#conquer caption

[selenasgirltiffany21]

[mihai-florescu]

Wouldn't it be nice?

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru insists on being your lock screen.

like actually insists. he’s made it his personal mission, his divine right, his sacred duty as your overly clingy, stupidly hot husband. the moment he sees your screen light up with anything that isn’t his face—your cat, a flower, a quote graphic—he gasps like you’ve just committed adultery in 4k.

“...a sunset? a sunset?” he blinks at you like you’ve betrayed every vow. “is the sun a pretty man with ocean eyes? no. do you kiss the sun goodnight? no. do better.”

instead of letting it go like a normal person, he floods you with selfies. hundreds. different lighting. different angles. thirst traps with his shirt pulled up to flaunt the sin that is his eight-pack. mirror pics where he’s flexing. ones where he’s pouting. one where he’s fake crying. him stuffing his mouth with mochi. him dramatically sobbing with a caption that reads, “you used to love me.”

and the worst part? he’s sending all of this while sitting beside you. phone angled down, giggling like a schoolboy, thinking he’s being slick while your inbox explodes. you’re already overwhelmed when you see it.

sandwiched between selfies and spam, a very accidental mirror pic. last night. you, bent over the bathroom counter, absolutely ruined, face flushed, mouth open in a silent gasp, while satoru stands behind you grinning like a menace, very much still inside you. you scream. you hit him. he yelps but laughs, no shame, no apology. “oopsie~” and “you looked so good, though.”

he doesn’t stop even as you glare. now he’s negotiating. bartering. one lock screen slot for a back massage. five minutes of home screen privilege if he orders your favorite takeout. a full 24 hours if he lets you pick the movie and doesn’t complain even once. he even pulls out the big guns—puppy eyes, soft voice, a breathy, “baby… do it for love.”

you roll your eyes, say no, but you’re already folding. he casually shifts on the couch, hand propping up his jaw just right, profile lit perfect by the golden hour. “what about now?” he says, voice all smug, like he doesn’t already know he’s stupidly pretty. “i’m moisturized. glowin’ like your man should. tell me that’s not lock screen material.”

and in his defense? your face is everywhere on his phone. lock screen, home screen, widget rotation. polaroids of you tucked inside his clear case—some with your cheek squished to his, one with your wedding bands on display. siri responds only to your voice. his notifications banner still reads “i ❤️ my wife.”

his favorites bar? just your contact and his camera roll. album names include: “my baby 🫶,” “hot wife hours,” and “the loml fr.” he’s got slow-mo videos of you laughing, candid shots he took while you were sleeping, a live photo of you on your wedding day spinning in your dress. even that pic you told him to delete? it’s buried in a hidden folder titled with a heart emoji and he opens it like it’s the damn grail.

it’s not even a bit—he just genuinely thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. so really, is it too much to ask for one lock screen in return? balance, baby. harmony. fairness in marriage.

you hold your ground for a solid ten minutes. you really do. arms crossed, phone untouched, lips pursed like you’re not even thinking about giving in. but then he starts pulling out the big guns—his stupidly pretty face all soft and glowy from your skincare, his voice low and coaxing like he’s seducing you into sin (he is), whispering, “just a day, baby. for me?” as if it’s not his lifelong mission to conquer your lock screen.

you scoff, bratty and unmoved. “you want me to advertise you on my phone? why don’t you get a billboard?”

“because,” he says, smug, “my wife’s wallpaper real estate is more valuable.”

you shouldn’t cave. you really shouldn’t cave. but then he kisses your cheek, trails down to your jaw, murmurs something sweet and stupid that melts your last nerve. you grumble about being weak for hot idiots, scroll through the absolute onslaught of selfies he sent, and pick the one where he’s grinning—smug, shirt slightly askew, and your lipstick still stamped on his jaw. it’s criminal how good he looks. you fight the urge to bite your lip and sigh like it’s the biggest burden of your life as you set it as your lock screen.

he gasps like he’s just been proposed to. dramatic hand to his heart, eyes glassy, voice warbling as he says, “i’m your lock screen. me. your husband. this is the greatest day of my life.” and then he traps you—physically. throws his whole weight over you on the couch like a human weighted blanket, peppering kisses across your face with alarming speed. “you can’t leave now,” he mumbles into your neck, “this is your new full-time job. cherishing me.”

you groan, swatting weakly at him, but it’s no use—he’s clinging like a damn koala, legs hooked around you, arms locked tight. “satoru,” you wheeze, “get off—” but he just shushes you, smug. “nope. consequences of loving me. should’ve picked the cherry blossom jpeg.”

and because he’s him, he spends the next hour being insufferable. changes your passcode to your wedding anniversary (“for security and romance”), and sets calendar reminders titled “admire husband” three times a day. “any attempt to change it will be met with a lockscreen tax,” he warns, grinning. “one kiss per pixel replaced. i will collect.”

[casedclosedbye]

Mirror Pic

Dick Grayson x fem!reader

Summary: sent dick grayson a naughty Pic while he's patrolling

wc: 1k

tw: minors dni !! 18+ getting dicked down by filthy mouthed Dick Grayson who is an absolutely horny slut

You had been feeling particularly naughty that night. You knew that Nightwing was out there, patrolling the streets of Gotham, keeping the city safe from the usual crop of villains. But you also knew he had a soft spot for you. So, with a devilish grin, you slipped into the silky lingerie set he had given you for your last anniversary. It was his favorite, the one that made his eyes darken with desire every time he saw it.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, you took a deep breath, letting the fabric hug your curves in all the right places. You had picked out the perfect outfit for the occasion: a black, lace-trimmed bra that barely contained your ample breasts, and a matching thong that left little to the imagination. The garter belt and stockings added an extra touch of seduction, and the high heels made you feel powerful, like you could conquer the world—or at least the heart of the man you loved.

You took a selfie, making sure to angle the shot so that the mirror captured all of your curves and the way the lingerie hugged your body. With a wink and a cheeky smile, you hit send, the message flying through the night to the phone that Dick Grayson kept hidden in his utility belt. You couldn't resist adding a little caption: "Missing you, Nightwing. Wish you were here to unwrap me."

You barely had time to set your phone down before you heard the sound of glass shattering. Your heart raced as you turned to see Dick Grayson, a.k.a. Nightwing, standing in your bedroom window, his eyes blazing with a fiery intensity that could only be matched by the passion in your own soul.

"You little minx," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

You stepped closer to him, your hands running down your body in a deliberately seductive gesture. "I think I do," you murmured. "And I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

He stalked towards you, his eyes never leaving yours. "You know the rules," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "No distractions on patrol."

You licked your lips. "I'm not a distraction," you protested, even though you knew full well that you were. "I'm your girlfriend."

"And because you're my girlfriend," he said, closing the distance between you, "you know exactly what I need right now."

Before you could even blink, he had you pressed against the wall, his body a solid wall of muscle that you couldn't help but melt into. His hands were everywhere, his fingers tracing the lines of your lingerie, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

"You're going to be the death of me," he murmured, his mouth finding yours in a bruising kiss.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "Then take me," you whispered against his lips. "Take me like the villain I am."

With a groan, he hoisted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently before stripping away the thin barriers between you. He kissed you again, his tongue dancing with yours, as he reached for the clasp of your bra.

You moaned as he bared your breasts, his mouth moving to capture one nipple, then the other. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, making you arch your back in ecstasy. Your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the contours of his muscles beneath the fabric of his costume.

He sat back on his haunches, his eyes raking over your body. "You're so beautiful," he said, his voice filled with awe.

You reached up, pulling at his mask. "I want to see you," you demanded. "All of you."

With a sigh, he complied, revealing the handsome face that you knew so well. His eyes burned into yours as he slid the mask away, his gaze never leaving you as he removed the rest of his costume, revealing his bare chest, sculpted abs, and the erection that strained against his tight black pants.

You reached for him, but he stopped you with a firm grip on your wrists. "Not yet," he said. "First, I need to teach you a lesson about tempting me while I'm on duty."

He climbed onto the bed, his body covering yours. His cock pressed against your wet folds, making you whimper with need.

"You're going to get what you asked for," he warned, his voice gruff with desire. "And it's going to be rough."

You nodded, your heart racing in anticipation. You had always loved it when he took control, when he showed you just how much he wanted you.

With one swift movement, he pushed into you, filling you completely. You screamed out his name, your body clenching around him as he began to move. His thrusts were punishing, each one hitting you deep and hard, just like you liked it.

You met him stroke for stroke, your hips rising to meet his, your nails digging into his back. He kissed you again, his tongue claiming your mouth as he claimed your body.

You could feel your orgasm building, a storm gathering in your core. You knew that when it hit, it was going to be explosive.

"I'm going to come," you gasped out.

"Not yet," he said, his voice a command. He reached between your legs, his thumb finding your clit and applying just the right amount of pressure.

You whined, your body begging for release. But he held you there, on the edge, until you were panting and desperate.

"Now," he finally allowed, his voice a growl.

Your climax washed over you, a tidal wave of pleasure that had you screaming his name. He followed you over the edge, his body shuddering with his own orgasm, filling you completely.

As the aftershocks of pleasure subsided, he collapsed on top of you, his breathing ragged. "I can't believe you did that," he said, his voice muffled against your neck.

You giggled, feeling his heart hammer against your chest. "It got you here, didn't it?"

He raised his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "It did," he admitted. "And I'm never going to let you forget it."

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight. "I wouldn't want you to," you murmured. "I want you to remember every time you see me in this lingerie."

He kissed you again, his body still buried deep inside yours. "Trust me," he said, "I'll never forget."

---

And so, your night continued, with passionate love-making that was both punishment and reward for your daring. Nightwing had arrived at your window, and he had indeed fucked your brains out. But as the sun began to rise, casting a soft glow over your tangled limbs, you both knew that it was a night that neither of you would ever forget.

[sp4ceboo]

a/n: ok so. alpha deku. this was specifically inspired by this art here and here because. what the fuck man. this gave me severe brain rot. absolutely delicious artwork, belongs in museum.

tw: 18+, smutty, afab omega reader, a/b/o, alpha deku goes into rut, breeding kink (it's a/b/o, what were we expecting)

wc: 1.2k

Everyone knows when your alpha is close to his rut.

Since Izuku has risen on the hero rankings, ‘everyone’ has become anyone who happens to be watching the news that week. Citizens, villains, news reporters, hell, even his mother - they all know. It would be hard to not notice, not with the pheromones that practically ooze off him, and especially not with the way he acts.

Normally, the villains are the first to know. You always patrol with Izuku (he insisted it be that way, but you wouldn’t have been paired with anyone else with how obvious it is that the two of you work best together), and usually, you’ll divide and conquer any minor villains with ease. You’re ridiculously attuned to each other, able to communicate in battle just as well with your eyes as with your words, and it makes it pretty hard to mount a defense against.

All of that flies straight out of the window the moment his pre-rut hits; the hormones give him an extra edge, a strength derived from something primal, and his hindbrain takes control. Your mate is a force to be reckoned with already, but in pre-rut, he’s unstoppable.

You’re aware that he knows you’re perfectly capable of holding your own, but once his instincts take over, there’s no stopping him. He’ll break a villain’s hand if they come too close to you, flashing his canines and snarling keep away from my omega while he pumps out a ridiculous amount of pheromones. By then, they’re already running: it’s no secret that his threats aren’t empty when it comes to you.

The reporters are the next to find out, and you hope that the ones that get sent to interview you and Izuku while he’s in pre-rut get paid extra, because he’s impossible; once he’s sure the villains are successfully detained, he’ll latch onto you, curling an arm about your waist and wrapping himself around you from behind.

It’s worth acknowledging that Izuku is big, even by alpha standards. He’s fucking huge, broad shoulders and massive thighs, still bristling from the fight, and he dwarfs your frame entirely when he crowds into you the way he does. You’ve seen fan-made compilations, clips of him draped over you, nose buried in your hair as you answer reporters’ questions, captioned with things like ‘proof pro-hero Deku can’t get enough of his mate, if you hadn’t noticed already’.

You always politely smile for the cameras, but he has no patience for them. He never speaks during those interviews, instead drowning his restlessness in the familiarity of your scent, growling if anyone comes too close and only letting up once they retreat.

At that point, you already reek of him - well, more than you usually do - and when you feel that you’ve shown face enough, you excuse yourself. No one can refuse you, not when you have a more than just sizeable alpha hanging off your shoulders, glaring at anyone who might dare to object.

On the way home, you’ve made a habit of filing your request for leave from work (that is, if your manager hasn’t seen the news and already granted it). You’ve never been refused leave, but that doesn’t surprise you. The risk of having pro-hero Deku off patrol is nothing compared to having him half crazy, half feral and fully grumpy, supposedly watching over the city while in reality all he does is want after his omega.

Reliably, you’ll barely have gotten through the doorway of your home, struggling to close the door behind you, when he finally lets loose.

He’ll be all over you, hands tugging at your clothes while he laps at your scent glands, almost drooling as he breathes in your pheromones. Rut reduces your alpha to nothing but a mess. You won’t even be more than a metre into your house, and he’ll be grinding against you, fondling you, groaning in your ears and telling you sinful things: that you smell so fucking good, that he can’t wait to be deep in your sweet omega pussy.

They’re always dirty, the things he mumbles in your ears, but it always circles back to the same thing - I protected you so well, didn’t I, omega? I kept you safe, right? - and you nod every time, kissing him sweetly - yes alpha, of course you did - and tilting your head back to give him access to your throat, a display of trust, because that’s what he needs to hear. That’s what has his cock throbbing against your hip, achingly hard.

It’s what sets that part of him ablaze, just like you burn whenever he tells you that you’re such a good, pretty omega for him and that you take him so well while he fucks you through your heat. Yes, Izuku understands you can protect yourself, but he needs to know that he’s a good alpha to you, that he takes care of his mate and keeps you happy and safe and content.

The moment he hears that, he won’t stop until you're knotted and pumped full of his come.

He’ll take you against the first flat surface that presents itself (usually the wall of your foyer), slipping in easily because your body responds to him even before you’ve smelt his exquisite pheromones, your pussy all slicked up and fluttering for him. He won’t stop for days after that, ruining you on his cock over and over again, eyes rolling back in his head as he slurs about how he’s going to give you his pups, and though you know it won’t take because of your medication, sometimes you wish it would.

Right now, you lie on his warm chest, tracing the constellations of his freckles with your fingertips. Today his rut started no different from how it normally does, and he’s purring softly in his sleep beneath you, his warm palms splayed wide over your back; you smile at the occasional snore that leaves him. Your mate has been busy recently. You’re not surprised that he knocked out so quickly.

He’s fucked his knot into you already, and from where it sits snugly inside you, you can feel it slowly coming down. You don’t bother to lift yourself off him though - he’s far from done, and besides, he’ll just ease it right back into you the moment he wakes up.

You’ve heard people comment on how your Izuku is pretty high maintenance during his rut, that he should take suppressants to give you a break, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He stirs, and you watch his green lashes dip as he blinks his way back to consciousness; gently, he catches your fingers, his palm calloused against your skin, and lifts your hand to his mouth to press kisses your knuckles. Your lips curl up at the sight of him, unruly hair mussed, glowing in that way he does during his rut, and sleepy eyed, he smiles back.

Already, you can feel him stiffening inside of you, his body getting ready for another round. He cups your face in his hands, fitting his lips to yours, and you find yourself grinning into his kisses.

Yeah, you definitely wouldn't have it any other way.

[kxsagi]

Hey kxsagi😜😘

Out of all the Football clubs in the NEL arc I think Ubers is on the very top for me b/c I just LOVEEEE the way they play against their opponents and the relationship and dynamics they have with each other! Aiku and Sendou are such a duo, my boy niko is such a little brother coded in the team, Don Lorenzo is such an underrated character frfr and also him and Snuffy's father and son like dynamic is so adorable🥺🥺 I'd love to hear your hcs on them.

Ty in advance😘😘💥

“𝐮𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬”

a/n: YESSS ubers supremacy!!! as much as i love bastard munchen, you have absolutely elite taste because ubers has so much heart, honestly it’s like mafia tactics meet found family. their loyalty, structure, and the way they all look out for each other (while still playing to win) makes them so unique compared to the other teams and i am so here for it 🫡

also decided to do this in a different format! 

(their team name ubers reminds me of that one meme where it’s like “uh i never went to oovoo javer” 💀)

ubers team general headcanons

everyone on the team secretly knows they’re the “organized crime” themed squad. they lean into it. their pre-game huddles sound like mafia sitdowns. “you don’t go down unless i say so,” aiku announces, while sendou nods like he’s his consultant. niko has no idea what that means but he goes, “got it, boss.” 

snuffy runs a tight ship, but never disrespects anyone. his “fatherly” energy isn’t loud – it’s quiet, composed, and deeply respectful. he cooks post-match meals like a literal dad. big “who wants more steak?” energy. the boys make fun of him but never to his face because they all lowkey adore him. 

when it comes to chores, niko does the dishes. reluctantly. because the last time sendou did them, aiku got food poisoning + lorenzo is banned from the kitchen because he once tried to make “gains ramen” which was just protein powder, boiled chicken, and pre-workout. snuffy had to call poison control. 

their team group chat is horrific. aiku sends gym thirst traps with captions like “morning motivation.” sendou sends cursed memes at 3 AM (niko replies with “please stop”). snuffy sends quotes from philosophers like “a man who conquers himself is mightier than he who conquers a city.” everyone reacts with 🫡. lorenzo only sends selfies and flex pics with random motivational phrases like “get money, stay jacked.” 

aiku oliver & sendou daiya – the menace duo

literally the worst pair to be seated near on team trips. they will prank everyone. lorenzo once woke up with his chains braided. niko caught it on camera and it went viral in the ubers gc. 

sendou tries to act cool around girls but somehow always fumbles. aiku lets him crash and burn every time. “you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” he deadpans as sendou gets rejected for calling someone “m’lady.” 

despite their chaos, they always have each other’s backs on the field. aiku trusts sendou’s instincts, and sendou follows aiku’s leads without question. it’s instinctual, like they’re synced. they don’t even need to talk sometimes, they just know. 

niko ikki – baby of the team

everyone thinks niko’s this quiet little strategist, but he’s also the most chronically online member of ubers. he runs their meme account anonymously. only snuffy knows. snuffy lets it slide because niko always includes respectful captions under snuffy edits like “our king 🫡” 

lorenzo calls him “kid.” sendou calls him “baby bro.” aiku once called him “squirt” and niko didn’t speak to him for a week. but deep down he’s grateful because he’s never had this kind of camaraderie before. 

sometimes he’ll be sulking in a corner after a rough game and snuffy just walks over, sits down beside him, and hands him a juice box. “you did good, kid.” niko cries. silently. every time. 

don lorenzo – chaos incarnate, misunderstood legend

he eats protein powder raw. sendou dared him once to snort it. he did. it was not a good day. 

he’s rich. obscenely so. he always flashes his gold teeth and quotes, “i only trust two things: muscle and money.” he funds team bonding trips without blinking. his idea of bonding? paintball war in the woods. 

has the softest spot for niko and treats him like a tiny feral cat he found outside and adopted. “he’s scrappy. he’s got instincts. he’s family now.” niko just blinks like 🧍🏻 

snuffy and lorenzo have a dad and rebellious teen son energy. snuffy’s constantly like “don’t do anything stupid,” and lorenzo’s like “no promises, papà.” but whenever snuffy’s serious, lorenzo listens like a soldier. no matter how wild he acts, he respects snuffy like a father figure. 

snuffy – the dad of the year

gives out the gentlest life lectures. “football’s like pasta, boys. you gotta boil under pressure to get good.” everyone’s like “… what?” but then they do get good. 

refuses to raise his voice. instead, he lowers it. when he’s disappointed, everyone feels like they just let down their entire lineage. 

he makes each player write down their goals and reviews them monthly. lorenzo once wrote “get more gains and less enemies.” snuffy nodded like that was a valid mission statement. 

if you cry in front of him, he’ll give you a side hug and pat your back once. just once. but it’ll heal you emotionally. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[curated-tiktok]

TikTok, OP: Ayandastood (she/her), posted: 2023 November 9

[Video description

visual description: A black woman with braided hair, wearing golden rings, an orange dress and AirPods sitting on a couch speaking to the camera. In the background there's a white wall.

transcript: Something I find so fascinating is we keep each other safe. Like, collective safety is a thing, right? So, the more people that talk about Palestine the more safe it becomes to talk about palestine, because the less they can single us out.

But some people have such an individualistic understanding of safety that they're like I'm just gonna protect myself. They're not like oo I'm gonna protect the collective by adding to the voice to the collective so the collective cannot be divided and conquered, you know what I mean?

so as long as we are more difficult to single out, they cannot attack us.

so when you worry about your safety you are playing into the individualistic paradigm that they want you to play into.

But just know, safety was never something you were supposed to give yourself. It was something that we as a collective were ment to give to each other. Some people sleep while others stay awake. We have always as a species protected each other. It is our survival and it is no different, ok?, over here.

Love you, bye.

video description end]

caption:

also I know there are real dangers involved. I also feel this needed to be said. I didnt get into this but we keep each other safe primarily means we do what we can to keep ppl suffering genocide safe #freepalestine 🇵🇸❤️#freecongo🇨🇩 #freesudan🇸🇩❤️

[forsaken-headcanons]

As c00lkidd milestone skins go on, he becomes more aware of what he's actually doing. My PROOF is that in the captions for the skins,we go from "join today!" to stuff like "robloxia is ours to conquer" which is an ominous as hell line for c00lkidd, and you can't tell me he pushes people down and burns them alive WITHOUT knowing what he's doing.

Also if it's not taken can I be 👾 Anon

You're right oughh I feel like at that point he slowly becomes aware and eventually feels like he's too far gone to go back to normal anymore so he just gives in,,, ough,,, God the milestone skins are so cool but the implications make me feel :[

You can be 👾 anon!!

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Part of the Heart: Part 9

paige x azzi

a/n: This chapter is kind of like a roller coaster, one that might make you sad but I swear it'll be fine I promise.

word count: 8.4k

“The Hurt, The Healing, The Home”

The days had started to blur—training sessions, press hits, film reviews, tee times, team huddles. Paige was back on the East Coast, prepping for her first major tournament of the season in Georgia. Azzi was deep in playoff prep with her team in Los Angeles. Time zones stretched between them, and so did the weight of responsibility. But still—they showed up for each other.

In stolen moments, in sleepy good mornings and late-night check-ins, they stayed close.

A Thursday, 6:12 a.m. (Atlanta):

Paige’s alarm hadn’t even gone off yet when her phone lit up with a text.

Azzi 🏀

Rise and shine, sunshine. You’ve got a course to conquer.

Also I had a dream you beat Tiger Woods and then gave a speech about love. 😭

Paige laughed softly into her pillow, her fingers already typing back.

Paige ⛳️

I would beat Tiger. And I would dedicate it to you.

You’re insane for being up this early.

Azzi 🏀

We had weights. No rest for the champs. Go eat a banana or whatever you golf freaks do.

She sent a selfie of her mid-protein shake, tongue out.

Paige saved it.

That same night, 9:47 p.m. (LA):

Azzi sat on the floor of her living room, her calves wrapped in ice packs and her hair tied up haphazardly. Her team had just clinched their playoff spot, and her body felt like it had been through battle—but her mind was already on one thing.

She hit FaceTime.

Paige answered from her hotel bed, wearing glasses and an oversized sweatshirt, her voice soft and tired but laced with happiness.

“Hey, Captain.”

Azzi smiled. “Hey, All-Star.”

They didn’t say much right away. Just stared at each other—muted peace in the chaos.

Paige broke the silence. “I saw the postgame. You dropped 36 like it was nothing.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Didn’t feel like nothing. My legs are shot.”

“I’d massage them if I could,” Paige said, grinning. “You know, to return the favor.”

Azzi smirked. “You’re a menace.”

“But your menace,” Paige replied.

Azzi melted. “God, I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

They stayed on the line as Azzi laid back on her couch and Paige closed her laptop. Time slipped between them, distance too, but their hearts stayed tethered—threaded together in every check-in, every I love you, every whispered goodnight that reached through the screen.

This wasn’t just a season—it was something real. And even on opposite sides of the country, they were learning how to play for the same team.

—-

Azzi was mid-stretch on the team bus, one leg propped up along the seat in front of her, scrolling aimlessly through her phone when her thumb froze.

Her stomach dropped.

A post—cryptic but obvious to those who knew—sat at the top of her feed. An old photo of her and her ex, shared to Instagram with the caption:

“Some people circle back for a reason. Funny how time works, huh?”

💫📸 #FullCircle

Azzi blinked. “What the hell?” she muttered under her breath.

Ice, sitting across the aisle, peeked over. “You good?”

Azzi clenched her jaw. “Just some dumb noise.”

But it didn’t feel like just noise. She knew the kind of traction this would get—how fast people would start speculating. The ex had always been messy, always known how to stir up drama without ever getting their hands dirty.

She immediately texted Paige.

Paige ⛳️

Everything okay?

Azzi 🏀

Did you see that post yet?

Paige ⛳️

I just did.

Was that… meant to stir shit?

Azzi 🏀

100%. Old photo. Old drama. Zero truth.

I’m sorry if it gets annoying. I didn’t know this was coming.

Paige ⛳️

You don’t owe me an apology.

You owe me a link to your next game stream and a snack update.

But seriously—are you okay?

Azzi 🏀

Kinda annoyed. Mostly protective.

Not even for me, for you. You don’t deserve to be dragged into BS like this.

Paige ⛳️

I’m not worried about the noise.

You’re here. We’re solid. That’s all I care about.

And maybe a tiny bit smug that even your ex is trying to stir the pot now that I’ve got you. 😌

Azzi 🏀

Oh, so we’re getting cocky now?

Paige ⛳️

Just calling it like I see it. You’re mine. They missed their chance.

Let them post. I’ve got the real thing.

Azzi 🏀

…I’m smiling like a fool on this bus right now. My teammates are suspicious.

Paige ⛳️

Tell them it’s my fault. I’ll take the heat.

Azzi 🏀

You’re unreal. I’ll call you after practice?

Paige ⛳️

Can’t wait. I’ll be here, unbothered and very much yours.

Azzi flopped onto her hotel bed, hair still damp from the shower and a towel slung around her neck. She hit FaceTime and waited maybe two seconds before Paige’s face filled the screen, backlit by a soft bedside lamp, hoodie-clad and looking like she’d been waiting all day for this.

“Hey,” Paige said, instantly softer than usual.

“Hey,” Azzi mirrored, her voice a little weary. “Still standing?”

“Still smug,” Paige replied, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Didn’t even flinch. You okay?”

Azzi sighed, repositioning the phone against a pillow so she could collapse fully into the mattress. “Mostly. It’s just… petty. And exhausting. I haven’t thought about that ex in months—like they’re not even a chapter, they’re a footnote.”

Paige hummed. “Well, footnote’s trying to write a sequel. Too bad the main character already has a better storyline.”

That earned a tired laugh from Azzi. “You’ve got jokes tonight.”

“I’ve got you, so yeah. Kinda invincible.”

Azzi ran a hand over her face, then stared up at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “It’s wild how fast a post like that can make me feel… tainted. Like they’re trying to link me back to something I’ve outgrown.”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “That post doesn’t reflect you. It reflects them. You’ve evolved. They’re clearly still stuck. Anyone with eyes and a functioning brain knows that.”

Azzi smirked. “What if the internet doesn’t have a functioning brain though?”

“Then we block the internet.”

Azzi snorted. “Can we actually do that?”

“I have a very confident tech friend who might try if I ask nicely.”

They shared a few seconds of quiet—the kind that didn’t feel heavy, just close. Intimate.

“Thanks for… not flipping out,” Azzi said finally. “I mean, you had every reason to be annoyed. Jealous, even.”

Paige tilted her head. “Maybe a flicker of possessive,” she said honestly. “But not jealous. You’ve never made me feel like I had to compete.”

“You never will.”

Another beat.

“So…” Paige’s voice lightened. “Does this mean I don’t need to drop a passive-aggressive story post of us kissing with the caption ‘plot twist’? Because I have drafts.”

Azzi burst out laughing. “You are unhinged.”

“Unbothered and thriving.”

“Can I come be unbothered with you soon?”

“Counting down the days.”

They smiled at each other through the screen like idiots. Happy, in-sync, untouchable.

“I’m really proud of us,” Azzi said softly. “For handling this like grownups.”

“Grownups who might still post a petty caption if needed,” Paige added.

“Naturally.”

The following day Azzi took it upon herself to casually drop a photo dump that just might break the internet.

Instagram Carousel Post — @azziBuckets

Caption:

no room for rumors when it’s all real. grateful for the peace, the partnership, and the person who sees me fully. 🤍

Photos in the Carousel:

A blurry candid of Paige laughing mid-sip of coffee.

A mirror selfie of Azzi in one of Paige’s oversized hoodies.

Their linked hands resting on a table between two coffees, one with a golf tee sitting beside the cup.

A still from their night at the observatory—just their silhouettes, arms around each other, overlooking the glowing city.

A close-up of a handwritten note that reads: “You’re safe here. Always. –P”

A goofy video of Azzi sneaking up behind Paige at the driving range and getting tackled into a hug.

A soft photo of Paige asleep on Azzi’s chest, sun pouring in through the window.

Within minutes, the comments were flooded:

“This is so real 😭”

“Y’all win. Literally and figuratively.”

“Paige got Azzi posting love notes??? This real.”

“Suddenly I believe in soft love again.”

@paigegolf⛳️ Instagram Story Post

She reposted Azzi’s carousel with a caption written in white, handwritten script font over the first photo:

Caption:

no edits. no footnotes. just the truth & a girl who makes me feel like the whole damn plot. love you.

—-

Azzi wasn’t the type to take time off lightly.

Her whole world ran on sweat, film, reps, and rhythm. But as the buzzer sounded at the end of their final regular-season game—another win, another 28 points, another roar from the crowd—her mind wasn’t on the playoffs.

It was on Paige.

The postgame locker room buzzed with celebratory chaos, teammates hollering and slapping backs as coaches rattled off stats and praised performances. Ice was already trying to organize a celebratory group dinner, but Azzi was only half-listening as she changed out of her jersey.

She opened her phone. Tapped Paige’s contact.

Azzi 🏀

How would you feel about a very enthusiastic fan showing up to your tournament next week?

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Paige ⛳️

You serious?

Wait—you’re really thinking about coming?

Azzi 🏀

I’m more than thinking. Already cleared it with my coach.

If this might be my only window to watch you play in person, I’m taking it.

Paige ⛳️

Azzi. You might’ve just made my entire year.

Azzi 🏀

Hope your game’s sharp, PB. I’m showing up with signs.

Two days later, Azzi rolled her carry-on through the quiet terminal of a small airport just outside Atlanta. Paige’s tournament was being held at one of the most prestigious country clubs in the South—one that had hosted legends and been immortalized in golf history.

Azzi didn’t care about any of that. She just wanted to watch her girl play.

When she arrived at the course Thursday morning, credential around her neck, hat low, she found her way to the rope line. Paige hadn’t seen her yet.

But Azzi saw her.

Focused. Calm. Lined up over a putt like the world had gone silent around her. And still, somehow, Paige seemed to glow—quiet brilliance radiating from the way she moved, like she was made for this ground.

Azzi could barely breathe watching her.

As Paige stepped up to the tee on hole 3, she heard it.

“Let’s gooo, PB! Sink that like it’s a free throw!”

Paige’s head snapped up at the nickname—and then her entire face changed when she saw her.

Azzi waved from the gallery, grinning wide.

Paige’s smirk cracked open slowly, like she was trying not to let it show, but couldn’t help herself. She gave a little shake of her head, lined up her shot, and crushed it down the fairway.

Later, her caddy leaned in with a smirk.

“New lucky charm?”

Paige didn’t even look up.

“She’s always been.”

The next day dawned bright and hot, the kind of sunshine that made your shirt stick to your back but looked fantastic in every photo.

Azzi had arrived at the course with a mission. No more blending in. No more polite nods and golf claps.

Today? She was going full hype squad.

Paige teed off strong—clean, fluid swing—and as the ball soared, Azzi let out a celebratory whistle so sharp it turned three heads and startled a nearby volunteer into spilling a bit of water.

“Let’s gooo, PB! That’s my girl!”

Paige, walking down the fairway, glanced over her shoulder with a mix of amusement and warning in her eyes. But there was no real heat behind it. Only a light flush rising to her cheeks.

At the 6th hole, Paige landed a long putt from the edge of the green, and Azzi—already crouched with anticipation—jumped to her feet, clapping way too hard for a game that normally whispered praise.

“Yes, ma’am! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

A nearby rules official slowly turned and approached her.

“I’m going to have to ask you to lower the volume just a little during active play,” he said, politely but firmly.

Azzi gave a guilty smile. “Oh! Sorry. It’s my first tournament. I’m kinda her number one fan.”

Paige, now standing on the green and watching the whole thing unfold, pressed her lips together to stop a laugh. But it didn’t stop the soft pink hue that overtook her cheeks.

The crowd chuckled lightly, and the official sighed, muttering something about “young love” before walking off.

When Paige came by the ropes, she leaned in slightly. “You’re gonna get me disqualified for excessive blushing.”

Azzi smirked. “Good thing I brought a sign too. Wanna see it?”

Paige narrowed her eyes, grinning. “Absolutely not.”

Too late.

Azzi unzipped her bag to reveal a small sign, handwritten in permanent marker:

“PB = Public Birdie Machine + Personal Babe”

Paige dropped her face into her hands.

“I cannot believe I let you come,” she mumbled, but she was smiling. Smiling so wide her caddie nudged her and said, “You’re walking like you already won.”

The final stretch of the tournament was brutal.

The wind picked up on the back nine, not enough to cancel play, but just enough to knock every perfect shot off rhythm. Paige had started the day in second place, one stroke off the lead—but by hole fifteen, that margin had widened, her approach shots just slightly off, her putts skimming the edge instead of falling.

Azzi watched it all from the ropes. She didn’t need to know golf to see the shift in Paige’s posture—the slight drop in her shoulders, the longer pause between shots, the stiffness creeping into her swing.

Paige was trying to hold it together. For herself. For her team. For the fans. For Azzi.

By the time she tapped in her final putt on 18, Paige stood alone in third place. Respectable. Commendable. But not what she’d come here for.

The polite applause felt deafening in its restraint.

Azzi didn’t wait. The second Paige stepped off the green, she slipped through the growing crowd, bypassing media, managers, and stiff handshakes.

When Paige saw her, her tough exterior cracked. Just slightly. Her chin dipped.

“I didn’t win.”

“I know,” Azzi said, gently reaching for her hand.

Paige’s eyes lifted, raw and exposed. “I wanted to. With you here… I really wanted to.”

Azzi’s grip tightened. “Paige. I didn’t come to see you win. I came to see you. And I’m leaving even more in awe of you than when I got here.”

Paige swallowed hard. “Even after the three missed putts and the meltdown on 16?”

“Especially after that,” Azzi said, smiling. “You handled pressure like it owed you money. You showed every kid out there how to lose with grace and still stand tall.”

Paige took a deep breath. “You always know what to say.”

Azzi leaned in, her voice softer now, only for Paige. “That’s because I see you. Win or lose, baby—you’re still my public birdie machine and personal babe.”

That drew a laugh out of Paige, tired and cracked but real.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Azzi grinned. “Yeah. And yours.”

And somehow, even without a trophy in her hand, Paige felt like she’d just won everything that mattered.

—-

They didn’t go out after the tournament.

No fancy dinners. No press parties. No celebration dinners with sponsors or team executives.

Just the two of them.

Paige had showered the day off—washed away the sweat, the frustration, the what-ifs. She stepped out of the bathroom with damp hair, a loose tee hanging off one shoulder, her eyes still carrying the quiet weight of the day.

Azzi was curled up in the middle of Paige’s hotel bed, legs crossed, wearing one of Paige’s oversized long sleeves like it belonged to her (and at this point, it practically did). She was scrolling on her phone, half-watching a comfort movie muted in the background—Ocean’s Eleven, one of Paige’s favorites.

When Paige walked in, Azzi clicked her phone off without a word and opened her arms.

That was all the invitation Paige needed.

She climbed into bed beside her, curling into Azzi’s side like her body had been waiting for it all day. Azzi tucked her chin gently over the crown of Paige’s head and just held her there.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The silence was warm—not the absence of conversation, but the comfort of not needing any.

Eventually, Paige let out a quiet breath. “I know I should be proud.”

Azzi rubbed slow circles into her back. “You should be.”

“I am,” Paige said, then paused. “I think I just… needed to feel it. Not fake it for everyone else.”

Azzi shifted slightly so they were facing each other now, brushing a damp strand of hair from Paige’s cheek. “You were incredible today. And I know you wanted the win. But you gave it your all, P. That matters.”

Paige gave her a small smile, the corners of her eyes soft. “You being there… made it easier to keep going. Even when it got bad.”

Azzi smiled. “I’ll always be there. Whether you’re lifting a trophy or just need someone to shut down your inner critic with bad jokes and better snacks.”

Paige let out a low laugh. “I love you a lot, Az.”

“I’m your girlfriend,” Azzi said, grinning. “It’s kind of in the contract.”

They lay like that for a while, wrapped up in quiet touches and the kind of closeness that didn’t need to be earned with a win or defined by a headline.

Eventually, Azzi whispered, “We still have tonight. You didn’t win the tournament—but we can order room service, eat fries in bed, and you can finally admit I look hot in golf merch.”

Paige let out a groggy laugh, nose scrunching as she rolled closer. “Fine. You’re painfully hot in that polo. I’d say I hate it, but…”

Azzi kissed her forehead. “But you don’t.”

“Nope,” Paige mumbled, already drifting, head tucked under Azzi’s chin again. “I really, really don’t.”

They fell asleep like that—tangled limbs, sore hearts softening with every beat, and the quiet peace of knowing no matter the leaderboard, they had already found something worth holding onto.

—-

Los Angeles – Wednesday Early Morning

Azzi stood in front of her bathroom mirror, tying her hair back with practiced ease. Her jersey was laid out on the bed behind her, pristine and waiting. Game one of the playoffs loomed hours ahead, but she wasn’t nervous.

She was ready.

The weight in her chest felt less like pressure now, and more like purpose. She grabbed her phone and sent off a quick text.

Azzi 🏀

Pregame walk done, playlist loaded, locked in.

Miss you, Captain. You’ve got this weekend.

(Also… I am re-wearing the golf polo. You’re welcome.)

She smiled to herself, heart lighter. Then it was time to go.

Connecticut – That Same Morning

Paige stood over the practice green, her jaw tense, shoulders hunched in concentration. The putt was straight. Slight uphill. She knew the break like the back of her hand.

She missed again.

The ball rolled two inches wide, like it had done a dozen times in her mind since Sunday.

She groaned and stepped back, raking a hand through her ponytail.

“Alright,” KK said, walking up behind her, hands on her hips, “I’ve had enough of this Groundhog Day spiral. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

Paige shrugged, not even looking up. “It’s the same putt. I’ve made it a thousand times. But in the tournament, it kept slipping. I kept slipping.”

KK squatted down next to the ball and nudged it back toward Paige. “You didn’t slip. You just… started thinking too much. You know what that means.”

Paige arched a brow, wary. “What?”

KK grinned. “You care.”

She stood and crossed her arms. “I’ve watched you play long enough to know the difference between Paige Bueckers going through the motions and Paige Bueckers who gives a damn. This version of you? The one who grinds even when no one’s watching? That’s the one who wins.”

Paige’s shoulders dropped just a little.

KK softened. “Stop chasing perfection. Just play your game. And maybe text your girlfriend back so she doesn’t start roasting your putting on Twitter.”

Paige finally smiled—small, but real. She reached for her phone and saw the unread message from Azzi.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, then she typed:

Paige ⛳️

I needed that. Both the pep talk and the mental image of you in that polo.

Go win tonight. I’ll be screaming at my laptop like a lunatic.

I love you, Az.

She set the phone down and looked back at the ball.

Still the same putt.

But this time, when she sank it—clean, center cup—it felt different.

Focused. Free.

—-

Los Angeles – Playoff Game One

Connecticut – Paige’s Hotel Room

Azzi was electric.

She had 26 points by the third quarter, four assists, a steal, and one of the cleanest step-back threes of the night. Her team fed off her energy, rallying every possession, and the crowd roared louder with each touch of the ball.

And 2,700 miles away, Paige sat on the edge of her hotel bed, knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves clenched in her fists as she watched every second on her laptop screen. No distractions. No texts. No scrolling. Just Azzi. Locked in, radiant, on fire.

“She’s unreal,” Paige muttered to herself, smiling like a total goner.

Then it happened.

The moment Paige would replay in her mind a hundred times before the night was through.

Azzi took a sharp cut across the lane. A defender stepped in front, their legs tangled, and Azzi’s foot caught awkwardly. Her knee buckled in a way it never should. She screamed—not loud, but raw—and collapsed.

The camera followed the ball, but Paige didn’t.

She was already out of her seat, hand flying to her mouth as she let out a soft, horrified gasp.

Azzi wasn’t getting up.

She clutched her knee, rocking back and forth, the pain etched across her face in a way that shattered something deep inside Paige. The trainers sprinted onto the court. The announcers went quiet. The crowd fell silent. Only Azzi’s expression remained—twisted in anguish, her eyes wet with shock.

Paige’s breath left her body like she’d been hit.

“No,” she whispered, already fumbling for her phone with trembling hands. “No, no, no, please no.”

Her phone buzzed with messages before she could open it.

KK 🧢

You saw?

Ice 🧊

She’s hurt. Bad.

Paige ⛳️

Calling. Now.

She hit Ice’s name and pressed the phone to her ear as the stream on her laptop showed Azzi being helped to her feet, unable to put weight on her right leg.

The arena clapped, but it sounded far away—muffled by the blood pounding in Paige’s ears.

“Pick up. Pick up,” she begged.

When Ice answered, Paige didn’t even say hello. “Where is she going? What’s happening? Please tell me it’s not her ACL.”

There was a pause, and then Ice’s voice came through, tight. “They’re taking her back now. I don’t know for sure, but… it looked bad, PB. I won’t lie to you.”

Paige’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Can you call me the second you know anything? Please. I—she’s alone.”

“She’s not,” Ice promised. “I’ll be with her. You just breathe, alright?”

Paige hung up and dropped the phone on the bed.

She stood there, still in her socks, watching the live feed switch to a commercial break, then back to a bench full of shaken teammates and an empty space where Azzi had sat just minutes ago.

She’d never felt so far away from someone she loved.

Her hands moved before her thoughts could catch up, already pulling up flights to LA. Screw the tournament. Screw anything that wasn’t Azzi.

Paige Bueckers had never moved so fast in her life.

Los Angeles – Training Room

Post MRI – 11:34 PM

The fluorescent lights above hummed softly. Ice sat just to the side of the bench, arms crossed, watching Azzi with the kind of careful stillness reserved for people holding themselves together with a single thread.

Azzi stared ahead, silent. The only thing louder than the pounding in her chest was the echo of the words she couldn’t stop hearing.

“Complete ACL tear.”

“Out for the remainder of the season.”

“Surgery. Rehab. Minimum 9 to 12 months.”

She didn’t cry.

She hadn’t cried. Not when the MRI tech gave her that practiced sympathetic look. Not when the trainer placed a hand gently on her shoulder. Not even when Ice squeezed her hand a little too tight like she was trying to keep her from breaking in half.

Azzi didn’t cry.

She just went quiet.

Ice finally broke the silence. “You should call her.”

Azzi’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

“She’s already blowing up my phone,” Ice said softly. “She’s on the edge of a full-blown freak-out.”

Azzi exhaled slowly and reached for her phone.

She stared at Paige’s name for a few long seconds before hitting FaceTime.

It only rang once.

Paige’s face appeared on screen, wide-eyed, worried, with her hoodie string twisted in her fingers. “Azzi,” she breathed. “I’m booking a red-eye—I’ll be there by morning. Just hold on, okay? I’ll be—”

“No,” Azzi said, sharper than she meant. “Don’t.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

Azzi sat up straighter on the bench, ignoring the stab in her knee. “I don’t want you to come.”

Silence.

Paige’s brows pulled together. “What do you mean? Azzi—baby, you’re hurt. You—”

“I know,” Azzi snapped. “But you’re not a doctor, Paige. You can’t fix this. And your tournament—just… just stay. Focus on your golf. Please.”

Paige stared, visibly confused. “You don’t want me there?”

“I just…” Azzi ran a hand through her curls, frustration spilling out in the gaps between her words. “I can’t deal with you looking at me like I’m broken. Not right now.”

Paige’s expression softened. “Az, I wouldn’t—”

“I know you wouldn’t mean to,” she said, eyes suddenly hot. “But you would. And I don’t know how to be mad and sad and scared in front of you right now without making it worse.”

Paige’s voice cracked. “Are you… are you pushing me away?”

Azzi looked down. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just— I need to be in my own head for a minute. Alone.”

A beat passed.

Then Paige said, very quietly, “Okay.”

That one word. Too small. Too quiet. It hurt more than anything.

Azzi’s voice wavered, the anger gone now, just hollow. “I’m sorry.”

Paige nodded, lips pressed tight. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Azzi whispered. “I just… need a minute to figure out how to deal with not being okay.”

“I’ll wait,” Paige said, voice gentle but wrecked. “For as long as you need.”

They stayed like that a moment longer—screen to screen, both aching in ways the other couldn’t touch.

And then Azzi hung up first.

Ice placed a quiet hand on her shoulder. Azzi finally let her head fall into her hands.

And this time…

She cried.

—-

Thursday – Connecticut

4:08 AM

Paige sat on the edge of her hotel bed in the dark. Her phone lay face-down beside her, still warm from the call that had ended over an hour ago.

She hadn’t moved since.

The tournament press kit was still spread out on the nightstand. Her clubs leaned against the wall, perfectly organized. Her practice schedule was waiting in her inbox. Her caddie, her team, her sponsors—all expected her to show up like nothing had happened.

But everything had happened.

Azzi was hurt. Out for the season. Maybe longer. And she didn’t want Paige there.

Not couldn’t have Paige there. Not logistically difficult.

Didn’t. Want. Her. There.

It stung in a place Paige hadn’t known was still soft.

She finally laid back, one arm flung over her eyes. She didn’t cry, not really—just felt the kind of hollow ache that made her want to throw her phone across the room and also clutch it to her chest.

She understood. Intellectually.

She understood that Azzi was hurting. That she wasn’t ready for soft words or comforting hands or shared silence. That she needed space.

But love didn’t always want to be reasonable. Love wanted to book a flight. Love wanted to knock on the training room door. Love wanted to hold her, fiercely and stubbornly, through the kind of grief that tore dreams apart at the root.

Paige rolled over, grabbing her phone again. She opened a new text.

Typed. Deleted.

Typed again.

Paige ⛳️

I know you asked for space. So I’m not gonna send you a bunch of messages.

But I need you to know—

I’m still here.

Not to fix anything.

Just to stay. However far back you need me to stand.

I’m not going anywhere. I love you. That’s it.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then hit send.

And finally let herself fall asleep—alone in a cold hotel room, thousands of miles away from the only person she wanted to be near. Not with closure. Not with peace.

But with commitment.

Because even when Azzi couldn’t take love in… Paige had already made her choice to give it anyway.

—-

Friday – Connecticut / Los Angeles

Round Two, 11:42 AM Tee Time

Paige adjusted her glove for the third time. Her grip felt wrong. Her shoes were too tight. Or too loose. The sun was hot, but she was cold. Everything felt just a little… off.

She stepped up to the tee box, took a breath, and pulled back.

Thwack.

Too far left. Again.

She muttered something under her breath and didn’t bother looking toward the crowd. KK handed her the next club silently. No advice. Just presence.

They both knew she was spiraling.

By the 10th hole, she was visibly dragging. No spark. No fire. Just the mechanics of someone who’d done this long enough to finish a round on autopilot—even when her chest felt like a rock was wedged between her ribs.

She still hadn’t heard back from Azzi.

Los Angeles – 9:09 AM

Azzi’s bedroom was dim except for the glow of the TV across from her bed. Her knee was elevated, iced, and braced. The remote was limp in her hand.

Golf wasn’t normally her thing.

But watching Paige? That was always her thing.

And right now… Paige didn’t look like Paige.

She looked like a shell of herself. Her swing was sluggish. Her shoulders were slumped. She barely acknowledged the crowd. When the camera zoomed in during the 14th hole, Azzi caught the look in her eyes.

It felt like looking in a mirror.

Azzi’s stomach twisted.

This is because of me.

The thought pressed in harder than the ache in her knee. She clutched the remote tighter. She hadn’t meant to cut Paige off—not really. She just didn’t know how to let her in without breaking down. And breaking down had felt too close to breaking apart.

But now? Now Paige looked like she was the one breaking.

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to call. To say something. To apologize. But the anger still hadn’t cleared. It was still fogging up her chest like smoke that refused to lift.

And yet, when Paige missed an easy putt on 17—Azzi flinched like she’d been hit.

She whispered softly to the screen, “I’m sorry.”

Connecticut – 6:13 PM

Paige sat on the back steps of the clubhouse, legs pulled up, her head resting on her knees. The official cut line was still up in the air, but she knew it would be close. Too close.

KK sat beside her, silently finishing a granola bar. She finally offered the last bite to Paige.

“I’m not hungry,” Paige mumbled.

“You’re not present either,” KK said gently. “But I’m still handing you food. So—take it.”

Paige did. Eventually.

KK leaned back, watching the sky start to fade orange. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on. But I can guess.”

Paige didn’t say anything. She just pressed the wrapper between her fingers and nodded once.

“She’s hurting too,” KK said softly. “You both are. But if you think pulling away from her pain is helping her… you’re wrong.”

“I know,” Paige whispered. “I just don’t know what to do.”

KK looked over at her. “Play tomorrow. Try again. For you. Not for the leaderboard. Not for Azzi. For the part of you that still loves this game, even when everything else feels heavy.”

Paige nodded again.

But when she got back to her hotel room and opened her phone—still nothing.

No text. No call.

Just silence.

And Paige didn’t know how much longer she could keep swinging through it.

—-

Saturday – Round Three – Connecticut

2:11 PM

Paige stood on the 18th green, squinting into the soft breeze as she lined up her final putt of the day. Her posture looked different today—shoulders not just squared, but lifted. Poised.

The crowd around the ropes was quiet, breath held.

With one clean stroke, she sank it.

Birdie.

She didn’t pump her fist. Didn’t flash a smile. She just let out the breath she’d been holding and tilted her face toward the sky like the sun might give her an answer she’d been waiting on.

KK was the first to meet her at the edge of the green, squeezing her arm with a grin.

“You’re back,” she said simply.

Paige nodded, finally letting a flicker of a smile cross her lips.

“I’m back.”

Los Angeles – 2:45 PM

Azzi had watched the whole thing from her couch, propped up again, her leg still swollen and sore. But her heart—today, it felt a little lighter. She had spent the last twenty-four hours stewing in guilt and confusion, but seeing Paige play again? Really play?

It reminded her of who they both were. And how much they had built, even in the chaos.

She reached for her phone before she could overthink it.

Call Paige.

She hit dial.

Connecticut – 5:45 PM

Paige was halfway through her recovery stretch, earbuds in and music low when her phone began to buzz across the bench beside her.

AZZI 🏀

Her hands froze.

She stared at the screen, heart leaping in the space between ringtone pulses. Then she answered, voice careful.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Azzi said, soft. Not tense. Not guarded. Just… Azzi.

There was a pause. Long enough to say more than either of them was ready for.

“I watched you today,” she finally said. “You looked… like you again.”

Paige exhaled, tension bleeding from her shoulders with just those words. “Yeah? Felt like it, too.”

“I was proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Paige said. Her voice was gentle, but there was a trace of hesitation. A scar from how the last call ended. “I didn’t want to push. I didn’t know if you—”

“I know,” Azzi interrupted, quietly. “I’m sorry. I needed space. I didn’t mean to make it feel like you weren’t welcome.”

Paige nodded slowly, even if Azzi couldn’t see it. “I get it.”

“I was angry,” Azzi admitted. “Still am, a little. But not at you. At the injury. At the timing. At the world. It was easier to just… shut everything down.”

“I’ve done the same,” Paige said, more to herself than to Azzi.

They sat in that silence again—this time less heavy, more healing.

“I miss you,” Paige said after a moment. “Not just talking. You.”

Azzi swallowed. “I miss you too. A lot.”

Another beat.

“So,” Paige said, voice lighter now, “does this mean I’m allowed to send stupid memes again or…?”

Azzi laughed—actually laughed—and Paige felt her chest warm instantly.

“Only if they’re actually funny.”

“No promises.”

Azzi smiled into the receiver. “And Paige?”

“Yeah?”

“Go win it tomorrow.”

Paige smirked. “You gonna shout at the TV again?”

“You know I will.”

—-

Sunday – Final Round – Connecticut

11:18 AM – Hole 4 Tee Box

The first three holes hadn’t been Paige’s cleanest.

A wayward drive on 1. A missed up-and-down on 2. A par-save that barely dropped on 3.

Her hands were steady, but her heart was still catching up. She could feel the pressure of the leaderboard in the way her knuckles gripped the club just a little too tight.

As she rounded the corner toward the 4th tee box, shoulders tense and eyes locked in on the path ahead, she caught movement just beyond the gallery ropes. A cluster of fans had gathered along the ridge with signs, but one in particular stopped her in her tracks.

A massive poster — like, truly unnecessary in size — featuring Azzi’s smiling face mid-game, braided hair flying, sweat glistening, that fierce determined gaze caught perfectly.

And beneath her photo, bold block letters spelled out:

“Since Azzi can’t stand here to watch you — we’ll hold her up for you. Go PB. Win it for your girl.”

Paige blinked.

And then blinked again.

Her caddie, KK, walked up behind her and squinted toward the ridge. “Are those—?”

“Yep.”

“That’s…” KK paused. “Honestly? Kind of amazing.”

Paige let out a soft, stunned laugh and shook her head, momentarily forgetting the double bogey on 2 and the pressure on 4.

“These fans are unhinged,” she said. “But like… in the most beautiful way.”

“You good?” KK asked, lowering her voice, reading her posture.

Paige stepped up to the tee box. She adjusted her grip. Rolled her shoulders back. And when she looked down the fairway, her eyes were clear for the first time all day.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’m really good.”

She set her stance, inhaled deep, and let the driver rip.

A perfect shot. Straight down the center. Her cleanest drive of the weekend.

And as the crowd erupted behind her, she couldn’t help but glance back up at that ridiculous, wonderful sign.

Azzi couldn’t be there in person—but somehow, Paige felt closer to her than ever.

—-

Back in L.A., Azzi was sprawled on the couch, leg propped up on a pillow, ice pack slowly melting over her knee. The swelling had gone down a bit, but the emotional heaviness hadn’t totally left. Not yet.

Still, watching Paige in the final round gave her something else to hold onto — a flicker of hope, of normalcy, of the person she loved doing the thing she loved most.

The coverage had been focused—tight shots of Paige’s face, her grip, her stance. But then, as Paige made her way to the fourth tee, the camera panned to the gallery.

And Azzi froze.

There it was.

Her face.

Massive. Glowing. Bold letters underneath.

“Since Azzi can’t stand here to watch you — we’ll hold her up for you.”

Azzi’s jaw dropped.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, reaching for her phone with her free hand.

She snapped a photo of the screen—Paige mid-smile, her head tilted slightly toward the sign like it had caught her off guard in the best way. Then, without overthinking it, she opened Instagram and typed out a caption.

I guess we really do always show up for each other in unexpected ways 😅❤️

She hit post before she could second guess it.

Because it was true.

Even from 2,700 miles away, they were always showing up for one another.

Azzi stared at the TV, cheeks warm, hand resting softly on the heart printed on her oversized hoodie.

And whispered to no one in particular:

“Go win it, PB.”

—-

Paige stood on the tenth tee box, thumb tracing the seam of her glove, breath steady.

The front nine had been a slow burn — two bogeys, a birdie she barely saved, and a lot of internal chaos trying to compete with the roar of her own thoughts. But then that sign — Azzi’s face, grinning in the crowd like some kind of divine intervention — had flipped a switch.

Something about it had reminded her who she was playing for. Not the press. Not the world rankings. Not even herself entirely.

For her girl.

And suddenly, the tension in her shoulders had started to bleed away.

By hole eleven, she piped a drive dead-center.

By twelve, she rolled in a 15-footer with the kind of ease that made her caddie, KK, mutter a quiet, “There she is.”

And now, standing on thirteen, Paige could feel the shift in the air.

The crowd was building again, sensing the comeback. The cameras lingered longer on her swing, her eyes, the glint of focus back where it belonged.

Her drive soared on thirteen — a buttery draw that cut through the wind and settled just short of the green.

KK leaned in. “You’re in it. Keep your foot on the gas.”

Paige gave a small, focused nod, but her mind flickered briefly to Azzi.

Would she be watching right now? Did she see the sign?

She hadn’t dared check her phone between holes. She didn’t want to risk breaking whatever momentum the universe had decided to hand her.

But she could feel her.

It was like Azzi was stitched into her pulse now. Not in a way that distracted her — in a way that centered her.

As they approached the green, Paige looked out at the gallery again, heart pounding. More signs now. A few fans in golf polos with Azzi’s jersey number drawn in marker on their backs. Someone with a cutout of Paige’s face that said: “OUR CAPTAIN. OUR CLUTCH.”

It made her grin. Not big. Just enough.

She chipped up to three feet. Sank the birdie. Another step closer.

The leaderboard had shifted again. She wasn’t in first… but she was close. Close enough that the next few holes would decide everything.

Paige pulled her hat lower against the sun as they walked to fourteen. Her face calm. Her heart — finally — where it needed to be.

There was work to do still. But this time, it didn’t feel lonely.

She was chasing something worth catching. And someone was already waiting at the finish.

Hole 18.

Everything came down to this.

Paige stood just off the green, her ball sitting in a nest of short-cut grass, the flag tucked into a tight back-right pin location. She needed a miracle birdie to win and not force a playoff. A par wouldn’t be enough. Not today.

The air around the green was thick — with expectation, nerves, maybe even fate.

KK crouched next to her, whispering with calm urgency. “You know the shot, PB. You’ve hit this a hundred times. Take the hands out of it. Just feel it.”

Paige nodded, the noise of the crowd dulling to a hum behind the rush in her ears.

She stepped into the shot.

One breath in. One smooth motion.

The wedge kissed the ball cleanly, launching it up with perfect trajectory. It bounced once, twice… then started tracking like it had a GPS chip coded to destiny.

The gallery gasped.

Clink.

Straight in.

The roar that erupted could’ve cracked the sky.

Paige didn’t even register her club dropping from her hand — she spun on instinct, stunned, wide-eyed, and before she could process it, KK was flying at her, yelling, “YOU DID IT, YOU FREAKING WIZARD!”

They collided in the middle of the green with a hug so chaotic and pure it nearly knocked Paige off balance — laughter and shouts tangled in a blur of motion. KK lifted her off the ground for a second before they both just stood there, holding on.

Not as player and caddie.

But as sisters.

As survivors of every missed cut, every 5 a.m. grind, every doubt they’d silenced with sheer will.

Back in LA

Azzi was watching from the floor of her living room, leg still elevated, one crutch laying across the carpet like it had been tossed aside in a moment of overwhelmed joy.

The second the ball dropped, she screamed—half joy, half disbelief—and immediately started crying, hand over her mouth, eyes locked on the screen.

Then the camera cut to Paige and KK in that tangled, euphoric hug.

Azzi snapped the photo like a reflex.

She opened Instagram, posted the image to her story, and typed:

“My Public Birdie Machine 💕 did it again 🥹”

Then added another line beneath it:

“Come home already. I’m so proud of you I could scream.”

And she did.

—-

Paige didn’t waste a second.

The moment her flight touched down in LA, she grabbed her bag, skipped the waiting games, and made a beeline straight to Azzi’s place. Her heart had been lodged somewhere between her throat and her chest since the second that final putt dropped. She didn’t want interviews or celebrations. She just wanted her.

Using the spare key Azzi had given her—back when things still felt light—Paige let herself in. The quiet hum of the house greeted her like a heartbeat she’d been missing.

She stepped in gently, like she didn’t want to disturb the peace. One hand held a bundle of sun-kissed flowers, the other a familiar brown paper bag from Azzi’s favorite bakery, still warm.

It didn’t take long to find her—curled up on the couch, asleep, leg elevated and a blanket draped over her like a second skin. Paige didn’t say anything. She just sat on the floor, back leaned against the edge of the couch, close enough to touch but not crowding.

She let herself be there.

A few minutes passed before Azzi stirred—like she could feel Paige’s presence in her bones. Her lashes fluttered, eyes heavy with sleep until they landed on the only thing in the world that made sense in that moment.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice scratchy.

“Hey,” Paige echoed, soft.

“How long’ve you been sitting there?”

Paige shrugged. “Just a few minutes.”

Azzi’s gaze drifted to the flowers and the bag on the table. Paige saw the shift in her eyes before Azzi even had the chance to speak. That subtle dimming. That flicker of guilt, of unworthiness, of all the what-ifs she’d been drowning in.

Paige moved before the spiral could start.

She reached up, fingers gently guiding Azzi’s chin to look at her.

“The flowers,” Paige said, her voice steady, “are not ‘hope you get better soon’ flowers. They’re ‘I missed my girlfriend so damn much it hurt and all I want to do right now is kiss her’ flowers.”

Azzi’s breath hitched, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Paige brushed it away with her thumb, no questions asked.

Then Azzi leaned forward—and kissed her.

It was soft at first, but deep. A kiss that said I’m sorry, I’ve missed you, please don’t go. One that said everything she couldn’t quite find the words for yet. Paige didn’t need her to. She understood all of it.

When they finally pulled apart, Paige let her forehead rest against Azzi’s.

“And the cookies…” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips, “those are definitely ‘I hope you get better soon’ cookies.”

Azzi laughed through the breath that had been caught in her chest, her shoulders finally dropping, the ache in her heart replaced by warmth.

“Good,” she murmured, fingers threading through Paige’s. “Because I’ve been craving those damn cookies.”

The rest of the evening moved slow—on purpose.

Paige had kicked her shoes off at the door and never put them back on. Azzi stayed curled up in her oversized hoodie, one of Paige’s old college ones, her leg still elevated, but her body slowly leaning more into ease.

They watched some reality show they’d both already seen twice. Paige fed Azzi bites of dinner she wasn’t quite hungry enough to reach for herself. Azzi mumbled sarcastic commentary through her half-eaten cookie. And eventually, the world shrank to just them again—quiet, close, soft.

Azzi was stretched across the couch now, her head in Paige’s lap. Paige’s fingers moved gently through her curls, scratching at her scalp the way Azzi always leaned into. Her eyes were closed, almost dozing, and Paige thought maybe this was how peace felt. Earned. Quiet. Warm.

Then Azzi blinked her eyes open and shifted upright.

Paige stilled, instantly alert—not out of fear, but out of instinct. She could feel it before Azzi even spoke. The weight. The decision.

“We should talk about the night of my injury,” Azzi said.

Her voice didn’t waver. It was calm, but resolute.

Paige didn’t speak at first. Just looked at her, studying her expression like it was a language she wanted to get exactly right.

“Only if you’re ready,” she said softly, the pads of her fingers still brushing gently over Azzi’s hand.

Azzi gave a little nod. “I think I’ve been carrying it around like a bag of bricks. And you’ve been walking beside me pretending it wasn’t heavy.”

Paige’s throat tightened, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I was scared,” Azzi admitted. “Not just of the injury, but of what came after. Of the anger that hit me like a wall. I didn’t know where to put it, and you were the only person I felt close enough to… push away.”

Paige’s eyes flickered, the hurt still tender but not raw.

“I knew you didn’t mean it,” she said. “But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting.”

“I know,” Azzi whispered. “And I hated that I made you feel that way. I just—everything felt like it was slipping. The season, my body, the momentum I’d built. And you were doing so well. I couldn’t stand the idea of being the reason you stumbled too.”

Paige took a quiet breath. “Az, you were never the reason. You’re never too much. Not to me.”

Azzi looked down at their intertwined hands. “I guess I needed to believe I could carry it alone… just to prove I was strong. But I’m starting to learn that letting someone love you through it doesn’t make you weak.”

Paige reached up and cupped her cheek gently, guiding Azzi’s gaze back to hers.

“It makes you human,” she said. “And it makes us… real.”

They sat in the stillness of it for a moment. No rush. No panic. Just them.

Azzi exhaled, like something inside her finally let go. “Thank you for coming back. For showing up. Again.”

Paige kissed her temple. “There’s not a version of this where I wouldn’t.”

Azzi smiled through a misty breath and leaned into her again.

“Okay,” she said quietly, her voice soft but sure. “I think I’m done carrying the bricks now.”

Paige wrapped her arms around her and whispered, “Good. Let me help you carry whatever comes next.”

[fatehbaz]

About the entanglement of "science" and Empire. About how children are encouraged participate in these imperial "scripts".

Was thinking about this recent thing:

The caption reads: "Toys and board games, 1940." And I think the text on the game-box in the back says something like "the whole world is yours", maybe? (Use of appeals to science/progress in imperial narratives is a thing already well-known, especially for those familiar with Victorian era, Edwardian era, Gilded Age, early twentieth century, etc., in US and Europe.)

And was struck, because I had also recently gone looking through other posts about the often-strange imagery of children's material in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century US/Europe. And was disturbed/intrigued by this thing:

Caption here reads: "Game Board. Walter Mittelholzer's flight over Africa. [...] 1931. Commemorative game board map of Africa for a promotional game published for the N*stle Company, for tracking the trip of Walter Mittelholzer across Africa, the first pilot to fly a north-south route."

Hmm.

I went to learn more about this: Produced in Switzerland. "Africa is for your consumption and pleasure. Brought to you by the N#stle Company!" (See the name-dropping of N#stle at the bottom of the board.) A company which, in the preceding decade, had shifted focus to expand its cacao production (which would be dependent on tropical plantations). Adventure, excitement, knowledge, science, engineering prowess, etc. For kids! (In 1896, Switzerland had hosted a "human zoo" at the Swiss Second National Exhibition in Geneva, where the "Village Noir" exhibit put living people on display; they were over two hundred people from Senegal, who lived in a "mock village" in Geneva's central square.)

Another, from a couple decades earlier, this time English-language.

Caption reads: "The "World's globe circler." A game board based on Nellie Bly's travels. 1890." At center, a trumpet, and a proclamation: "ALL RECORDS BROKEN".

Went to find more info: Lithographed game board produced in New York. Images on the board also show Jules Verne; Bly, in real-world travels, was attempting to emulate the journey of the character Phileas Fogg in Verne's Around the World in Eighty Days (1872).

Game produced in the same year that the United States "closed the frontier" and conquered "the Wild West" (the massacre at Wounded Knee happened in December 1890). A couple years later, the US annexed Hawai'i; by decade's end, the US military was in both Cuba and the Philippines. The Scramble for Africa was taking place. At the time, Britain especially already had a culture of "travel writing" or "travel fiction" or whatever we want to call it, wherein domestic residents of the metropole back home could read about travel, tourism, expeditions, adventures, etc. on the peripheries of the Empire. Concurrent with the advent of popular novels, magazines, mass-market print media, etc. Intrepid explorers rescuing Indigenous peoples from their own backwardness. Many tales of exotic allure set in South Asia. Heroic white hunters taking down scary tigers. Elegant Englishwomen sipping tea in the shade of an umbrella, giggling at the elephants, the local customs, the strange sights. Orientalism, tropicality, othering, paternalism, etc.

I'd lately been looking at a lot of work on race/racism in British scientific and pop-sci literature involving natural history or geographical imaginaries. (From scholars like Varun Sharma, Rohan Deb Roy, Ezra Rashkow, Jonathan Saha, Pratik Chakrabarti.) But I'd also lately been looking at Mashid Mayar's work, which I think closely suits this kinda thing with the board games. Some of her publications:

"From Tools to Toys: American Dissected Maps and Geographic Knowledge at the Turn of the Twentieth Century". In: Knowledge Landscapes North America, edited by Kloeckner et al., 2016.

"What on Earth! Slated Globes, School Geography and Imperial Pedagogy". European Journal of American Studies 16, number 3, Summer 2020.

Citizens and Rulers of the World: The American Child and the Cartographic Pedagogies of Empire, 2022.

Discussing her book, Mayar was interviewed by LA Review of Books in 2022. She says:

[Quote.] Growing up at the turn of the 20th century, for many American children, also meant learning to view the world through the lens of "home geography." [...] [T]hey inevitably responded to the transnational whims of an empire that had stretched its dominion across the globe [recent forays into Panama, Cuba, Hawai'i, the Philippines] [...]. [W]hite, well-to-do, literate American children [...] learned how to identify and imagine “homes” on the map of the world. [...] [T]he cognitive maps children developed, to which we have access through the scant archival records they left behind (i.e., geographical puzzles they designed and printed in juvenile periodicals) [...] mixed nativism and the logic of colonization with playful, appropriative scalar confusion, and an intimate, often unquestioned sense of belonging to the global expanse of an empire [...]. Dissected maps - that is, maps mounted on cardboard or wood and then cut into smaller pieces that children were to put back together - are a generative example of the ways imperial pedagogy [...] found its place outside formal education, in children's lives outside the classroom. [...] [W]ell before having been adopted as playthings in the United States, dissected maps had been designed to entertain and teach the children of King George III about the global spatial affairs of the British Empire. […] [J]uvenile periodicals of the time printed child-made geographical puzzles [...]. [I]t was their assumption that "(un)charted," non-American spaces (both inside and outside the national borders) sought legibility as potential homes, [...] and that, if they did not do so, they were bound to recede into ruin/"savagery," meaning that it would become the colonizers' responsibility/burden to "restore" them [...]. [E]mpires learn from and owe to childhood in their attempts at survival and growth over generations [...]. [These] "multigenerational power constellations" [...] survived, by making accessible pedagogical scripts that children of the white and wealthy could learn from and appropriate as times changed [...]. [End quote.] Source: Words of Mashid Mayar, as transcribed in an interviewed conducted and published by M. Buna. "Children's Maps of the American Empire: A Conversation with Mashid Mayar". LA Review of Books. 11 July 2022.

Some other stuff I'd recently put in a to-read list, specifically about European (especially German) geographical imaginaries of globe-as-playground:

The Play World: Toys, Texts, and the Transatlantic German Childhood (Patricia Anne Simpson, 2020) /// "19th-Century Board Game Offers a Tour of the German Colonies" (Sarah Zabrodski, 2016) /// Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (David Ciarlo, 2011) /// Learning Empire: Globalization and the German Quest for World Status, 1875-1919 (Erik Grimmer-Solem, 2019) /// “Ruling Africa: Science as Sovereignty in the German Colonial Empire and Its Aftermath” (Andrew Zimmerman. In: German Colonialism in a Global Age, 2014) /// "Exotic Education: Writing Empire for German Boys and Girls, 1884-1914". (Jeffrey Bowersox. In: German Colonialism and National Identity, 2017) /// Raising Germans in the Age of Empire: Youth and Colonial Culture, 1871-1914 (Jeff Bowersox, 2013) /// "[Translation:] (Educating Modernism: A Trade-Specific Portrait of the German Toy Industry in the Developing Mass-Market Society)" (Heike Hoffmann, PhD dissertation, Tubingen, 2000) /// Home and Harem: Nature, Gender, Empire, and the Cultures of Travel (Inderpal Grewal, 1996) /// "'Le rix d'Indochine' at the French Table: Representation of Food, Race and the Vietnamese in a Colonial-Era Board Game" (Elizabeth Collins, 2021) /// "The Beast in a Box: Playing with Empire in Early Nineteenth-Century Britain" (Romita Ray, 2006) /// Playing Oppression: The Legacy of Conquest and Empire in Colonialist Board Games (Mary Flanagan and Mikael Jakobsson, 2023)

[sleepdeprivedf1fan]

Racing Hearts

---

---

The sun hung low over the circuit, casting a golden hue across the bustling paddock, where the air was thick with the smell of burning rubber and the distant roar of engines. Fans buzzed with excitement, their voices a cacophony of cheers and speculation. But amidst the thrumming energy of race day, one person remained conspicuously absent-you.

For the past few races, you had stepped away from the glamorous life of the Formula 1 paddock, trading the adrenaline of motorsport for the solitude of your study room. Max Verstappen, your boyfriend and the reigning champion of the racing world, had been busy conquering tracks while you faced your own daunting challenge: preparing for your medical exams. The pressure was immense, and I needed to focus.

Yet, as you glanced at your phone, you couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation. Your social media feed was filled with images of Max, the team, and the celebrations of victory. Each post was a reminder of your absence and the whispers that began to circulate. Where you still with Max? Had you been cheated on? The racing community was notorious for its gossip, and as you delved deeper into your studies, the rumors spread like wildfire.

It had all started innocuously. A few weeks into your studies, you posted a picture of your textbooks with the caption: "Priorities." It was meant to be a lighthearted reminder of your commitment to your future, but the comments quickly turned sour. “Max must have found someone else,” read one. “She’s definitely been dumped,” another chimed in. It stung more than you anticipated, and though you wanted to defend your relationship, you knew that every word you posted would only fuel the fire.

You took a deep breath, reminding yourself why you had chosen this path. Becoming a doctor was your lifelong dream, and you wouldn’t let the noise of the paddock distract you from your goal. You focused on the textbooks, the lectures, and the endless practice exams, pushing aside the gnawing doubts about your relationship.

But then came the news that shattered your resolve. While scrolling through your feed, you came across a post that made you heart drop. A picture of Max with a stunning blonde, their faces alight with laughter, surfaced on the internet. The caption read, “New romance in the paddock?” Your stomach twisted into knots, and you felt a wave of panic wash over you.

You tried to rationalize it. It could have been a friendly moment captured by a camera. Max was known for his charm, and he often found himself amidst a crowd of fans and admirers. But the comments flooded in, each one more accusatory than the last. “She’s definitely been dumped.” “Max has moved on.” “Time to find a new love, sweetheart.”

You felt the walls closing in. Your phone rang, and you saw my best friend, Sarah’s name flashing across the screen. You hesitated before answering, afraid to hear what she might say. “Hey, have you seen the latest?” she asked, her voice laced with concern. “It’s all over social media—people are saying you broke up with Max because he cheated. Is it true?”

“Of course not!” You exclaimed,your heart racing. “I haven’t broken up with him. I’m just focused on my studies!”

“Listen, I’m not saying I believe it, but it’s all anyone is talking about. You need to clear the air before it spirals out of control,” she urged.

But how could you clear the air? You had chosen to step back from the limelight, to prioritize your education, and now it felt like you where being punished for it. Max was busy racing, and you didn’t want to distract him with your insecurities. You needed to trust him, but as the rumors spread, so did your doubts.

Days turned into weeks, and you found yourself consumed by a whirlwind of emotions. Each race weekend, you kept your distance, focusing on your studies, yet feeling like you where losing a part of yourself. You felt disconnected, watching from afar as Max celebrated his victories without you. The thrill of his success was overshadowed by the weight of the rumors and the fear of losing him.

Finally, during a quiet evening of studying, your phone buzzed with a message from Max. “Hey, can we talk?” The words sent a jolt of electricity through me. Your heart raced, and you felt a mix of excitement and dread. What could he possibly want to discuss?

You took a deep breath and replied, “Sure, call me.”

Moments later, your phone rang again. “Hey, love,” his voice came through the receiver, warm and familiar.

“Hey,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Listen, I’ve seen the rumors. I don’t know where they’re coming from, but I want you to know that I would never cheat on you,” he said, the sincerity in his voice soothing your frayed nerves.

“I know that, Max. I just… I needed to focus on my exams, and it feels like everyone thinks I’ve been dumped or something,” you admitted, my voice trembling slightly.

“Don’t listen to them. You’re my everything, and I support your dreams. What you’re doing is so important, and I’ve been proud of you every step of the way,” he reassured you .

“But the pictures…” you hesitated, unsure if you should bring it up.

“Those were just fans, nothing more. You know how it is; people love to create stories. I miss you, and I wish you were here with me,” he said, his tone shifting to one of longing.

“I miss you too,” you confessed, feeling the weight of the past few weeks lift slightly.

“Can you come to the next race? I want to show you off, remind everyone that you’re still my girl,” he said, his enthusiasm infectious.

“I’ll try,” you replied, a smile creeping onto your face.

“Just try? You’re more than just trying. You’ll be there,” he insisted, and you could hear the determination in his voice.

“Okay, I’ll be there,” you finally promised.

As the days edged closer to the race weekend, you found a renewed sense of purpose. You balanced your studies with the anticipation of seeing Max again. You poured over my notes, determined to ace your exams while also preparing for the inevitable onslaught of questions about our relationship.

The morning of the race arrived, and excitement buzzed in the air as you made your way to the paddock. The familiar sights and sounds enveloped you, but your heart raced for another reason. You finally going to see Max after weeks apart.

As you stepped into the paddock, the atmosphere was electric, filled with the chatter of fans and crew members. You spotted Max in the garage, surrounded by the team, his focus unwavering. He looked up and met your gaze, and in that instant, everything else faded away.

He broke into a wide grin and rushed over, enveloping you in a warm embrace. “You made it!” he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with joy.

“I promised, didn’t I?” You replied, feeling the warmth of his presence.

As you two walked through the paddock together, you could feel the eyes of spectators on you. Whispers followed, but this time, you whete ready. You held my head high, hand in hand with Max, silencing the rumors with your undeniable connection.

During the race, you cheered him on from the sidelines, your heart swelling with pride as he navigated the track with skill and determination. Each lap brought you closer, and as he crossed the finish line, victorious once more, you felt a rush of exhilaration.

After the race, you celebrated with the team, and you took a moment to step away from the noise. The sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink, and you found a quiet spot to reflect.

Moments later, Max joined you, taking your hand in his. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, his voice soft.

“I’m glad I came too. I needed this… us,” you replied, feeling the weight of the past few weeks lift away.

The rumors would still be there, but you where no longer afraid. You had chosen to trust in your love, to prioritize your dreams while embracing the whirlwind of life with Max. Together, faced the world, two racing hearts navigating the twists and turns of life, determined to conquer whatever challenges lay ahead.

“Are you ready for the next race?” he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Always,” you replied, feeling the thrill of the unknown.

And as you both stood there, under the fading light of the day, I knew that together, we could weather any storm.

---

[theprettynosferatu]

I Had Ice-Cream (The Election Post)

I had ice-cream yesterday.

I've following a very strict diet because I'm trying to eat in a healthy manner and, let's not lie here, because I am quite vain and wanted to lose a few pounds. And if there was one thing I stayed away from, it was ice-cream. But yesterday I had to. Eating my feelings, I suppose.

The reason I felt so bad should be obvious. And I'm not even American! But I lived there. I made friends there. I still have friends there. Gay, straight, cis, trans... my heart breaks for them all. It feels like something horrid, something primal and evil and dark won. A fear turned into anger and selfish lashing out. It's hard to believe, right now, that love will always conquer hate.

I intended to make a few captions yesterday, but I couldn't. And I am well aware you don't come here to see me whine and weep and rant. But I don't think I can make more content without addressing this first.

This blog plays with ideas of power- in fact, the main aesthetic and tone for captions is inspired very directly by propaganda. I imagine them as posters from another, fictional reality. Hard to see it as so fictional right now.

Let me be absolutely clear: if you truly think women are lesser, if you let hate take root in your heart, if you are a real authoritarian, this blog is not for you.

What can I do? Not much. Not much except providing, perhaps, a bit of escapism- hoping people understand the difference between kink and reality, hoping I haven't done harm with my work (although I doubt captions and kink stories moved a lot of votes in this election).

I feel we need to take our small joys wherever we can find them. You can't fight if you are a burnt-out, overwhelmed mess. So, don't feel bad about cutting yourself some slack. Do something that brings you joy, even for a moment, because we need you. You matter. And you deserve that joy, and so much more.

So, I had ice-cream. Find your ice-cream, and eat a bit without shame.

Take care of yourself. And now more than ever, we need to help take care of each other.

Kink content will resume soon. I just needed to clear the air and vent a bit. Thank you for understanding.

-Nos

[useless-catalanfacts]

Video by curiosaire.vlc (Instagram, TikTok, Twitter) about the Valencian tradition of mocadorada or mocadorà on October 9th, day of love 🍈🥕🍉🍅🍆🫑🥔🥒

In the last years, the tradition of Saint Valentine's Day (a tradition from the USA to celebrate love giving chocolates) has arrived to our country too, pushed by the shops trying to sell more things. But here it's a root-less Americanizing tradition that is only celebrated by the shop chains and whose only purpose is making us feel like we need to buy things from shop chains, even though there are increasingly more young people who celebrate it. That's why there's that little joke about it in the video.

English transcription under the cut.

Video of a young white man speaking at the camera in Valencian, with captions in Valencian and English. Here are the English captions:

Saint Valentine, you're an invader! Because in València, the day of lovers is October 9th, Saint Dennis' Day. And we celebrate it with one of the prettiest traditions from the Valencian Country: the mocaorà. And it has been like this since the 15th century, when it's calculated that this tradition started. The legend says that its origin is in the offering that the farmers from Horta de València gave to king James I of Catalonia-Aragon and queen Violant of Hungary in 1238 after he conquered the city of València. What does the mocaorà consist of? It consists of giving your beloved a platter of sweets made of baked marzipan (in the shape of tiny vegetables and fruits), all wrapped in the prettiest shawl you could find. This way, the beloved can wear it in autumn, now that it starts being chilly. The platter's protagonists are two particular figures, named after two kinds of firecrackers. You don't need a master's degree in sexology to understand that they refer to male and female genitalia. King Philip V of Spain, the one who forbid speaking Valencian with the Nueva Planta decrees, didn't like this tradition, and he tried to ban it in the 18th century. Luckily, Valencians told him: (raising his middle finger) get up here and you'll see Paris (meaning go to hell) and continued celebrating it despite his pretentions. The tradition, unfortunately for the Bourbon king, still continues very alive and every year about 100,000 marzipan sweets are sold in València and the towns around it. And the truth is that it's very beautiful seeing the city's bakeries change and get colourful decorations so that lovers can celebrate their love in the sweetest way possible, not to say that they almost reach a sugar overdose, because those marzipans are so overly sweet. So remember, this October 9th is Valencian lovers' day. Saint Valentine's Day? That's a thing of the past! Celebrate Saint Dionís to be a Valencian with pedigree!

[prince-of-any-failing-empire]

A lot of people seem to think the dictator is black parade Gerard, and while it sounds cool, I think it would fight against what the band is setting up. They're building this dystopian, "perfect", "clean", soviet style world, with obvious references to fascism. Fans really love the black parade era, costumes and the overall looks of the band members. That love and adoration I think is conflicting with the "fight against fascism, art is the weapon" message that the band has been putting out, if Gerard was the dictator.

UNLESS it's meant to be like this. We as the "swarm" are the adoring masses who worship the dictator (bp Gerard), unaware of what he's doing or deliberately turning a blind eye. Or we're focusing on all the theories about the secretary being the one pulling the strings, blaming the woman while sympathizing -or at least freeing him of the blame- with the dictator.

OR maybe if the dictator is Gerard, we're meant to challenge our ideas and opinions of what world leaders or political figures are. We as humans see thing differently, and sometimes it's hard to understand someone else's viewpoint. By making this seemingly cruel leader a beloved "leader" of the black parade, we as the listeners have to question our morals and understanding of the character.

I don't think bp Gerard is the dictator, I think the caption of the first trailer "reveals" it. The black parade was sent to the MOAT (whatever that is) and I'd assume it means everyone of them. The dictator is just another authoritarian figure the storytellers of that world need to rise against and conquer in the coming live shows.

I could be looking too deep into this, I love all the theories and mostly agree with the "major" theories, like the secretary being the one with the power, or the foundations of decay linking with this universe. This post is just me trying to think of different approaches to the videos.

Idk if this makes any sense, just some of my thoughts badly written xd

[latrespada]

Soy la mal influencia y eso te gustó. Eres niña mala, se nota, mi amor…

(Song: La Diabla – Xavi)

Y’know when I first heard this song, it just screamed the impression of a passionate rebellious figure, unwavering in his devotion to the woman he loves. Despite her more cautious demeanor, it is precisely his fearless nature that captivates her. So one night, it struck me, Grimmjow vibes! Y’know a guy full of fire and passion brimming with fervor and determination, endeavoring to conquer the world for his beloved. As for Nelliel, she finds herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame, embracing the thrill and adventure he brings into her life as he pursues her affection.

I suck at caption so I had to add lyrics XD

This edit also drove me mad because that’s Grimmjow’s arm, but it looks like Nelliel is holding onto him but then it also looks like they’re sitting and she’s leaning on him while he’s chilling slouched over something.

[thelovetheystole]

According to an article I read, Emmerdale has like 60 characters. Today, I want to take a moment to talk about the silent 61st character. Gone 5 years from the show, but still on everyone's mind, especially if you've been reading soap media in 2024...

Below, a little compilation I've made from just a couple of outlets, all this year (if I have made a mistake and included an older one, I apologise.)

These are far from all of it, and I've not even touched on the online click-bait stories. Here we have everything from blatant baiting (putting Robron on the cover of a magazine with Emmerdale previews and captioning it 'love conquers all!') to alluding (implying John is only the start of Sugden additions to the show) and even a cheeky suggestion that the show hand Ryan a black cheque 😂 Danny was flying the Robron flag proudly at the start of the year, and even Mike P wants Ryan to return...

Add to this that his name has been mentioned on screen 20-ish times, the show has recreated several Robron sceanrios with Aaron and the new Sugden and even had a keychain made with Robert's photo, as seen in the last collage...

Find me another past character that can match this 5 or even 2 years later! I bet there are even current characters or couples that haven't been alluded to this much in the media this year.

And clearly, the 'Is Steph a Sugden?' one takes the cake, as Robert is only 7 years older than her 😆