay to see you finish outside the points every Sunday.”

“She’s not just some Red Bull lackey,” Lando said sharply, shoulders tensing. “She’s Amelia. She’s a fucking genius, Max. That car? It’s hers as much as it is Max’s or Alex’s.”

Max gave him a dry look. “You do realise how insane you sound?”

“I don’t care,” Lando said, straightening. “She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. Yeah, I screwed it up before. But I’m not walking away from her again. Not ever.”

Max blinked. “Bit dramatic, mate.”

“Whatever,” Lando said, smirking. “You’re just bitter because I’ve a hot, genius in my bed and you’ve got a Twitch stream and a meal deal.”

“I brought you that Pret,” Max muttered.

“And I’m grateful,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder like a smug little shit. “But I’m also head over fucking heels, mate. So.”

Max groaned. “Jesus Christ. You’re unbearable.”

“Yup.” Lando tossed his banana peel perfectly into the bin. “Get used to it.”

Across the garage, an engineer called Lando over for a final briefing. As he jogged off, Max shook his head. “Mad bastard,” he muttered. “Completely lost the plot.”

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor of the Red Bull garage, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows across the slick concrete. Her tablet rested beside her, darkened screen still smudged with notes and numbers from the race. Her yellow golf ball rolled slowly between her hands, back and forth, back and forth; rhythmic and grounding.

Silverstone had always felt like a second home. Growing up watching races here, dreaming about being a part of it. Now she was properly in it. Deep in the heart of Red Bull Racing, elbows-deep in data, decisions, and disappointment.

Max had salvaged something, as he always did. P2 wasn’t nothing. But the numbers didn’t lie. Mercedes were still faster, smoother, untouchable on the straights. And the tire degradation? She closed her eyes, jaw clenching slightly. It didn’t make sense. 

She could feel the quiet frustration that had hung over the garage all weekend. Engineers working longer hours. Adrian pacing more. Alex struggling to connect the car to the track. And her, Amelia, trying to play translator between machine and man, and still somehow coming up short.

Her fingers tightened painfully around the golf ball.

It wasn’t failure, not really. But it wasn’t a win either. And that unsettled something in her. She wanted better. She wanted cleaner gains. More decisive margins. Less almost and more perfect.

Her thoughts drifted to Max, to the way he’d found her after the debrief and muttered, “We’ll get them next week,” like it was a promise more than reassurance.

She dropped her head, staring at the tablet, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek. There had to be something.

And then—

It hit her like a flash.

She blinked, straightened, then scrambled to unlock the screen, fingers flying. Rear aero wake management. Micro-channel re-shaping on the rear floor edge. She muttered to herself as she typed. “Shift the outer wake—no, no, narrow it, and bleed the turbulence—”

Her heart kicked up. Her breath got shallow. The pressure in her chest gave way to something electric. Her hands fluttered before she even realised, wrists snapping, fingers stimming with giddy, instinctive rhythm as the idea built in her head. She scribbled on the screen with her stylus like it was oxygen. She was grinning, properly grinning.

She barely registered the noise of the paddock returning to life behind her.

A Sky Sports camera had swung past, catching a glimpse of her in the garage, tucked between tool cabinets and telemetry units, flapping hands and bright yellow golf ball balanced in her lap. The presenter spoke softly over the shot. “And there’s Amelia Brown. A quiet presence in the paddock so far, but proving to be a very hard worker indeed.”

In the Red Bull hospitality suite, Christian Horner glanced up at the screen, watching the feed with his usual half-interested expression. “Ah, there she is. Our shining example of disability-positive hiring.” It was offhand. Meant as a joke, maybe. But it hung awkward in the air.

Adrian didn’t laugh.

He turned his head slowly toward Christian, expression unreadable. “She’s the most promising technical mind I’ve worked with in a decade. And she is working with me on merit alone.” He said mildly, eyes still on the screen.

Christian blinked. “Right. Of course.”

Adrian sipped his tea. Said nothing more. But when he looked back to the TV, his gaze was thoughtful.

And in the garage, Amelia kept working, entirely unaware of the camera, the commentary, or the conversation she’d just ignited. Her mind was moving too fast now to care about anything else.

She’d found something. Something big.

And she couldn’t wait to show Adrian.

— 

Max found her sitting alone on the pit wall. 

She had her yellow golf ball in one hand, thumb rolling over its surface absently. The other held her tablet, still filled with drawings and annotations, now marked with scribbled arrows and half-formed formulas.

Max climbed up next to her with the casual ease of someone who did it a hundred times a year. “You solved the issue,” he said, legs dangling over the edge.

Amelia blinked, as if pulled out of her own thoughts. “It’s not solved,” she said automatically. “It’s a direction.”

“A good one,” Max replied. “Adrian was very happy when you showed him. I saw it on his face.”

She smiled at that, a flicker of pride showing before she quickly tucked it away. One hand rolled the golf ball. The other hand jolted, maybe spurred on by a burst of excitement. She didn’t notice she was doing it.

Max did.

He watched it for a moment, then leaned back on his hands. “You were doing that earlier. With your hands. They showed it on the live feed.”

She froze, just for a second.

Max didn’t sound judgmental. Just curious. But still, something knotted tight in her chest. The instinct came fast, automatic; hide it, clench her fists, smooth out the edges. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend she was just like everyone else.

But then she remembered what Adrian had told her, calm and firm that day in the design office, looking at her without even a flicker of doubt.

Why should you ever have to hide the manifestations of your greatness?

So, instead of retreating, she let her hands speak the language her brain needed. 

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s called a stim.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

“A… like, a repetitive movement. Helps regulate my focus. Or calm me down. Or… sometimes just helps me think,” she said, gesturing with the ball. “Ah, my hands flap on their own. And the golf ball’s got the right weight. Tactile enough to keep my hands busy while my brain does its thing. Means something to me.”

Max nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon. “You always do it when you're excited about something?”

“Sometimes. Or anxious. Or overstimulated.” She shrugged. “I mask a lot. Most people don’t notice the physical stuff. But the ball helps. I notice that I swing or bounce my leg a lot, too, but people don’t notice that as much.” 

He was quiet for a long moment. “So, it’s part of the autism?”

She turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing. Not angry, just curious. “You saw my Twitter?” She was very open about her diagnosis there, sharing informational and up-to-date medical journals. 

“I read part of your interview with RaceTech Weekly,” he admitted. “You said it’s not something you hide, but not something you announce either.”

“Yeah, well…” she exhaled. “Some people get weird. Or patronising. Or make jokes.”

“Christian,” Max said knowingly, a darker tone in his voice.

Amelia smiled, a bit twisted. “Adrian is nice about it, though.”

“Good.” Max looked at her again. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

She stared at him. “I’m not—” And then paused. “Okay. I am. A little. But I’m trying not to be.”

Max just gave a half-nod, like that was fair enough. “You don’t need to explain it to me,” he said, kicking his foot gently out into the air. “I just wanted to know what it was. You looked happy.”

She blinked. “I was.”

He nodded again. “Good.”

Eventually, she bumped her shoulder against his. It was barely more than a nudge, but for Amelia, it was a big deal; intentional, physical contact she initiated. She didn’t do that often. Almost never. “Thanks for not being a dick about it,” she told him.

Max smirked, eyes flicking down to where their shoulders had touched before he leaned back. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I start asking to borrow the comfort golf ball during strategy meetings.”

“You’d lose it.” She sighed. 

“You’ll forgive me.” 

Amelia stared at him, dead serious. “No I wouldn’t.” 

—

It was late. Too late for anyone still at McLaren HQ except security and cleaning staff. 

Tracy stood across from him, arms folded, gaze cool and steady. She didn’t come to Woking often anymore, but something in Zak’s voice when he’d asked her to come by tonight had stopped her from saying no.

“You’re not sleeping,” Tracy said after a long beat. “You hardly even come home anymore.”

Zak rubbed both hands over his face, voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Good,” she replied, sharp but not cruel. “She should be at the front of your mind. Just like she’s always at the front of mine.”

Zak let out a bitter laugh and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, head bowed. “It’s been five months, Trace. Five months of silence. She won’t reply to my texts. Doesn’t even open my emails. I tried to speak to her at Silverstone and she looked straight through me. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Tracy sighed and lowered herself into the seat across from him, her expression tight. “You didn’t lose her because of one bad conversation, Zak. You lost her because you took something from her; something you had no right to. You tried to control what wasn’t yours.”

He looked at her, pain written into the lines of his face.

“She could’ve sued you,” Tracy continued, quieter now but no less firm. “Do you even understand that? Millions, Zak. She would never do it, of course, because she’s still loyal, still stupidly kind when it comes to you, but that doesn’t make what you did any less wrong. You treated her brilliance like a family asset. Like it belonged to you because she’s your daughter.”Her voice cracked, not with emotion, but fury. “That’s not how this works. That’s not how she works.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Zak said hoarsely. “I didn’t realise—Christ, Trace.”

“You were blind to it,” Tracy said, her voice steady but cutting. “Everything she was doing to elevate that team; improving car performance, supporting the drivers, stabilising Lando’s garage dynamic. She wasn’t just useful, Zak. She was essential. And now you’ve lost her to Red Bull.”

Zak sneered, bitter. “God. I just—why them? I would’ve understood Mercedes, maybe. Even Ferrari.”

Tracy didn’t flinch. “She’s built her own space in that garage already. They obviously respect her there. She’s on her way to helping Max Verstappen fight for his first world title. She’s not just surviving, Zak. She’s thriving.”

“I know that,” Zak said, his voice small, still dark and bitter. “I’ve watched. I’ve seen the press. Adrian Newey can’t stop signing her praises. But, Trace, I wasn’t even proud. I was angry.” He paused. “I didn’t understand it. I don’t even recognise her anymore.”

Tracy sighed. “She spent years trying to get you to see her. Always trying to fit herself into a box, hoping that maybe things would finally change and you’d suddenly realise what was standing right in-front of you.” 

Zak looked down. His hands were clenched together, knuckles pale. “I miss her so much,” he whispered. “I miss her laugh. Her rants. Even that awful yellow water bottle.”

Tracy pursed her lips. “The water bottle is gone. She has a golf ball now. Still yellow.” 

He looked up at her quickly. “A golf ball?”

Tracy smiled sadly. Shrugged. “Probably from her and Lando’s first date. I’ve never asked, but…” 

Zak blinked. “He… They went on a date? He managed to get her to go to a golf course?” 

Tracy nodded. 

Zak closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to pull himself together. “I just want a chance. One chance to tell her that I was wrong. That I see her now. That I’m proud of her. That I—”

Tracy leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. “You have to let her come to you. Not the other way around. When has she ever responded well to being chased, hm?”

Zak blinked, fighting back the sting in his eyes. “Do you think she ever will, though? Come to me?”

Tracy stood, brushing a hand over his shoulder as she walked past. “She’s her father’s daughter. Stubborn. But eventually, something will happen, and your name will be the first one on her mind. Just… be patient. And come home, Zak. You need a shower.”

He watched her walk out, the soft click of her heels echoing in the stillness of the room. Then he turned back toward the window, staring out over the empty car bays and spotless garage beyond. The place that, in so many ways, had become his refuge; and his prison.

He could be patient. He could.

He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and followed her out. 

— 

iMessage — 20:03pm

Amelia I think we should go on a date.

Lando Norris No, no, no. Babe, no. I’m supposed to be the one to ask you on a date, not the other way around.

Amelia Why? You haven’t asked. I want to go on a date with you, so I asked.

Lando Norris Ok. I’m still paying. Doesn’t matter if you asked or not. I’ll plan it too.

Amelia Of course you are paying. Women don’t pay on dates.

Lando Norris Some ppl think they should 

Amelia Oh. Should I bring money then? 

Lando Norris No babe. Never.

Amelia :)

— 

He’d hired out an entire restaurant.

Fully staffed. Every table other than theirs empty.

It was insane. Completely over the top.

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel… warm about it.

Amelia ran her fingers along the smooth edge of her wine glass, her gaze drifting out the window as the sky darkened into soft shades of twilight. Normally, a full restaurant would have her on edge; the constant hum of conversations, the clatter of plates, the shuffle of waiters, the occasional laughter ringing too loudly in her ears. It always felt like too much. Too many sensory inputs, all at once.

Tonight, it was just them.

She glanced across the table at Lando, who was looking at her with that mischievous, bright-eyed expression. But there was something softer there too. A warmth, a genuine care she had come to expect from him.

"This is much better than golf," she said, trying to ease the tightness she felt in her chest. Her fingers tightened slightly around her wine glass, a small manifestation of her nerves. 

Lando stared at her for a moment, then laughed; a loud, free sound that made her heart skip a beat. "Yeah? I’m sorry I dragged you there. I won’t ever do it again, I promise." He had that usual teasing grin on his face, but there was softness in the way his eyes lingered on her.

Amelia shifted in her seat, glancing down at the menu in front of her. There were so many choices, so many different things to try, and the overwhelming amount of options made her stomach twist. Her mind started to race, analysing every single dish on the list, the flavours, the textures. Would they be too spicy? Too sweet? Would she like them or regret the choice? It felt like too much.

"I like the beach," she muttered, trying to shift focus. "And I like boats." But her thoughts kept circling back to the food. The choices were suffocating.

Lando seemed to notice the change in her, the tension creeping into her shoulders. "Boats, huh? So you don’t get sea sickness, then?” he teased, leaning forward a little, trying to pull her out of her head.

Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her mind still too loud. “Boats are just… private. Calm.“

He paused, studying her for a moment, before his voice softened. “If the options are too much, we don’t have to pick anything just yet. You’re here with me, we can go slow. The restaurant is ours until midnight. No pressure.”

She sucked in a breath. “I— I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice small. “I’ve never been here before. It’s nice, I just... I don’t know what I’ll like.”

Lando reached across the table, taking her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Well, after the amount of room service we’ve eaten recently, I think know what you like, and what you don’t. Want me to just order for you?”

Amelia blinked, startled by his offer. “What?”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze softening. Then, without warning, he stood and walked around the table. Before she could react, he pulled her chair back, coaxing her to her feet. He guided her back to his side and gently settled her onto his lap. His left arm wrapped around her waist, secure but not too tight, pulling her closer. Amelia felt the tension drain from her body as she sank into him, her back resting against his chest.

“We can share, yeah? I’ll pick a few things, and we can try them together,” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Amelia hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. “They’ll stare.”

She could feel her cheeks warming, the faint pressure of being so close to him in a public space, even if the restaurant was empty. But despite her discomfort, she didn’t want to move. His arm around her felt right, comforting in a way she hadn’t expected. It was perfect.

Lando rolled his eyes, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Let them.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[brittle-doughie]

Oh god.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had thought you escaped her.

When Hollyberry was able to help you evacuate from that paradise, you didn’t think you’d see Eternal Sugar Cookie again for a long while.

Until the Beast Cookie alarms were sounded.

Rapid reports of a winged Cookie tearing through your soldiers like they were tissue paper came to your attention. The mention of pink already clued you in as you grab for your gear.

Your platoon barely got ready before the throne room doors bursted off their hinges, your Cookies dodging out of their way! They turned back to the open door way to see a sad, miserable Cookie….

“I found you…heavenly….”

She sounded so…broken, tired. Prolonged separation from her Y/N would have that effect on her. Without changing expression, she slowly floated towards you.

You blew your whistle and your team charged at the Beast Cookie, thinking numbers gave them the advantage.

Oh, how the cards came tumbling down.

Bitter Candy having her own weapon stabbed through her.

Crowned Cupcake punched straight through the chest, her heart literally broken.

Dumpling impaled with her own chopsticks.

Cherry Cream turned into literal jam splatter on the floor when Eternal Sugar dive bombed at her.

Salsa held her own for as long as she could, but she would soon meet her end when Eternal Sugar gripped her head and SNAPPED it off, decapitating her entirely due to cookie logic.

With no one left to oppose her, Eternal Sugar…smiled….

“Don’t you get it, my heavenly? There’s no escaping the love in your heart for me. You have no one left to turn to, besides me…”

“I’d hate to do anything to you, but you’re coming back to paradise with me. I’ve especially spruced it up for you! The sanctuary now has EVERYTHING you need!”

Your only response?

Pull out your weapon and loaded your weapon, a blunderbuss.

“Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[ellevandersneed]

was watching this video the other day and Ilan Pappe makes a pretty good point, where the reason why Israel doesn't have a major left wing (and if it did at one point, it definitely doesn't anymore) is because people can see through the logical fallacy of "progressive settler colonialist genocide" and I feel like the same thing is happening with the Democratic Party in the US, where you can't be the party of social equality and violent imperialism at the same time without becoming a walking contradiction, and this is probably why a lot of leftists get filtered out at the lower levels of the party while the leadership remains staunchly conservative in everything other than slogan

[darkstaria]

Yandere Batfam - Soulmate Soul Animal AU

Chapter 2:

Chapter 1. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5.

Taglist: @moonchild-artemisdaughter @jjsmeowthie @madine11-blog @xxrougefangxx

----

“No!”

Screaming, you rushed up. Breathe!

In, out. In, out. Blood raced.

In.

Out.

With a shuddering breath, you sighed. You became aware of a presence at your pillow. Glancing, you locked eyes with your second robin. Well, you called this bird a robin, but it was barely that.

The bird was covered in black feathers, with the exception being bright red that covered its head and a small part of its chest. It hardly resembled a robin anymore. This one, you referred to as Hood.

Hood gave a little chirp, hopping over to your lap. It settled down, providing a reassuring weight. You started petting it, just a little. Hood could always tell when you had this particular nightmare.

You didn't have nightmares often, but if you did, it was always the same one. It started simple, an unlucky mistake leading to the meeting of a soulmate (which was nightmarish enough). Your brain never really elaborated on the meeting, as if it couldn’t quite comprehend what it could be like. Instead, the horror appeared when you met your own soul animal.

It was impossible to meet your own soul form until you've met a soulmate, as the animal orbited those you were bound to. Many a novel has been dedicated to those discovering that their soul has taken some unfortunate form, and their journey of self-acceptance. One particular novel you were fond of had the protagonist learning to accept that their form was a snail.

But… in the nightmare, your form wasn't that of a snail. It wasn't the form of a snake, a grasshopper or even a turtle.

It was a robin.

A little, fluttering robin. In green. In yellow.

In red.

You always awoke after that.

You continued petting Hood. Pet pat, pet pat. It always let you have little leniencies like this, after your nightmares. You appreciated it.

For you, a robin was the worst form your soul could possibly have. You had tried previously to logic yourself out of this fear. What was so bad about being a robin? You had four of them already; they weren’t so bad, albeit annoying. You just couldn’t… stand the idea.

It reminded you of the blood on your hands. The sight never really left you. The bodies of soul animals didn't remain, they disappeared just as the soul did after death. The fact both comforted and reassured you. You didn't have to bury the body, but you also didn't have anything to mourn.

You had made a small grave anyway.

You cried. Just a little. Hood gave a small tweet of distress, raising itself up to you. You took the offer, picking the bird up and cuddling its face. Just a little.

You felt sick.

You two stayed like that a while, two souls sheltering from the world. You wondered if your soulmates ever did a similar thing with your soul form. It was times like this that had you considering reaching out. You brushed aside some feathers on Hood’s chest, revealing a faint, scarred Y.

Maybe not.

A scutter of wings could be heard from your kitchen. You groaned, lifting Hood off your lap as you slowly got up. Who was it this time?

Bleary eyes blinked, you slowly made your way over. You were joined by Hood, as it made itself a steady weight on your shoulder. Hood was always a little too heavy for you to carry about easily, but you decided to be kind by not complaining this time.

Staring into your kitchen, it took you a moment to understand the sight in front of you.

A robin darting about, as a bat watched from the top of your fridge. It was a typical image for your home, but why..

Why was the robin… purple? And, was that bat a little smaller than usual?

…

Oh, no.

Strength left your legs as you crumbled to the floor, just staring at the two with an empty gaze. Hood squawked in alarm, fluttering off your shoulder.

You had two new soulmates.

Goddamnit.

~ ~ ~ ~

Somehow, Spoiler and Orphan (you later figured out their identities, none of your soulbonds were subtle) weren't your first surprise bond. No, that dubious honor belonged to the fourth robin.

You had been a little exhausted after a long day being tormented by Wing’s affections. Occasionally Wing has rather clingy days, and it becomes impossible to leave the house. It had only gotten worse after the second robin’s demise. You endured.

As a result, you were sleeping in. That is, until the sounds of high pitched peeping noises stirred you from your slumber. You slowly awoke, your eyes meeting bright green.

“Aaagh!” You shrieked, jumping back and falling off the bed. “Owww.” Groaning, you slowly sat up, taking in the situation.

There was a baby bird. On your bed. “What…?” You muttered. The bird didn't have many feathers, but the ones that it did have were a mixture of black and green. It was this fact, alongside the bird being a robin, that made you register exactly what was going on.

“Ohh my god.” Your head was in your hands. That was how done you were. Most people stopped getting soulmates at one. Sometimes there were bonds of two, maybe even three. Having four bonds was already rather extraordinary (which is why you pretended all your robins were the same one), but now there was a fifth.

Well, at least the baby bird was cute. You reached out, extending a finger to pet it, when it snapped at you. With its beak and everything.

Betrayal.

Since when were baby birds aggressive? All your other soulmates were older than you so you never got to care for any of them. Now you finally have one, and it snaps at you.

Turning away from the bird, you mean to sulk a little, but get interrupted by the Bat fluttering right in front of you. You blink, and the next second it's perched right by your new soulmate. You stare, eagerly anticipating a conflict.

The baby bird stares at the Bat for a second, before making an adoring noise and resting under its wing.

What.

Suffice to say, your initial relationship with Robin didn't start off perfectly. It did seem to warm to you within a few weeks though, so you didn't feel too bad about it.

In all honesty, you were more concerned about what the existence of a fourth robin would mean for the third. Would it be a smooth transition? A simple bestowing of the title like it had been for the first and second robin?

Or would it be tainted with blood, another robin bleeding out in your palms. You shuddered.

You didn't want to find out.

~ ~ ~ ~

Adjusting to two new additions to your bond was a little strange. All your bonds so far had been birth ones, formed at the start of your existence (with the exception of Robin, which formed when Robin started his life). Spoiler and Orphan were delayed bonds, also known as fated bonds. They started later in life, generally after significant events, but they can just randomly pop up too.

Were you going to get a new bond every time Batman trained a new vigilante? Was being a vigilante a requirement? That has some odd implications for you, actually.

You didn't really want to become a ‘hero’.

Enough of that. A few days had passed since the emergence of your two new bonds, and you suspected that the rest of your soulmates had found the change to be about as surprising as you did.

You could tell, because for the first time in a literal month, you were alone! No bat watching from a corner, no bird fluttering around you. Just you, and complete, lovely, isolation.

Honestly, it was so quiet you were a little unnerved. You had gotten so used to the constant chirping and fluttering of wings.

As a result, you've left the house.

You enjoy a nice walk, taking in the sights you usually rush over. Settling into a coffee shop, you treat yourself to a cookie. It was fun just to enjoy the atmosphere for once, without the paranoia of having what occasionally felt like a literal flock of birds following you around.

You've almost finished your drink when a shadow falls over you. A lean man stands before you, clutching a coffee to himself as if it contained the secrets to life. You blink.

“Sorry, I was wondering if I could sit with you?” He gestured to the cafe, and you noticed all the other seats were occupied. Huh, you were so busy being infatuated with your current freedom that you didn't even notice.

“Ah, yeah that's fine.” You replied, giving a small smile.

He smiled back, settling down and pulling out a laptop. Your time passes in simple peace, him on his laptop, and you on your phone. A scuttering noise drew you away from your scrolling though, and you looked up to see a familiar scene.

A blue bird had landed on the man’s coffee, shaking it as if it was trying to knock it over. The laptop man was fighting back though, doing his best to preserve it.

“Ah.” You muttered, staring. They both turned to look at you, exactly at the same time. It was a little creepy.

“Apologies for disturbing you.” Coffee man said. The blue bird jumped off the coffee, turning to you.

“It's alright. Is that your soul animal?” You replied, watching the bird hop closer.

“Ah yeah, he is. My family can be annoying about my caffeine intake sometimes.” There was a pause. “He seems quite interested in you, though.” There was a question in that statement, and you had the inkling that this was leading up to something you wouldn't like.

“What type of animal is it? I can tell it's some type of bird but..” The bird had reached you now, hopping onto your raised hand.

“It's a raven…” The man continued on, starting a tangent about raven facts, but you were too distracted to listen. Instead, you were fixated on the bird that was nuzzling your hand in a very familiar manner.

A bird that wasn't a raven. A bird that recognised you.

A bird that was a robin.

Wing.

You felt like both laughing and crying. Here you are, celebrating finally getting some space from your soulmates, and you meet one? How ridiculous. This was a nightmare.

You need to leave, immediately.

You stood up, your chair making an awful screech as you did so. Coffee man looked a bit surprised, as you peeled Wing off you and handed it to him.

“Sorry about that.” You smiled. “I had some extra bird seed on me from feeding some birds today. Perhaps your soul animal could tell. I've got to be going though, maybe I'll see you some other time.” And with that, you start marching out the shop.

Maybe your behavior was suspicious, but you really couldn't afford to stick around. All it took was for one of your soul animals to appear on you and the game would be up. He’d instantly know that the soul animal would have appeared from your side of the connection. It would be over, the efforts of years upon years.

You couldn't let that happen.

“Wait!” A voice called out, the tapping of footsteps following. You swung back around, meeting the gaze of your soulmate. He extended a card to you.

“This is my number, perhaps we can text in the future. I know we didn't really talk, but I enjoyed your company.” He smiled. It would have been a nice scene if the sight didn't make your gut twist.

You took the card.

“Oh! And before I forget, my name’s Tim.”

You answered back, giving your name.

You prayed that he assumed the shakes of your body were due to the cold.

----

And that's the second chapter! Woohoo! Hope you all enjoyed it, since the third chapter is already half way done! I'm rather excited for it haha ^ ^

As always, feel free to reach out!

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Honestly, a lot of the left-wing erasure of Jewish ethnicity by considering all Jews to be white people like all the other white Europeans, except possibly even *more* white and privileged, strikes me as being less psychologically about intentionally excluding Jews and more about, like, not having to deal with the logical fallout of the consequences of structural antisemitism.

Because here's the thing: if you acknowledge that structural antisemitism exists, you then have to support efforts to undo structural antisemitism and consider the fallout of historical antisemitism.

If you contain it to one tragic event (no matter how huge) and also minimize it (because it's not the only genocide, have you considered __?) and universalize it (this teaches us about the inhumanity of people towards those who are *different*) and atomize it (people can be so weird about Jews and Judaism, they must really be an unusually hateful person)

Then you don't have to consider things like "hey are we still benefitting from structural antisemitism today?" and "are Jews still dealing with the consequences of structural antisemitism?" and "are our politics contributing to ongoing antisemitism, including structural antisemitism even now?"

[bakubonez]

Sunday x GN! Reader || fluff

Summary: After a stressful couple days, Sunday asked you to wash his hair. 🦭

A/N: I’m falling for the Sunday propaganda plz save me

It had taken ages to get Sunday to trust you. Albeit many gifts and hours spent together later, your hard work had paid off. Sunday had lowered his carefully constructed walls, allowing you to weasel your way into finding a place in his heart. Nowadays, he can’t fathom why he used to push you away—you were far too sweet to discard.

He’d come to trust you enough to let you wash his hair, and groom his wings. More often than not, he’d do it himself—taking time to sit in front of the mirror to smooth down his soft, pillowy feathers or stand under the shower in silence as the water ran through his hair, down his back. Now, though, he didn’t have to do it completely alone. He quite enjoyed it when you helped him, actually.

At first, he hadn’t been completely sold on the idea. It was a lot of trust that he had to place in you, to let you look after him for a bit.

He’d have to surrender himself to you and lower his guard, and that felt mildly off putting at a stage. Despite his initial hesitance, the first time you actually rinsed his hair and tended to his wings, he knew he was hooked.

The gentle nature of your touch was something he’d always found himself appreciating, and he hoped and prayed that he could offer you the same feeling, but now that he knew what it was like to be pampered by the very same hands that brought him so much comfort in his day to day life, he couldn’t get enough of it.

Sunday was much too sheepish to outright ask you to bathe with him, especially not often, so the activity has been reserved for special occasions, by his own doing.

Tonight was one of those occasions.

Being the man that Sunday was, he had a lot on his plate, all the time. There were very few moments in which he could take refuge from his work and truly rest. Even in his free time, his mind was often plagued by anxieties about his upcoming tasks.

Recently, though, he’d been under extra strain especially. And so, logically, he’d come to you for comfort.

You raked your fingers across his scalp, hands lathered in some pleasant smelling shampoo that Sunday had chosen. His eyes were shut, sitting peacefully in the water of the bath. Steam clouded the mirrors, and left little beads of water dripping down the walls.

It was mostly silent, aside from a soft melody playing in the background that Sunday had put on before getting into the tub.

Once, you’d been hesitant to touch Sunday’s wings. You weren’t sure if they’d be too sensitive, or if he’d tell you off for it, perhaps—now, though, you touched them with little uncertainty.

So long as you were gentle, like you were being now, you could touch them all you wanted.

His feathers were so soft, almost unbelievably so. They twitch and shift under your grasp, but not for a bad reason; more so that it was mildly ticklish, despite how much you’d touched them in the past already.

You hear Sunday exhale quietly as you rub behind his ears, and along the topside of his wings. His faith in you always brings a smile to your face, leaving a warm, comforting feeling in your heart.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Thank you for what, you’re tempted to ask, but you get the sense that you already know what for—you. You, being with him. You, taking the time to care for him. You, having the patience to stick by him, even when it gets difficult.

You simply murmur a soft ‘mhm’ in response, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before resuming your motions. You needn’t say more.

[vamptizm]

SNOOZE — p. bueckers viii.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: suggestive themes. sexual tension. mentions of alcohol.

word count: 9500

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

The gym was quieter than usual.

Not the sterile kind of quiet that came after a storm of squeaking sneakers and shouting coaches, but the heavy kind. The kind that lingered thick, still, and aware. The kind that made your chest feel too small for your lungs.

Soraya's fingers adjusted around the ball again. She was on the far side of the court, one foot at the free throw line, her back angled toward the rest of the gym—and to Paige. She'd shot thirty free throws already, maybe more. She wasn’t counting, wasn’t trying to. She was just doing. Repetition for the sake of distraction.

The clang of Paige's ball hitting rim echoed from the other end.

Soraya didn't flinch, she’d noticed immediately that Paige hadn’t left with the rest of the team. There’d been a subtle shift in air when they were the last ones standing, or more like lingering, after practice. It was like waiting at a stoplight you both knew was red, but neither of you wanted to be the first to drive away.

She'd expected Paige to leave eventually. But Paige was still here. Just like her.

“You not going home?” Soraya asked without turning. Her voice cut across the court, lazy but edged in something she couldn’t quite place. Her eyes remained fixed on the hoop.

There was a pause, then Paige called back, “Nah. Gotta work on some shit.”

A smooth answer. Just enough to say nothing, and still mean something.

Soraya let the silence return, it wrapped around her shoulders like a worn jacket, but her body kept moving on autopilot. Plant, bend, shoot, though her mind had drifted far, far away.

She hated this.

Not the practice. Not the staying behind. Not even Paige’s presence, really.

She hated the tight knot in her chest that had formed the minute her gaze met Leah’s. Hated the way her memory replayed old things with too much color and sound, like her brain refused to mute what she wanted to forget. She hated how little she was sleeping, how cigarettes had crept back into her rotation, how therapy searches still sat open in her laptop at home like questions she wasn’t brave enough to answer yet.

But mostly, Soraya hated how even now, Paige Bueckers made her feel things she didn’t want to feel.

Because Paige hadn’t done anything wrong.

If Soraya was being brutally honest—maybe for the first time since it all happened—everything had been on her.

She had stupidly and recklessly invited Paige in. Laughed with her. Trusted her. Let her linger. Let her close.

Let her in.

And then she’d pushed her away just as fast, like a scared, spiteful little girl trying to break her own toy before someone else could take it away. She’d told herself it was necessary. Logical. But guilt had a way of crawling back into her throat when she least expected it, sour and sharp.

Her sneakers stopped skidding against the court and she turned.

Across the gym, Paige was mid form, launching a shot that kissed the front rim and dropped in. Her posture relaxed, loose in that effortless way Soraya had always hated for no real reason other than how easy it all looked.

Maybe that’s what scared her most about Paige—how easy she made everything seem and feel. Trusting her. Laughing. Touching. How quickly Soraya had unraveled under the illusion of something safe.

She started walking across the court before she could overthink it.

Paige heard the sound of sneakers and turned slightly, wiping her palm along the hem of her shorts. She looked at Soraya with a neutral expression, one that hovered between surprise and caution.

Soraya expected her to speak first, for some stupid reason, as if she hadn’t been the one to walk up to her. But Paige waited.

And that small patience, that small restraint, somehow made Soraya’s chest feel tighter. She slowed to a stop a few feet away, the ball still tucked under one arm.

"Do you wanna work on it together?" she asked.

It came out low and even—but it carried something behind it. An offering. A quiet white flag. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t an apology. But it was something. And she hoped Paige knew it.

The older watched the way Paige blinked at her. Just once. Just enough to register the shift.

And for a second, Paige didn’t speak at first.

"Yeah. Sure.” Her voice was smooth, sweet almost.

And it wasn’t that the words were romantic. It wasn’t even that they were particularly forgiving, but there was a warmth to them. A quiet willingness. An openness Soraya didn’t think she deserved, but craved anyway.

Her heart skipped once in her chest, and she hated that it did.

Hated how easy Paige still was to be around. How gentle her energy was, despite everything. Despite the cold shoulder Soraya had given her and despite the look in her eyes during that halftime when she'd tried—and failed—to bury her feelings in something sharp and cutting.

There was still guilt in Paige’s eyes, but it wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t loud. It was subtle and internal, like she was still trying to make sense of the whole thing without asking too much of Soraya in return.

She hadn't pressed. She hadn’t demanded.

She just stayed.

And now here they were again, alone in a quiet gym, not talking about anything important, but somehow still inching closer.

Soraya exhaled and looked toward the basket.

“Alright,” she murmured, already moving to retrieve a rebound. “Let’s get to work.”

And she didn’t look at Paige again, not right away, she felt her there. Every breath. Every quiet footstep. Still close. Still warm.

Still dangerous.

What began as a competitive one-on-one, charged with pride and the subtle edge of unresolved tension, slowly morphed into something else lighter and looser. Less about winning and more about feeling.

The sharp shuffle of sneakers echoed through the empty gym, mingling with the occasional thunk of the ball against the hardwood. Soraya, all quick steps and low drives, darted through invisible lanes with the ball tucked like a weapon against her hip. Paige was taller, longer limbed, but Soraya moved like a blur. They hadn’t done this before—gone head to head without the structure of drills or the eyes of coaches. This wasn’t practice. It was simply play.

“You’re reaching too much, Bueckers,” Soraya called out after sliding past her with a low crossover and laying it in, smirking over her shoulder.

“You’re traveling too much, Mensima,” Paige fired back, grinning through the sweat on her face. “That quickness is suspicious as hell.”

“Speed kills,” Soraya replied without missing a beat, grabbing the ball and bouncing it back to Paige. “Stop crying about it.”

The competitiveness didn’t leave, not really. They were both wired to want the edge, but the need to prove something melted away the longer they played. What was meant to be sharp and serious softened into laughter after awkward slips or exaggerated fouls. Soraya stole a ball and gloated, Paige answered with a clean block and a smug raise of her brows. And they kept going like that—trading buckets, talking shit, and trying not to think too hard about how easy it felt, falling back into rhythm with each other.

Eventually, they both ran out of steam.

With matching sighs, they collapsed against the gym wall next to each other, sliding down the smooth surface until their knees bent and their legs stretched long across the floor. Their water bottles were lukewarm, their skin slick with sweat, but neither of them seemed to mind.

It was silent at first.

Not the awkward kind, but the kind that came after something honest. After you let your body speak for you for a while, and your brain needed a second to catch up.

Soraya’s chest rose and fell steadily as she sipped her water. She kept her eyes forward, not quite ready to look at Paige. Not when things were starting to feel normal again.

But then Paige’s voice broke the quiet.

“I’m sorry.”

It was soft. Meant more than it sounded like. Soraya turned her head slightly, brows drawing together.

“Hm?” she hummed around the mouth of her bottle, setting it down beside her.

Paige exhaled. Her fingers picked at the hem of her shorts, gaze fixed somewhere low on the floor.

“About what I said at the game,” she clarified, voice low. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why the fuck I said that shit.”

Soraya swallowed the water still sitting in her throat, slowly, and let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. She hadn’t expected the apology, but she also wasn’t surprised. Paige would be the one to apologize first, even when she didn’t have to. That was who she was. A natural fixer. A peacemaker.

And even though Soraya knew she should’ve been the one to say something by now, she didn’t try to deflect. Not completely.

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice rougher than she wanted it to be. “I deserved it. You weren’t wrong about the game part.”

A half laugh puffed out of her like an afterthought.

Paige didn’t laugh. Her brows pulled in, and there was a tightness in her throat that she didn’t try to hide.

“Nah, you didn’t deserve that,” she said, firmer this time. “We all have bad games. I shouldn’t have put all of it on you. I was just—” She paused. Bit her lip.

Soraya glanced sideways at her. “You were just?”

Paige took a breath. “Just frustrated. I’m not used to losing.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. But the way she said it—measured, almost carefully vague—made Soraya tilt her head a little, like she knew Paige was skimming the surface of something deeper.

Still, she let it go. She leaned back against the wall and let out another quiet chuckle. “Can’t even count the amount of times I’ve lost with this team in the last two years,” she murmured. “Hopefully you won’t have to get used to it. Must be hard going from a championship to this.”

That made Paige laugh, her shoulders lifting with it. It was soft and genuine. A little self deprecating. She still didn’t look at Soraya, but the sound alone made something in the older girl’s chest unfurl slightly.

“It’s only the first game,” Paige said with a half smile. “So we’ll see, I guess.”

Then, after a moment, her voice dropped again. “What did you mean by I was only right about the game part?”

Soraya froze. Her fingers started picking at the edge of her thumbnail—a nervous tick she’d never quite been able to break. She tried to laugh it off.

“You ask the most obvious questions, you know?” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Just meant I wasn’t eye fucking her.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. The dig was mild, and they both knew it.

But she didn’t stop there. Couldn’t.

“Do you know her?” she asked. Her tone was curious, but it had a weight behind it. “I saw her approaching you in the parking lot.”

That caught Soraya off guard. Her head turned, brows twitching with a flash of surprise. The idea that Paige had seen that moment, had possibly seen how much it had shaken her, stung in a way she hadn’t expected.

She was quiet for a long beat. Long enough that Paige assumed that would be her answer.

But then Soraya’s voice cut through, low and clear. “We used to date in college,” she confirmed. “Didn’t end well.”

The words hung in the air like steam rising from a cracked surface.

Paige didn’t move. Her breath was slow and deliberate, and when she spoke, it was with a tenderness Soraya didn’t know she needed until it was right there in front of her.

“How bad?” Paige asked gently.

So gentle it almost made Soraya flinch.

She took a long breath, one that filled her whole chest. Then she exhaled slowly, like the words she was about to say had been sitting inside her for years.

“So bad that I couldn’t stand to keep attending Stanford and transferred to South Carolina before finishing my degree there,” she replied. “Even when she’d already graduated and left.”

Paige nodded. No questions. No prying. Just understanding. A warmth behind her eyes that made Soraya look away for a second too long.

“I’m sorry,” Paige murmured. “You deserved to get that Ivy League diploma and brag with it.”

The corner of Soraya’s mouth twitched, then curved upward. A soft, amused smile pulled at her lips, and it was the first time in a while that her expression looked completely unguarded.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, so gently it felt like a confession. “I still got my two championships I can brag with.”

Paige laughed, tipping her head back slightly as her hand reached out to shove Soraya’s arm in mock protest.

“At least UConn put belt to ass this year.”

“Yeah, after I was already gone,” Soraya smirked. “Good job.”

They kept laughing. Not the kind of laughter that fades fast, but the kind that keeps tripping over itself—quiet bursts between sentences, half jokes that didn’t really need punchlines.

Time slipped through the cracks of their easy back and forth. The walls around them, the gym’s emptiness and the ache in their muscles, the way their sweat had started to cool and cling, blurred into the background.

At some point, they’d shifted closer.

Not all at once. Gradually. The way you might lean in during a whisper, or angle your body toward someone when they’re saying something you don’t want to miss.

Soraya hadn’t noticed it until she looked up mid laugh and found Paige’s face startlingly close to hers. Not close enough to be inappropriate. But too close for something casual.

The kind of close that made you forget what you were just laughing about. The kind of close that made her mouth go dry. That made her look at Paige’s lips without meaning to.

Paige noticed too.

Because she froze, just for a second. Her smile faltered, barely. Her lashes fluttered as her gaze dipped, just once, dangerously, to Soraya’s mouth and then back up like it hadn’t happened. Like maybe Soraya wouldn’t notice.

But she did.

And suddenly, all that air between them wasn’t empty anymore. It was thick. Humming. Alive. Their knees brushed when Paige shifted slightly. The tension didn’t explode—it coiled, slow and warm, curling its fingers around them both until Soraya felt like her breath was trapped behind her teeth.

“You got…” Paige’s voice came out husky, softer than she intended. She didn’t finish the sentence, just lifted her hand hesitantly, and brushed the pad of her thumb across Soraya’s cheek. “Sweat.”

That was a lie. Or a half truth. The spot Paige touched had been dry.

But Soraya’s breath hitched. Her face didn’t move, but her eyes flickered, first down to Paige’s mouth, then back to her eyes. Then down again.

She could feel the heat rising between them. One lean. That’s all it would take. Just a tilt forward. Just a second of courage. Or a moment of weakness.

But neither moved.

“You always do that?” Soraya asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her words curled around the question like they were afraid to be heard.

Paige smiled, slow and faint, eyes not leaving hers.

“Nah. Only with you.”

A beat. Another.

Soraya didn’t smile, not right away. She just stared at Paige like she was studying her. Like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to pull her in or push her away.

And Paige… she looked just as caught. Her hand had dropped to her lap, but her body was still angled forward, like part of her hadn’t gotten the message to retreat.

Their foreheads were inches apart now.

“I hate this,” Soraya murmured before she could stop herself.

“Hate what?” Paige whispered, her tone gentle but sharp with something unspoken.

“This…” Soraya gestured vaguely between them, her voice laced with frustration she couldn’t name. “Whatever this is. It’s…risky.”

Paige didn’t argue. Didn’t move away either.

“I know.”

Another silence. Heavier than the last. The kind of silence that waits for a decision to be made.

And then Soraya leaned in—

Just a little.

And Paige did too.

Not enough. Not all the way. But enough that their noses almost touched.

Enough that they could feel each other’s breath, Paige’s shaky, Soraya’s sharp.

It would’ve taken nothing. Less than nothing. But instead, Soraya’s hand came up, not to pull Paige in, but to press lightly against her chest, keeping them apart by just enough.

Her palm burned from the contact.

But her eyes stayed locked on Paige’s, and Paige didn’t look away.

“We can’t…” Soraya said, her voice the softest it had been all night, yet so full of doubt.

Paige nodded, barely.

And then, almost reluctantly, they both leaned back. Not far. Just enough to breathe again. Just enough to remind themselves that some things—no matter how much you want them—shouldn’t happen.

Soraya glanced away first, biting the inside of her cheek like it might distract her from what nearly happened.

And Paige stared forward, willing her pulse to settle.

Trying to memorize the feeling of almost.

A few days passed, and the pace never slowed.

The Wings practiced hard—harder than most teams would this early in the season—but effort didn’t always mean cohesion. There was hustle, there was heart, but the chemistry hadn’t quite clicked. Plays fell apart halfway through execution. Rotations lagged. Communication came in bursts rather than fluidity. It was like watching potential get caught in its own throat.

And Soraya noticed something else.

Coach didn’t seem to have a grip on the reins. He was saying the right things, the textbook things, but the direction wasn’t there. His chalk talks were more noise than nuance, and adjustments made mid-scrimmage often created more confusion than clarity. He leaned on buzzwords. “Effort.” “Urgency.” “Trust.” But the drills didn’t build trust. The system didn’t demand effort—it drained it.

He looked more lost than any of them.

And that was going to be a problem.

Soraya could feel it in the way the team sometimes glanced at each other during huddles. Quiet, searching, unsure.

Still, she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

What else could she do?

Their game against Seattle hadn’t been awful. They’d played their hearts out.

And still, they’d lost. Fell short, again. By just enough to hurt. The locker room afterward had been quiet, save for the sound of tape being ripped off ankles and deep, frustrated exhales.

But even in the thick of it, the one thing that wouldn’t leave Soraya alone was Paige.

They weren’t talking, not really. Not about anything that mattered. They were… orbiting. Stuck in this in between space where neither could quite stay away, but neither wanted to push too close again. There were moments of laughter—honest, spontaneous, and always a little too short. Sometimes their hands brushed reaching for the same water bottle or towel. Sometimes their eyes locked across the gym without meaning to.

And sometimes, they looked too long.

Too soft. Too much like people who’d shared something they weren’t supposed to.

In the locker room, Soraya caught Paige glancing at her once while tying her sneakers. Paige looked away fast, like she hadn’t meant to be caught. But it happened again two minutes later.

In the weight room, Soraya bumped into her by accident, shoulder to shoulder. Paige murmured a quiet ‘my bad,’ but didn’t step away. Neither of them did for a second too long.

And during drills, whenever Soraya felt eyes on her, they were always Paige’s.

None of it made sense. None of it should’ve mattered. But unfortunately it did.

It mattered that Paige wasn’t treating her like she was angry. It mattered that she still laughed at Soraya’s dry, unbothered sarcasm during shooting drills. It mattered that she stood next to her in lineups, always just a little closer than anyone else.

And it terrified Soraya.

Because she hadn’t figured out what to do with the guilt. The shame. The fear that she’d crossed a line, and that the line had meant something. And even more terrifying than that, was how much she wanted to cross it again.

She was still scared. Still so careful it made her ache. Careful not to sit too close.

Careful not to laugh too hard when Paige said something stupid. Careful not to make eye contact for too long when Paige praised her after a good drill.

She could feel it coming. Whatever this was—it was building, quiet and steady and inevitable. Like a storm pressing its weight into the sky before the first crack of thunder.

But for now, she stayed on her side of it.

Eyes low. Walls up. Acting like Paige didn’t haunt her thoughts the second her head hit the pillow.

Even if some part of her, deep and hidden and clawing, wanted to lean in again.

To see what would happen if she didn’t pull away.

It was game day in Minnesota.

The air felt different. Colder, fresher, more alive. It wasn’t just the change in weather or the new court beneath their sneakers, but it was also the way Paige carried herself.

Being back in her home state brought something out of her. A calm sort of joy that radiated without her even trying. Soraya could feel it. Saw it in the way Paige lit up whenever a familiar face appeared in the stands, in the way her laugh echoed longer in the small visiting locker room, in the subtle, dreamy looks she’d toss around between tying her shoes or rewrapping her knee.

It made Soraya smile, quietly and to herself, more than once.

Their lockers were tighter now, less room to sprawl, less space to keep a safe distance. It was in this cramped, fluorescent lit intimacy that Paige caught her eye. They both froze for a beat, caught in something that wasn’t quite a stare, but couldn’t be brushed off either.

“Happy Paige Bueckers Day,” Soraya muttered with a small grin, pulling her hair into a taut ponytail.

Paige let out a low, startled laugh, low but warm, the kind that started in her chest and softened her face.

“Thank you,” she smirked, glancing up at Soraya through her lashes as she tightened the laces on her left sneaker. “I’m celebrating hard every year.”

Their teammates didn’t pick up on it—not really. Maybe a glance here, a smirk there. Dijonai was the only one who occasionally raised a brow like she was clocking more than she should. But otherwise, it was safe. Safe enough for Soraya to relax. To laugh a little.

To feel ready.

Shootaround felt sharp and purposeful. Soraya moved with more conviction than the first time they played Minnesota. Her passes were cleaner. Her shots more focused. She hadn’t once looked in Leah’s direction.

Not once.

But she felt her.

Like a storm cloud hovering just beyond the edge of her vision. A pressure in the air. A stare at the back of her neck that prickled like static. Leah wanted her to look. Wanted her attention. And Soraya refused to give her any of it. Not her eyes, not her nerves, not her goddamn power.

Instead, her gaze wandered to Paige.

The way her tank clung to her frame, revealing muscle and precision in every step. The way her hair bounced just slightly with every pivot. The way she glanced back across the court at Soraya far more often than was necessary.

They were orbiting again. Still too careful. Still too aware.

And then—just before heading back to the locker rooms—Paige made her move.

“Soraya,” she called out softly, a little off to the side, her voice lowered just enough not to draw attention.

Soraya blinked, turned, and walked over, her expression curious and unreadable. Her voice came gentler than she intended. “What’s up?”

Paige hesitated, shifting slightly on her feet. She wasn’t good with speeches, not with her at least. She wasn’t trying to make this some heavy thing, but she could see the way Soraya carried tension like armor, and she hated the idea of her walking into this game thinking she had to survive it.

“You don’t owe her shit,” Paige said, her tone simple, calm. “You don’t owe her fear. Or space in your head.”

She met Soraya’s eyes then, firm but not forceful. Not trying to fix her. Just there.

“And if you really want to get back at her,” Paige added with a smirk, “dropping twenty on her head wouldn’t hurt.”

That made Soraya laugh under her breath, eyes narrowing with amusement as she looked down for a second, gathering herself. But there was a warmth in her chest she hadn’t expected. A pulse behind her ribs.

“You tryna coach me now?” she asked, brows raising lightly.

“Nah,” Paige said, cocking her head with the faintest shrug. “Just sayin’. You play your game, she’s not even in the picture.”

Soraya nodded once, sharp but grateful, her lips curling just slightly. “Heard ya,” she said.

They walked toward the tunnel together, not touching, not talking, but side by side.

From the other end of the court, Leah watched the entire thing. The soft proximity. The way Paige leaned in. The way Soraya smiled. Her jaw clenched as she turned back toward her own tunnel, fingers flexing unconsciously around the towel in her hand.

She didn’t know what bothered her more.

That Soraya wasn’t looking at her.

Or that she wasn’t even thinking about her.

The whistle blew, and the game tipped off into a frenzy.

It wasn’t just team versus team—it was Soraya versus Leah.

From the moment Leah caught her first inbound pass, Soraya was already in her space, tight, close, relentless. There wasn’t an inch between them that didn’t crackle. The difference in height barely mattered. Leah had the frame, sure—but Soraya had the speed, the instincts, the fight in her eyes.

Every time Leah tried to pivot, Soraya was already there, predicting her next move.

Every time she attempted to post up, Soraya slipped around her, swiping at the ball. Every time she rose for a shot, Soraya’s hand was already in the air, swatting it, or worse, forcing an ugly brick off the glass.

By the end of the first quarter, Leah hadn’t scored once. And her expression was tight with frustration, jaw locked and eyes darting over to the Wings’ bench like maybe someone else would come help her out of the mess she walked into.

Meanwhile, Soraya?

She was electric.

Stepbacks. Quick drives. Fast break finishes. She baited Leah into cheap fouls with calculated fakes, twisting her body just enough to draw contact and land herself on the line.

Her stat line by halftime was loud: 21 points, 3 steals, 3 blocks. Against a player who had once made her feel like she couldn’t breathe.

Now, Leah was the one suffocating.

And Paige? Paige couldn’t stop grinning.

Every timeout, every break in play, her eyes found Soraya. She never said much, just smirked, the occasional low clap, a quiet “let’s go, 13.” under her breath as Soraya jogged past. But her pride was unmistakable.

She watched the way Soraya moved—fluid, locked in, owning every second she was on that court. She watched her stand over Leah after a block with calm defiance, not taunting, not theatrical. Just solid.

She watched her hold eye contact with Leah, fearless, chin up, jaw tight, like she was finally free of the weight.

And Paige had to bite her cheek to keep from smiling too hard.

At one point, as the Wings huddled during a timeout, Paige leaned against the water cooler, towel slung around her neck, watching Soraya sip from her bottle across the circle.

“You good?” she murmured when no one was looking.

Soraya glanced up, sweat glistening down her temple, chest still rising from the last sprint. But her eyes met Paige’s with the fire still burning.

“Yeah,” she breathed out. “Real good.”

And from the opposite bench, Leah sat on the edge of her seat, legs bouncing, arms crossed, her eyes drilling holes into the space between them.

Whatever she thought this game was going to be, she hadn’t expected this Soraya.

And it was driving her mad.

By the third quarter, Leah was done pretending to play clean.

The subtle jersey tugs, the perfectly timed elbow nudges, the low hip checks just outside the refs’ peripheral vision. The blonde pulled out every trick she’d ever used to tilt a matchup in her favor. The same ones Soraya had watched her perfect at Stanford. She knew all of them. Had learned them. Had learned to beat them.

So when Leah stepped up her physicality, Soraya didn’t just absorb it—She anticipated it.

Every shove earned her another bucket. Every bump turned into another free throw. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t bite. Didn’t react, at least not in any way Leah could use.

Instead, Soraya moved through her like smoke, and it was infuriating.

The score was a tug-of-war. Up one, down two, tied again. A chess match that left the air thin and tense in the arena.

Then the Lynx adjusted.

Fourth quarter, seven minutes left on the clock, Leah switched to Paige. And whatever faux civility might’ve seemed to exist before was gone.

They didn’t speak. Not even a nod. Just stared at each other across the arc with an animosity that seemed almost personal, despite never having exchanged a word.

Maybe it was the way Paige had watched Soraya all game. Maybe it was the way Soraya had looked back. Whatever it was, it had Leah’s blood boiling.

But it didn’t matter who they sent at Soraya now.

Napheesa was tall, fast, and seasoned, but she couldn't keep up. Soraya’s feet barely touched the ground. Every crossover was faster and every release smoother. She was blacking out, in the zone in a way she hadn’t felt since her last title run. Shot after shot fell through the net with that kind of sound, clean, like a dagger being sheathed in velvet.

She broke her own record for most threes in a game with just under three minutes left.

The crowd was stunned. Her teammates roared. And Paige just smiled. She didn’t need to say it. But her pride was impossible to miss.

And Soraya? She wouldn’t let herself think about the why too hard. Wouldn’t look at Paige for too long, but she knew what she was doing. Somewhere deep under the sweat, under the adrenaline, this wasn’t just about proving Leah wrong.

It was about Paige.

This was Paige Bueckers Day, and there was no way in hell she was going to let them lose when her city had been temporarily renamed after her.

Not in front of her family. Not in front of her old teammates. Not in front of the people who loved her.

The final possession was chaos. Wings up by one. The Lynx desperate to foul, hoping for a turnover. But the ball landed in Soraya’s hands, and she didn’t hesitate—a high arc from well beyond the line, floating above grasping hands.

It hit the net with a snap.

Two point lead.

Wings 87 – Lynx 85.

The buzzer sounded. The arena erupted, but muted in their own loss.

And at center court, as the team swarmed around her, Soraya felt her legs shaking under the weight of it. Her chest heaving and her hands burning.

Then, through the blur of bodies, she saw Paige, smiling like she knew.

Not just the stat line. Not just the win.

But the why.

And Soraya had to look away before her own pride gave her away.

The locker room was loud—too small to hold the size of their win and the noise that came with it.

Someone had hooked up a speaker to the AUX, and the bass was practically shaking the floor beneath them. Shoes squeaked against tile, jerseys half off, towels slung around shoulders, Gatorade bottles tossed into corners and lockers left open in the chaos. It was messy. It was sweaty. It was perfect.

Their first win as a unit, as this team. And it felt like something real.

Dijonai was the first to start dancing, of course—spinning around dramatically, pointing finger-guns at Lyss who immediately pulled her in, in response. Arike leaned back in her chair, face flushed, still breathing hard from the game, but grinning wide as she sang along to the lyrics she barely knew. JJ and Aziaha were fake boxing in the corner, both in socks, slipping all over the floor. Myisha had her phone out, recording everything and occasionally jumping into the frame.

Paige stood by her locker, still in her jersey, watching it all with a small, amused smile. Her hair was a mess, damp from sweat and water from JJ’s post game splash, and her legs felt like bricks. But she was happy.

They all were.

And then, to everyone’s surprise, Soraya moved. She didn’t just smile. She stepped in.

Still in her sneakers and full uniform, cheeks flushed, she made her way to the middle where Dijonai had called her over, motioning with wild hands like she’d summoned her from across the court. The others immediately started hyping it up, pounding lockers and shouting.

Soraya started slow, sheepishly swaying side to side—until the song changed.

“Ohhh shit,” Dijonai hollered as whim whammie came on, immediately turning around and grabbing her knees, hips starting to sway in slow, hypnotic circles like she’d just clocked in for a shift.

Soraya doubled over laughing, genuine and loud. And before anyone could blink, she and Nalyssa were flanking Dijonai, pretending to make it rain, fanning out imaginary money like they were in some VIP strip club. “We got you, mama!” Nalyssa shouted between cackles.

“Hunnid bills only, baby!” Soraya added, grinning so wide it nearly cracked her face in half.

It was maybe the first time anyone had seen her this unburdened. No wall. No sarcasm. Just that sunshine light kind of fun that made everyone stop and appreciate it for what it was.

Right as the beat dropped, Dijonai hit the diving-in motion and Soraya followed it up without missing a beat—doing that ‘eating from a plate’ move like she’d been waiting for it all night, her face scrunched in playful concentration, committing fully. The room broke out in laughter and cheers.

Even Paige laughed, leaning back on the bench with a grin she couldn’t fight, eyes locked on Soraya like gravity was pulling them again.

Her smile stretched wider, teeth showing, her eyes softening in that way she didn’t let happen often, but there was no mistaking the look on her face.

Admiration. Fondness. Something warm and low and locked behind her ribs.

Because there she was. Soraya—who never danced. Who barely even smiled in public. Who had kept her guard up for way too long.

Laughing. Moving. Letting herself be.

Paige didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt it.

But her heart was loud in her chest, thudding in rhythm with the music and the laughter echoing around them.

The room was still pulsing with noise when Arike leaned back against the locker beside Paige’s, a knowing grin tugging at her lips.

“Yo,” she said under her breath, just loud enough for Paige to hear, “if you stare any harder, you gon’ pop a contact.”

Paige choked on a laugh, eyes snapping away from Soraya like she'd been caught doing something illegal.

“I’m not—” she started, but Arike was already walking away, hands raised in surrender like, don’t shoot the messenger.

Paige ducked her head and grinned to herself anyway.

Just then, Dijonai clapped loudly to get everyone’s attention, standing on one of the benches like she owned the whole damn team.

“Alright, listen up!” she shouted. “I know we’re tired, but I say we hit a spot tonight. Light celebration. No practice tomorrow. Coach said it.”

Cheers erupted immediately. Lyss tossed a towel at her. Teaira hollered. Someone banged on a locker again.

“Myisha, find us a spot!” Dijonai added. “Not that bougie ones y’all used to go to, I’m tryna dance.”

Amid the noise, someone asked, “Who’s even down?”

“I am,” Soraya called out, raising her arm, arm surprising everyone.

Heads turned.

Even Paige raised her eyebrows, eyes darting toward her as if to confirm she’d heard that right.

Soraya just shrugged, grabbing her water bottle and tossing a towel over her shoulder. “What? I dropped 30. I deserve this shit.”

“That’s my girl!” Teaira cheered.

Dijonai looked absolutely delighted. “Oh we clubbin’ for real tonight.”

And from the other side of the room, Paige just bit down on her lip to keep from smiling too wide—watching Soraya again, even though Arike had already caught her once.

The night air in Minneapolis was cool and crisp, but inside the hotel it felt like electricity buzzed in the walls.

In her room, Soraya stood in front of the full length mirror, a rare quiet draping over the space around her. Her phone buzzed with updates from the group chat—Dijonai sending cryptic emojis, Lyss posting mirror selfies of them together—but Soraya let the messages roll in untouched for a moment longer.

She had one last look to finish.

Her hair, parted perfectly down the middle, fell in long goddess braids—half swept up into a ponytail that framed her face like she was royalty off duty. Her lips, already lined in a rich mocha tone, were just waiting for the final gloss. With one hand steady and practiced, she swiped the clear shine over them, watching herself transform from athlete to something closer to art.

Then came the gold heels.

Thin snakes of metal coiled around her ankles, not too high, but just enough to draw the eye up. Her legs looked longer, stronger, more unapologetic. Her skin glowed like it had absorbed the win, the lights, the moment.

She looked at herself one last time. Not out of vanity, but out of quiet affirmation.

She was still here. Still standing. And tonight, she wasn’t shrinking for anyone.

By the time she made her way downstairs, the limo had already pulled up to the curb, sleek and black, windows tinted like the night had secrets to keep. Inside were voices and laughter, bass thumping from the speakers, and silhouettes of her teammates already sprawled across the leather seats.

When the door opened and Soraya stepped in, purse in one hand, the other instinctively bracing the low neckline of her dress as she bent forward, Paige looked up from across the cabin.

And she didn’t look away.

Not even once.

Soraya’s dress was deep garnet, strapless, and so tight it looked like it was poured onto her. Thousands of crimson sequins clung to her body like they worshipped it. The structured bodice carved her waist into something sculpted, feminine and intoxicating. Every inch of her shimmered like someone had ground up rubies and let them fall across her curves. Her collarbones caught the light. Her thighs, crossed delicately as she sat, shimmered under the hem that flirted with indecency.

And Paige was breathless.

She didn’t mean to be, but she was. Sitting there in black ripped jorts, an open white button-up over a black cropped tank, her hair swept into a messy bun that should’ve made her look casual—but instead only made the way she stared feel more intense, more deliberate.

She noticed everything. The way Soraya's lip gloss caught the light. The subtle clink of her gold earrings. The exact second her gaze shifted and landed on her.

And when it did, when those dark eyes finally met baby blues, it was like the air between them thinned out.

Soraya's mouth curved, barely, like she knew. Like she saw it all in Paige’s face, the way her throat worked as she swallowed down every reaction she couldn’t voice in front of the others.

Her eyes dragged down Paige’s frame.

The all black outfit. The cologne she hadn’t changed since UConn, according to her. The white shirt hanging open like an afterthought.

It wasn’t fair, really, how they could read each other so clearly without saying a word.

“You look so good,” Paige wanted to say. God, you look perfect.

But all she did was hold Soraya’s gaze, just long enough to make it obvious.

And Soraya? She let her eyes linger just a beat longer, before finally looking away with the faintest curl of her lips.

The limousine drove off into the night.

And across the seats, even surrounded by noise, celebration, and teammates shouting over each other about who was most likely to lose their phone before midnight—

All Paige could feel was the burn of that stare, and the unbearable pull of everything that hadn’t happened.

Yet.

The club was already pulsing by the time they arrived, lights flickering in and out of deep purples and neon pinks, bass vibrating through the floors like a heartbeat that never slowed. They skipped the line, obviously. The whole Wings squad rolled in like walking trophies, all fancy heels and expensive sneakers, body glitter, and effortless swagger.

The VIP section was cordoned off in the back, just far enough from the crowd to feel exclusive, but close enough that the heat of bodies and rhythm of the music still wrapped around them.

Bottles arrived on cue. Champagne first. Then tequila. Then whatever Lyss pointed to.

Paige was leaned back into the plush velvet couch, legs spread a little too casually, a glass of something dark in hand. Her eyes were hooded, calm on the outside, but they flicked back to Soraya every chance they got.

And Soraya? She was lazily dancing.

Not in the middle of the floor—no, she didn’t need to be watched by the whole club. Just right there with Dijonai and Maddy, hips swaying, that red dress lighting up under the strobe like it was alive. Every movement was hypnotic. Like her body didn’t just move to the beat, it owned it.

And Paige was done for.

A guy tried to slide in behind Soraya once. Tall, beard, nice enough face. She glanced at him for one second, one full second of indifference, before shaking her head with the kind of disinterest that made him sigh as he backed away.

Arike caught it and laughed. “Sora curvin’ dudes like she allergic!”

“‘Cause I am.”

Everyone laughed.

Even Soraya, who just kept dancing, who looked over her shoulder and caught Paige watching her again. She didn’t smirk this time. Just held her gaze. Like ’do you see what I’m not doing?’ Like ’do you see who I’m dancing for?’

Moments later, a girl approached Paige. Brunette, pretty, persistent. Bent down close to speak into her ear.

Soraya couldn’t help but look.

And it seemed like Paige wasn’t listening to a damn thing the girl was saying.

Because the blonde’s answer was simple. A shake of the head. A hand gesture that said ’I’m good.’

The girl walked off, clearly a little annoyed.

But Paige only looked at Soraya.

And that was when Soraya finally walked back to the booth, a bit flushed from dancing, still holding onto the buzz. She sat beside Paige, not too close, but close enough that their tighs touched. Bare soft skin on rough denim.

Neither of them moved.

The music shifted. Slowed. A hazy RnB track vibrating with bass and tension.

“Not your type?” Soraya asked without looking at her.

Paige sipped her drink before answering. Her voice was low, careful. “Not even close.”

And that silence after? It was thick. Electric. Like someone lit a match but didn’t throw it yet.

Soraya didn’t respond. Just tipped her head slightly, letting her hair fall to one side, exposing her bare shoulder like it meant nothing. But Paige’s eyes tracked the movement, sharp as a blade.

The others were still celebrating. Loud, tipsy, happy.

But Paige and Soraya sat there in the velvet corner of VIP, drinks forgotten, each other's attention held hostage. Neither making the move.

Both daring the other to do it first.

It was Myisha who tugged Soraya’s wrist first, halfway through an RnB remix that vibrated low through the floor like a heartbeat.

“Come on, you too fine to be sittin’ now,” she yelled over the music, grinning as she pulled Soraya up.

Dijonai grabbed Paige next. “Bueckers, get your lanky ass up.”

The rest of the team was already down there—dancing, laughing, half in rhythm, half just vibing. The lights flashed in moody purples and silvers. The DJ dropped into a mashup so smooth it slowed everything down, melted the room into honey and smoke.

Soraya found herself near the center, hips swaying, letting the heat of the club soak into her skin. Her dress shimmered like it had its own rhythm, catching the flashes of light in all the right places. She felt confident, powerful, untouchable.

Until Paige stepped behind her.

Not on her, never close enough to be labeled, but near. Near enough for Soraya to feel her presence before she saw it.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught Paige watching her again. No smirk. No smugness. Just eyes—dark, steady, unreadable.

Like she was trying not to touch her. Like she’d imagined it a thousand times and still wasn’t sure if it was safe.

The beat dropped. A slow, sexy burn that pulsed with tension.

And they danced.

Not with each other. Not technically. Just beside each other.

Soraya swayed, hips rolling. Paige matched the pace but didn’t close the space.

Their hands didn’t touch. But their arms brushed. Their bodies swerved close—too close—and then pulled back like a dare.

Another man slid up beside Soraya, said something in her ear. She didn’t hear it. Didn’t care.

She turned her face toward Paige without hesitation, one brow raised. The guy didn’t even wait for the rejection. He just disappeared.

Paige leaned in slightly. “That was cold.”

Soraya turned her back to her, still dancing. “So?” She shrugged.

And then Paige’s hand brushed the small of her back. Just barely. Just a graze. Not enough for anyone to notice.

But Soraya noticed.

Her breath caught, her body shivering almost invisibly before she bit her lip and kept dancing.

And Paige?

Paige kept her distance again like it hadn’t happened.

But her hand burned against her side. Like it was still there.

They danced like that for another song. Maybe two. Caught in a loop of silence and rhythm. People brushed past. The rest of the team laughed and danced around them, totally unaware of the pressure threatening to blow between the two.

Then, at one point, Soraya turned a little too fast, spun into Paige’s space and stopped inches away.

And in that moment, Soraya looked at her—neck tilted, breathing just slightly harder, chest almost brushing Paige’s.

Paige looked down like she wanted to break every rule she had ever set for herself.

No cameras. No team. No excuses. But no kiss.

Not yet.

Just a long stare. A moment caught in strobe light and heat.

The songs had shifted.

Gone were the upbeat tracks and rowdy crowd vocals—what poured from the speakers now was slow, bass heavy, and thick with suggestion. The kind of music that crawled down your spine and curled its fingers there. Lights dimmed to something darker, redder, more sinful. Around them, the club changed, bodies swaying closer, lips brushing necks, hands sliding places that belonged behind closed doors. But no one cared.

No one was watching.

And something snapped in Soraya.

She’d held back long enough. Bit her tongue until it bled. Pretended she didn’t want what she wanted.

But in that moment, in that heat, that song, and that closeness, she didn’t care.

Not when Paige was right there. Not when she looked like that, all flushed and golden and trying so damn hard to stay composed. Not when her hands were still hovering near her sides, like she was afraid to reach.

Soraya turned to her. Dark eyes locked with blue.

She didn’t say anything.

She just grabbed both of Paige’s wrists—firm, unapologetic—and dragged her hands around her waist. Pressed them there. Held them there. Right against the curve of her body. Her touch slow. Deliberate. Daring.

Paige swallowed thickly.

Her palms slid over the tight fabric of Soraya’s dress, fingers brushing gemstone after gemstone, the tiny crystals glittering beneath her touch like stars stitched onto skin. She could feel every sculpted line, every cinch, every breath Soraya dared to take.

Her hands stayed at Soraya’s waist, but barely. Her thumbs toyed with the fabric just above her hips. She was trying—so hard—not to let them drop lower. Not to squeeze. Not to pull her in.

And then the older turned her back to her.

But she didn’t let go.

Still holding Paige’s wrists, she guided them to stay exactly where they were, now behind her. Caged in. Controlled.

And then she moved.

Her hips rolled slow to the rhythm. The same rhythm as that night. The same beat that had filled the room when Paige had her hands on her thighs and her mouth on her. This time, though, they were both sober. Aware. Wide awake in the heat of it.

Soraya ground her hips against Paige’s lap, rolling her ass back in a way that made Paige almost whimper and curse under her breath. Low. Dangerous. Almost desperate.

Paige leaned in without thinking. Close enough for her breath to fan against Soraya’s neck. Her lips hovered just over her shoulder, maybe even brushing it.

Every cell in her body was screaming—kiss her, kiss her, kiss her.

She wanted to press her mouth there. Drag her hands lower. Let her control go up in smoke and pull Soraya flush against her and never let go.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t the time. Or maybe it was. Maybe that was the problem.

Instead, Paige let her nose graze Soraya’s shoulder, lips barely parted, her voice nothing more than a breath.

“You’re not playing fair,” she murmured.

And Soraya, never stopping the way her hips moved to the rhythm, replied without turning around.

“I’m not playing at all.”

God, it took everything in Paige not to pull her around and finally let their mouths meet. She wanted to. Needed to. Could taste it just inches away.

But then the song changed. A beat faster and the spell broke.

Soraya slowed her hips and finally pushed Paige’s hands off. Turned back to face her just for a second, face calm, but eyes alight like fire.

Neither of them said anything. But their bodies remembered everything.

The night air hit them like a sigh of relief, cool, crisp, and quiet compared to the heat and thrum of the club. The girls spilled out in clusters, drunk off adrenaline, champagne, music, or maybe just the high of their first win. Laughter echoed against the pavement. Someone was singing off-key. Another was already pulling out their phone for late night photos.

Soraya was steady on her feet at first.

But every step towards the exit of the club reminded her that she'd played a full game just hours ago. That her body was running on sheer adrenaline. That her heels, no matter how stunning, were not made for this much movement. Her calves burned. Soles ached. And when she tried to subtly lean her weight into the wall of the building for a second’s rest, she winced.

Paige noticed immediately.

No words. No warning. She just moved.

One second, Soraya was trying to adjust her heel. The next, her feet were off the ground.

Strong arms scooped her up effortlessly, like she weighed nothing at all. Bridal style. Her head instinctively tucked against Paige’s shoulder from the motion. The scent of her cologne—woody, spicy and fresh—wrapped around her like a second skin.

Soraya blinked. “Paige—”

“Shh,” Paige said, barely above a whisper, like it was just for her. “Don’t even try to argue.”

She didn’t. Not really.

She could’ve protested. Could’ve laughed it off, made a joke, kicked her feet. But she didn’t want to. Not when Paige’s arms held her so firmly. Not when her heartbeat was calm and strong beneath her cheek. Not when the rhythm of her steps felt safer than anything else had in weeks.

The others around them were too tipsy, too distracted, too deep in their own conversations to care. Dijonai clocked the moment from a few feet ahead, biting back a smirk, but she said nothing.

Soraya glanced up, her eyes catching Paige’s in the soft streetlight glow.

“You didn’t even ask,” she murmured, teasing but soft.

Paige’s mouth twitched at the corner, not quite a smile. “Didn’t feel like asking.”

“And if I didn’t want you to?”

“Then you’d make that known,” A beat passed. “Like you always do.”

Soraya laughed, a quiet breath against Paige’s throat, and let her head rest again.

They reached the limousine just as the others were piling in. Paige opened the door with one hand, still holding Soraya with the other, and ducked inside carefully, setting her down onto the seat like something fragile.

Their eyes lingered.

Longer than necessary.

And when Soraya scooted back to let Paige sit beside her, their legs pressed close, her hand still half resting against Soraya’s thigh from the motion, like she hadn’t quite let go yet.

Neither of them spoke.

But the heat between them said everything.

The elevator ride up was quiet, but charged. The music was soft jazz, the kind meant to be ignorable—yet every note seemed to echo louder than it should’ve.

Paige stood on one side, hands in her pockets, eyes forward but glancing.

Soraya leaned against the other wall, arms crossed over her chest, lips parted ever so slightly from the heat still buzzing beneath her skin. She could feel Paige watching her through the reflection in the chrome doors, like the space between them was trying to pull them together.

The others chatted behind them, Nalyssa talking about the DJ, Arike still laughing over something Dijonai said, but Soraya barely heard it.

By the time the elevator dinged on their floor, she swore her pulse was louder than the doors opening.

They each went to their rooms in silence, doors only a few feet apart.

But sleep didn’t come.

Not for Soraya.

She'd changed out of the red dress and heels and into her tank top and shorts, wiped the makeup off her face, showered, and dotted on her usual galaxy of star shaped pimple patches across her cheek and chin. She’d even curled under the hotel covers, lights off, ready to fake rest.

But her mind kept spiraling back. The way Paige had looked at her in the limo. On the dance floor. In the elevator.

Like she wanted to taste her again—but wasn’t sure if she should give in.

Then came the knock.

A soft, almost hesitant tap-tap-tap against her door.

Soraya’s heart jumped. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up.

She opened it slowly.

And there stood Paige.

White tee hanging a little loose over her frame, wide pajama pants riding low on her hips. Her purple glasses perched on her nose, bun still slightly messy from the club and ride back.

She looked like a dream. The kind that haunted you more than it comforted you.

They stared at each other for a beat. Neither speaking. Neither moving.

Then Paige licked her lips once, almost nervously. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Soraya didn’t answer. Her eyes just flickered down, taking her in, before meeting hers again.

And then something snapped again and she stepped forward, one hand curling into the hem of Paige’s shirt, using it to tug her in. Their bodies collided gently, familiar. Her other hand slid up to Paige’s neck.

Right before her mouth met hers, Soraya murmured, voice low and thick with warning. “Don’t expect too much.”

But the way Paige grabbed her back—hand finding the arch of her spine, dragging her closer like she was trying to memorize the shape of her—said she didn’t care.

Their lips crashed together in a quiet, hot urgency. Not soft. Not slow. Needy.

Paige’s hands moved over her like she was trying to fill the ache of every moment she hadn’t touched her—gripping her ass through her shorts, her waist, the small of her back. Soraya’s fingers tangled in Paige’s shirt, tugging it higher, not to take it off, but to feel. Her tongue slid past her lips, tasting her like a question she’d been dying to ask again.

It was almost too much.

But not enough.

And just when it threatened to cross that line, just when Paige’s hand slid under her tank top and her hips pressed forward like a plea—

Soraya pulled back.

Breathing hard. Lips swollen. Cheeks flushed.

She stared at her for a long moment.

Then leaned forward again, brushing her lips once against Paige’s again, just a whisper of a kiss this time.

“Goodnight, Paige,” she said softly, eyes lidded, voice barely steady.

Paige exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

A beat. Then a nod. “Goodnight, Soraya.”

And just like that, Paige turned and walked back to her room, slow and reluctant, glancing once over her shoulder.

Soraya closed the door behind her, back pressed to the wood, heart pounding like war drums.

Neither of them slept that night.

Not really.

[fyuyushia]

Capture Target: You!

Jinwoo has now obtained weekly tasks. Today follows Jinwoo completing one of said tasks. Namely: Making a cinematic film about his shadows(specifically bears) to send to you.

Link to Masterlist

It started out simple.

After you initiated the first conversation, it just somehow went on and on. Despite already sharing everything(well, not everything-but it was a lot.) and more, somehow someway you still had so much more to talk about.

He didn't complain.

On the contrary, one could even say he enjoyed it. Past feelings aside, you were always a delightful company. You knew just the words to make anyone laugh, and you were easy to talk to.

So when Jinwoo found himself indulging in conversations unwarranted(shocker. The system didn't convince him.) through text messages and occasional memes sent by you, he didn't even bother to stop. You can't blame him.

(Even so, he tries to reason himself.)

Putting aside the fact that you were his first love. Putting aside the fact that you're a capture target. Putting aside the fact that he feels the urge to talk to you more even outside of the system's wing.

You were a good friend. The ideal one, even. (What ideal was he basing on? He doesn't know, but he assumes it's someone like you who gets him chuckling unceremoniously)

You couldn't(and so no one should) blame him for having fun talking to you. You understood him-somewhat-even if he's changed into the convoluted man he is today with a chamber of secrets too much for one man to hold.

You gave him a sense of normalcy. Like he was back to the times where he didn't have to worry much about anything but if here wrote the right answer in his assignment. You were normal.

He wasn't-but he wanted to be.

You were normal. You gave him the feeling he was normal. You were far from the hunter business, you were a chance to be just a normal guy with a slightly weird wingman.(if he could even call the system that) He appreciates that, and so he lingers.

He doesn't admit that too easily, though. And his reasons for approach are also not as simple as just that-but it made him all the more motivated to pursue this quest-this relationship.

Perhaps a bit too much. Without even realizing it, he's incorporated you in his day to day life. He's chatting you regularly-awfully often for a man who's supposed to be busy clearing dungeons left and right.

He checks your messages more often than he should. Often it's you who starts it, and often it's him waiting for you to start it. Reading through past threads for no particular reason other than interest.

You appeared and delivered. He appreciates that.

Jinwoo hums mindlessly, watching with the nonchalance everyone recognized to be his. He didn't even have to do much, his shadow soldiers were doing all the work for him. From slaying monsters to gathering them, mining ores to dissecting and collecting the parts that could still be used and sold.

Jinwoo had absolutely nothing to do. In other words, he was bored.

Now, normally, he would've relieved himself of this boredom by fighting as well. It was a logical option, and it helped prevent him from letting his skills rust and disappear. But today-surprisingly-he had other plans. Plans that didn't involve helping out in this entire charade.

No, instead, he whips out his phone. Opens it, and then scrolls through his contacts, he stops when he finds your name and presses it. Backreading on a few conversations he particularly enjoyed-enough to bother reading it again.

He's easy. Too easy. He doesn't even realize his own antics have made the people around him suspicious. He doesn't even notice he may have gotten too friendly with you that it makes him look like he's grown two heads.

He looks around, searching for inspiration regarding what he should do in the meantime. It would take quite a while before his shadow soldiers would finish up scourging this dungeon for all it's worth, might as well find something to do to clear time.

There's Beru grilling the soldiers for being too slow and demanding they go faster, there's Iron eagerly smashing the crystals with glee, there's Igris busying himself with taking out the cores of the now dead beasts, delicately scanning their insides, as if he was doing something domestic like sewing.

It was unsettling.

He looks away from the scene, searching for something more friendly. Eventually, his gaze lands on Tank.

The bear, busily taking care of his fellow kin eventually noticed the weight of his master's eyes on him. He turns around, finds Jinwoo staring, and gives him a small wave with his paw.

Jinwoo flinches slightly, not quite expecting that but gives the bear a small nod. Tank lets out a happy huff and reverts his attention to his fellow shadows.

Jinwoo follows Tank's gaze, mildly curious and finds two of the bears under his rule play fighting.

He watches with the faintest hint of amusement glinting within. A smile, and then a flash of recognition-akin to the way one would light up after remembering or getting a bright idea.

Right, come to think of it, he did have that quest-didn't he?

This seemed like a good material for that. You did mention you liked bears once. Well, specifically pandas-but they're a bear in general. They looked adorable he daresays. Enough to curry your favor. And you also mentioned being curious about his shadows-something you saw on tv once-and another time during the reunion party when he ran away all of a sudden.

A shadow soldier took his place then, and it just so happened to be a bear. Right, come to think of it you did mention they were cute back then-you might just really enjoy this picture.

He scrolls up for who knows how long, double checking to make sure if you really said it, and, sure enough, you did.

You:

By the way did you know when you suddenly left using whatever magic you had during the reunion party a bear took your place?

They were really cute.

They looked so confused

They were also colored darkly and had a weird texture

But they were cute

Hehe it left but not before letting me pet them

It was weird

I think it was a fever dream

Jinwoo:

Bear?

Did they glow blue?

You:

Well they were mostly dark but yes they did have this blue outline to them

It was weird

I thought it would kill me at first

But they're actually really nice

They seemed just as scared when they suddenly showed up

Do you think monsters can be nice too?

Jinwoo:

Oh

That might be my shadow

You:

You're a bear?

Jinwoo:

Huh

You:

Huh

Jinwoo:

I meant they're one of my summons

You:

Summon?

Jinwoo:

My ability.

As a hunter

You:

Oh. What?

But they seemed so

Idk

Aware!

Like they had their own sentience

Jinwoo:

They are sentient

You:

Oh

Oh what

Now I'm confused

Is this like

Pokemon

Digimon???

Jinwoo:

That's close enough

You like them?

You:

Oh

Woah wait

Hold on

That's rad

Are they aggressive...

Jinwoo:

They're tame unless provoked otherwise

You:

Oh

So

Can I

Hypothetically speaking

Pet them?

Jinwoo:

Sure-maybe.

You:

Hurraaah

Please let me I want toooo

He nods in approval. Sure enough, you did mention liking the bears of his shadow army. He looks at the pair of bears, this time they seemed to be sumo wrestling-except they kept violating rules one after another so it won't even be allowed to qualify as one either.

They were just duking it out.

But they're bears. They're cute. It's fine.

He looks at the shadows. Violent-but not enough to constantly bring tremor to the cave-like dungeon. Only sometimes. Pointing his phone at them, he takes a quick video-as per your request, as per his quest. He faintly remembers you asking him if he could send you a video of them being in their natural state. He delivers, of course he delivers-you're a friend.

And...

He looks in front of him. Specifically: the system window in front of him.

[Lvl 2. Friends (40% to reach the next stage)

♡ = 26%

Feeling: (Locked.)]

[You've reached 25%!

Romance Quest Interface Unlocked!]

[Quest: First love to maybe something more

Progress Path: Capture Target - (Name)

Current Stage: Level 2 - Friends (40% to reach the next stage)

♡ Affection Level: 26%

Feeling: [Locked]

Weekly Task:

1. Send {Capture Target} a photo/video of your shadow soldiers in "natural habitat"

Tip:  Make it cute! {Capture Target} enjoys cute bear related videos!

Status: Incomplete

Reward: +2 AP | +1000 XP | +1000 gold

2. Reply to {Capture Target}'s last message within 10 minutes

Tip: Showing they matter is always great!

Status: Incomplete

Reward: +0.5 AP | +100 XP

3. Pet shadow bear in front of {Capture Target}

Optional: Let {Capture Target} pet shadow bear

Tip: Showing them your delicate side will always result in a win!

Status: Locked | requires in-person interaction

Reward: +3 Affection Points | Unlock hidden dialogue branch.]

He wanted to move up his affinity too.

This system window was fairly new, only obtaining it once he reached 26%AP. He didn't even realize he was raising affection back then, all he knew was that you were an enjoyable person so he texted you frequently to the point he made it a habit. One could only imagine his surprise when the hologram suddenly showed up wearing a different skin and theme.

It was more cutesy than the usual one. Its sharp edges softened into curved ones, colored the color of love and decorated with all things lovely (flowers)

Jinwoo didn't understand why he had a customized window dedicated for romancing, but he decided to just roll with it—after all, did he have a choice?(He does—he can choose to back out of this quest. There's an option specifically for that. But he pretends it doesn't exist.)

Jinwoo had only obtained this new system fairly recently. He did get the chance to explore it yet, but its purpose seemed to work similarly with his normal system so he didn't have much trouble when it comes to understanding the its function. The only question he had was: why. But it's not like it could be answered by anyone so he's left to stir in his own curiosity.

Resigning to his fate, he looks at the weekly tasks and sees that the hint he gathered became officially embedded and out in the tip section of his task. With the system practically begging him to do this one act—he finally gave in to his whims.

He whips out his phone and opens his camera. Might as well get the job done quick while he had the chance, lest he risk getting the penalty for failing to do the weekly task.

Setting the camera, he points it towards Tank—who gave him what seemed like a thumbs up before moving it to the other shadows still trying to make the other topple in order to proclaim victory.

As Jinwoo films the video with the precision of a man who has spent more time fighting monsters than actually mastering modern technology. He zooms in on the bears, attempting to capture their chaotic wrestling.

His hands are steady, he's used to keeping his hand still and calm under worse situations, but the camera work, as he feared, leaves much to be desired.

The video shakes ever so slightly, and then suddenly a bear's paw unexpectedly smacks the screen as one of them rolls too close. He dodges with a sidestep, and the angle shifts in a way that only manages to show a blurry, overly dramatic shot of a bear's massive form in the background. Jinwoo blinks, trying to stabilize the phone.

Jinwoo finally ends the clip with a decisive press. He looks at the playback, and what he sees is nothing short of disappointing-it's messy and clearly not expertly choreographed. He deletes it immediately, there's no way he'd let you or anyone else see it for that matter.

He brings a hand up, carding his fingers through his hair. Breathing out a sigh, Jinwoo feels the smallest tinge of shame because of his own actions.

What is he even doing?

He pauses. Why is he putting so much effort into this again? It’s not like he needs to. But then again, you liked bears. And bears were easy. And you were a good friend—so he should return the favor you gave him(being a good company) and pay you back.

[Tip: Half hearted attempts to win {Capture Target}'s heart will result in AP being halved. Worse: reduced!]

Well now he's obligated to put some thought into it.

What the hell is with this plot convenient system forcing him to take action? (He clings to a chance to justify his own actions.)

He forms a glare(it's half hearted at best) as he stares at the pop up window with the kind that could make grown men quake in their boots.

With a half formed scowl and his phone in hand, he resumes his prior antics in the name of currying your favor.

Meanwhile, in the background, Jinho, having just finished strolling around the dungeon, finds Jinwoo doing(what he perceives)the unthinkable: take a video.

Jinho's mouth falls agape, question marks immediately occupying his thoughts as he watches his nonchalant, cool, unbothered, effortlessly intimidating with an air of mystery that makes him irresistible to the rest(especially for those looking for someone to fix) take a video.

Tank is growling, pointing to his bears and choreographing the shadow's movements like a director of a movie film.

With one big gulp of the nerves that bundled up in his throat, he forces it down and finally asks about the elephant in the room.

"Hyung?"

Jinwoo hums. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

Jinho narrows his eyes, suspicious and mildly concerned. He didn't recognize Jinwoo to be an avid photo taker(he's not-he has less than 30 images on his camera roll)so seeing him suddenly seem interested in capturing candid moments seemed odd.

"Taking a video." A video because a simple picture wouldn't be enough-they were doing something much more complicated to attempt for him to even capture in just a single photo.

"Why?"

"For a friend."

"Who?"

He looks at Jinho, contemplates what answer to give, and promptly settles with:

"You wouldn't know even if I told you." He says, as if keeping you a secret.

Now to Jinho-this immediately raised flags. Not because he hid your identity-he already knew his Hyung was a private man who kept his life to himself-but because he was filming a video(even if said video was amateur at best) to send to someone.

Of course, for someone with an overactive imagination like Jinho, this sudden act had him thinking. Really thinking. This whole situation is reeking with love—and love was a rare find on Jinwoo. At least, he thinks it is.

Wait, not really. He recalls the previous times he's caught his Hyung with girls. There was that one E-rank hunter girl—okay, no, maybe him having someone isn't so rare, but still, this is still something.

Jinho's jaws are wide agape, paired with his equally wide eyes, and then followed along surprised and very loudly gasping as his thoughts ran with a hundred dozen ideas which all boiled down to one thought:

Does Jinwoo have a lover?!

"Hyung, You've filming bears. For thirty minutes. Like this is some National Geographic special—! And for what? For who?”

"I told you, for a friend."

Jinho scoffs. "What kind of friend asks for a video of shadow bears going at each other's throats?!"

"The kind that likes bears."

Jinho runs a hand through his hair, distressed and in disbelief. "Hyung, be honest! Is this really just a friend?" He pauses. "Or are they the" wink wink "kind of friend?" Wink wink

Jinwoo grimaces, almost disgusted by the wink. "What do you mean? They're just a friend. A normal one."

Then Jinwoo pauses. Jinho holds his breath.

"But you're right. They're a normal person, I doubt they'd appreciate this much violence—even in bears."

He stops his video taking. One glance from Jinwoo to Tank was enough for Tank to get the memo. As the bear stands up and waddles over to the other bears, they communicate what his master's needs and immediately nods and gets to work.

"That's not the problem!" Jinho exclaims, but he gets ignored.

Jinho, meanwhile, swallows thickly. Shifting his gaze to Jinwoo, his expression is one of terror as he watches him video again. Only this time, he was walking around, acting like a professional videographer and passively encouraging the bears to keep going with that blank expression—with that certain face he makes sometimes whenever he does something incredibly mundane or normal. That blank faced enthusiasm that makes anyone automatically think he's innocent.

Jinho watches with a mix of horror and amusement—he doesn't even realize he's been staring for a while until Jinwoo finally presses stop and turn his attention to where he stood.

"What's wrong? Why're you spacing out?" He asks, as if he hasn't just spent almost half an hour recording the bears in their "natural habitat"(they were not. Their natural habitat included duking things out and fighting—not rolling around and playing cute as if they weren't twice a human's width and height, as if their claws and teeth weren't just at a monster's throat and making them bleed. Their natural habitat does NOT include them purring like overgrown cats—but it does include roaring loudly to the point of deafening to scare off enemies.)

"No. Nothing." Came Jinho's reply, eyes dead as he processes everything.

Jinwoo gives him one final look before shrugging and brushing him off. Placing his attention on his phone. He scans through his contacts, searching for your name (It doesn't take him long, he only ever saved a few people on his phone.) 

Tapping your account, his fingers nimbly send the 30 minute video consisting only of the bears containing their instinctive urges and being tame, and Beru attempting to sneak in only to be urged out of the video because he looked far too intimidating.

Jinwoo:

Sending 1 attached file...

Faile to send.

He frowns. Why can't he send it? He tries again, and then the second attempt becomes three, and three becomes four and all of them results in a failed sent.

He stares at his like it's the problem. Very accusingly—and he doesn't even realize it. His brows twitch, and his lips curl into a frown.

He tries again. Presses send with the aggression of a man annoyed and waits.

It fails.

"Hyung."

Jinwoo turns. "What?"

"There's no signal inside gates."

"Oh."

His message fails to send again, and this time, he sees the reason why. Right, he forgot about that. It's been too long since he brought a phone inside a dungeon the fact that there would be no service slipped out of his mind.

"Should I go outside, then?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

Jinwoo looks at Jinho, puzzled. Jinho looks at Jinwoo as if he just told him that he's leaving him alone to fend for himself in a ditch full of monsters. To be fair, it was very much similar to that.

"Are you going to leave me alone here?"

Jinwoo blinks. "My soldiers will be inside. You'll be safe."

Jinho looks at his shadows. Sure enough, there was an abundance of them at work excavating the dungeon.

"I mean, sure, but, do you have to go? Can't you just wait until we're finished here?!"

He blinks again. Jinho was right, he could simply wait until they were finished with this dungeon before finally sending the video.

But also, it's been more than 10 hours since he last talked to you—that's five hours past the usual time. What if your AP lowers because he's taking too long before talking to you again?

[Tip: AP will only go down after 72 hours of no contact!]

He ignores the pop up.

"I won't be long, I just have to send this before I forget."

"Is the video really that important, hyung?!"

He doesn't answer, only walk through the exit and bid him goodbye after telling Beru to take care of Jinho.

He waits for signal outside. Waiting for his video to finally send, he takes a moment to think of what to text alongside the video.

Jinwoo:

1 attachment uploaded

Thought you'd like this. They're not exactly bears, but they try.

He taps on the side of his phone, waiting for a reply. It doesn't take him long, fortunately, as only a minute after he sent the video, you're already putting him on read and typing a reply.

You:

Oh?

You really sent me a whole documentary of the bears 😭😭

Hold on hold on let me watch.

[Task: Send {Capture Target} a photo/video of your shadow soldiers in "natural habitat"

Status: Complete

♡ = 28.5% ( + 2 ) ( + 0.5) ]

Reward: +2 AP | +1000 XP | +1000 gold]

[Task: Reply to {Capture Target}'s last message within 10 minutes]

Status: Complete

Reward: +.5 AP | +100 XP]

You:

AWWW

ONE OF THEM ROLLED OVER THE OTHER LIKE TUMBLWEEDDD

SO CUTEEE

ALSO THE BIG BEAR WITH THE SCARRR

HE WAVED?! HE WAVED !!

THATS SO CUTE EEEK

I WANT TO PET THEM

THE BIG BEAR LOOKS LIKE HES DELIRECTING THEM LIKE A MOVIE DIRECTOR LMAOO

He lets out a laugh-quiet, short-but nonetheless real. It's not one of those socially mandated smiles. This one slips out before he even notices, tugging the corner of his lips upward as he stares at your messages.

His fingers type out a reply before he can think.

Jinwoo:

He is their manager. I think he just promoted himself to coach, though.

Next time, I’ll let you pet them in person. Deal?

He freezes for a moment, turning rigid. Hold on, was that too forward?

You:

Wait

You'd let me?

Really?!!?

Yes

Yes.

YES

Let me know when you can!

Don't back out now hehe

Jinwoo stares at your stream of texts, all a varying response essentially meaning yes. His sighs fondly, a small smile etched on his lips.

[Achievement unlocked!]

[Rizz'o'meter off the charts: "smoothly" ask {Capture Target} out on another date.]

Jinwoo nearly chokes in his own spit.

Date?!

He covers his lips with his palm, resting his head against it as he reads through the pop up.

"It's not a date." He grumbles, but there's no hiding the dash of red coating his cheek subtly.

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