#is just in the background not understanding the

[charlesoberonn]

"Barely legal" porno but not because the actors are recently 18, but because their work visas expire today.

"Barely legal" because there's copyrighted music playing just shy of audible enough to understand in the background.

"Barely legal" because the editor only just now paid for the license for their editing software.

[suliigwp]

@tammyfortis commenting on... MY WOMAN

MY WOMAN

---Max Verstappen, Lando Norris , Carlos Sainz, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton

SULI: Hi thank you so much for requesting! The same gazz, short bit sweet! God he's so cute I love him so much

Warnings: Men.

It started with a canceled meeting.

A polite, clipped email. A changed schedule. No explanation.

She stared at her screen, rereading the words that didn’t say what they meant.

“Due to an internal realignment of panel priorities, we will be shifting today’s roundtable to a closed-door session. Thank you for your understanding.”

She hadn’t misread it. They were shutting her out.

She’d spent a week preparing—building arguments, threading together lines of thought, staying up too late fact-checking herself because she wanted to show up as more than just someone’s girlfriend. She was good at what she did. She deserved that seat.

And they took it from her.

The hotel suite was silent, the kind of silence that made your breath feel too loud. She sat back, laptop screen fading to a dim glow, and closed her eyes just as she heard the door click open.

Max was back.

He moved with that quiet restraint he only used when something was wrong—shoulders tense, jaw set, steps deliberate.

She turned her head as he walked in, setting his jacket down more carefully than necessary. He wasn’t saying anything. That was the first sign.

“You hungry?” she asked gently, watching him.

He shook his head. No eye contact. Just a low, “No.”

She frowned. “Did something happen?”

His back was to her now, hands gripping the edge of the dresser like he needed something to hold him still.

“I talked to someone,” he said finally.

She straightened. “About?”

He looked over his shoulder. And the look in his eyes—tight, muted, burning behind the quiet—made her stomach twist.

“They pulled you from the panel,” he said. “Said your background didn’t align with the ‘focus’ of the event.”

Her brows drew in. “That doesn’t even make sense. I literally—what else did they say?”

Max hesitated. His jaw ticked.

“They said your presence might distract from the ‘core messaging’—that there were concerns you’d make things uncomfortable. Too sharp. Too critical. And that your relationship with me would… complicate the optics.”

That was it. The moment her blood went cold.

“Are you serious?” she breathed.

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

“And what did you say?” she asked, standing now, voice tight.

He turned fully. Calm. Too calm.

“I said they should be ashamed. That if they were threatened by a woman who knew her facts better than they did, they didn’t deserve to be on a panel at all. I told them they were cowards hiding behind corporate jargon. I told them—”

“Max.” Her voice cut through his.

He stopped.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

His face didn’t change. “I wasn’t going to let them talk about you like that.”

“I could’ve fought back. I could’ve handled it—”

“You didn’t even know yet.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Her voice broke a little, frustrated. “It’s not about what you said—it’s that you didn’t even tell me. You handled it behind my back.”

Now he stepped forward. Not angry. Steady. Firm.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew it would hurt. And I didn’t want you sitting here thinking you weren’t good enough because some spineless men couldn’t handle your voice in the room.”

She stared at him, chest rising and falling.

“I don’t need you to defend me because I’m a woman,” she said. Her voice wasn’t cold—it was quiet. Bruised.

Max didn’t flinch.

“I’m not defending you because you’re a woman.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping low, warm like a slow flame.

“I’m doing it because you’re my woman.”

That silence between them grew thick. Tangled with emotion.

“You think I can stand in the paddock and watch them reduce you to a plus-one? Watch them act like you don’t belong? You think I’m going to stay quiet when they erase the hours you put in to be taken seriously?”

She didn’t know what to say.

Max’s voice softened even more. “I know you can fight your own battles. You’ve done it your whole life. But you shouldn’t have to. Not when I’m here. Not when it’s us.”

Something in her gave way. Not anger. Not surrender. Just the weight of it all, the exhaustion of always having to prove herself.

She stepped into him without another word, her forehead pressing into his chest. Max’s arms came around her instantly, anchoring her to something steady. Something safe.

He held her like she wasn’t a burden to carry. Like she was worth protecting. Like he saw her.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “I know.”

They stood there in the quiet, the sun fading outside the window.

And then he said, almost like a promise:

“Next time, we fight them together.”

[heartsiebyul]

Twisted Wonderland characters when their lover refuses to let them get up for school, clinging to them during a lazy morning in bed.

(Featuring: Ace, Deuce, Trey, Jade, Kalim, Vil, and Idia)

Ace Trappola

“C’mon, (m/n), seriously? You’re doing this again?”

You’re basically a human blanket right now, arms wrapped around him with zero intention of letting go. Your cheek is pressed to his chest and you groan out a sleepy, “Five more minutes…”

Ace sighs like he's the most patient person in the world, but the smirk on his face gives him away.

“You’re such a baby in the mornings,” he teases, but his voice is soft.

He flops back into bed, tossing his uniform shirt onto the floor like it betrayed him. “If we’re late, I’m blaming you. And maybe... kissing you more to make up for it.”

(You both roll into class about twenty minutes late.)

Deuce Spade

“(m/n), we really, really have to go!” Deuce pleads, trying to sit up.

You cling tighter, muffling a sleepy, “Noooo... you’re warm.”

He freezes. One more pleading whimper from you, and he folds like paper.

“Okay... okay. Just ten minutes. Ten.”

He holds you gently, stiff with guilt and blushing like mad, but not moving an inch.

Ten minutes turns into thirty, then an hour.

(You both run through the halls, half-dressed and late, avoiding Riddle at all cost.)

Trey Clover

Trey’s the responsible one—up early, shirt halfway buttoned, glasses on. Until your hand tugs him back into bed.

“Back already?” he chuckles, letting you bury your face in his chest.

“Your warmth is addictive,” you mumble.

“Dangerously so,” he murmurs, removing his glasses and settling in beside you.

He presses a slow kiss to your temple and rubs small circles into your back, letting the room stay quiet for a while.

(Trey calmly walks into class late, holding your hand, and gets scolded by Riddle.)

Jade Leech

You cling to Jade without a word, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

“You’re awfully attached this morning,” he remarks, voice teasing and amused.

“Just stay,” you whisper. “You’re too comfortable.”

Jade hums thoughtfully, his fingers lazily tracing your spine. “Very well. I’ll indulge you—for now.”

He doesn’t even try to move for the next hour. Your warmth and scent are too inviting.

(By the time he gets up, second period has already started and 20 missed call from Azul.)

Kalim Al-Asim

You latch onto him like a starfish, giggling softly as you mutter, “Let’s skip today and just cuddle.”

Kalim laughs, bright and sweet. “Best idea ever!”

He’s not even pretending to be responsible. He hugs you tighter and kicks the blankets up to make a pillow fort.

“Jamil might kill us,” you mumble.

“He’ll understand! I’ll bring him some cake later!”

(Jamil nearly explodes when he finds the two of you still tangled up under the covers at noon door.)

Vil Schoenheit

“(m/n), get up. Now. Beauty sleep is over.”

"Nooo, sleep please," you whined, dragging him back into bed.

Vil groans and tries to resist, but your pout is especially powerful today.

“Five minutes,” he says sharply, pulling the blanket over both of you. “No more.”

The five minutes stretch. He ends up brushing your hair back while murmuring about your poor sleep habits—but he still hasn’t gotten up.

(He ends up ten minutes late but looks perfect anyway.)

Idia Shroud

“W-Wait—w-we can’t—(m/n)—I—I have a dungeon raid—!”

You roll on top of him, wrapping your arms and legs around his body like a human blanket. “No games. Just stay.”

Idia’s hair flares pink. His tablet is shoved off the bed.

“O-Okay. Y-Yeah. Fine. This is fine. This is totally fine,” he whispers, too stunned to move.

He ends up whispering anime lines under his breath while your hand rubs slow circles on his back.

His auto-farm quests keep running in the background while you nap on top of him, and he quietly thinks this is the best morning of his life.

(Neither of you make it to class.)

[karaaeilish]

౨ৎ can’t be friends; b. eilish. . .

౨ৎ school bully!billie x fem!reader ౨ৎ fluff ` ⋆˙⟡ she fought for you

your gaze's fixed on the working oven, intently staring at the chocolate chip cookies you've suddenly decided to bake. the tv is quietly humming in the background, occasionally causing you to become distracted and watch the events happening on the other side of the screen without much interest. at some point you were so deep in thought that you didn't hear the doorbell ringing repeatedly, then turned in a dull thud, as if someone really wanted to see you.

you jump up, quickly walking to the door and opening it, just to see billie standing in front of you. her nose is broken, cheekbone is bruised, knuckles are covered in blood, running down her joints and eventually onto the floor of your porch. "oh god, what happened?"

taking her hand gently, you pull her into the house, slamming the wooden door shut with your foot. billie follows you silently, like a lost puppy, as you sit her down on the couch, running to the other side of the room to get the first aid kit. she just continues to stare at you, not saying a word.

"billie. what happened?" you look at her with genuine concern, your fingertips lifting her chin so your eyes meet, but she looks away, shied.

"asshole got what he deserved," she says quietly, and for the first few seconds you don't understand what she means until the realization hits you.

a few days ago, you turned down a popular guy when he publicly asked you out. the rejection earned you a painful slap, the mark still slightly etched on your cheek. you didn't know billie knew about it.

"don't tell me you fought with evan" you look at her sternly, though your whole body betrays the softness sitting in your heart.

billie looks at you from under her lashes, blue eyes devouring your heart over and over with each passing moment.

"he hit you" she thinks before continuing. "no one dares touch you"

you try to hide the blush on your cheeks, but the attempt fails, and you silently sit on her lap, bringing the cotton ball with peroxide to her cheekbone, gently blotting away the congealed blood. she winces slightly, but makes no sound. "you're doing great" you smile, and she can't help but drop her hands to your hips, pulling your body closer to hers. you suppress a sigh.

"why didn't you tell me he did it? you could’ve called, i swear i'd have killed him on the spot" her voice is annoyed, not because of you, but because some idiot dared to touch what's in her head that belongs to her.

"because i knew you'd do something like that" finishing with her face, you move to her hands, frowning when you notice how badly her knuckles are bruised. "you don't have to fight anyone over me"

she snorts, rolling her eyes dramatically. "first of all, i'll decide for myself what i should do" she says these words like she doesn't mean it. because you both know she'll say 'yes ma'am' as soon as you look at her with that look. "secondly, we didn't fight, i kicked his ass"

you giggle, knowing she's embellishing, but you decide to pretend you believe she's your prince charming.

the next few minutes are spent in silence, not including your quiet, synchronized breaths burning each other's faces. billie breaks the silence.

"can't you see how much i like you?" the question catches you off guard, causing you to look up again, meeting her eyes, moving down to her perfect, plump lips. "i've been trying my hardest to get your attention for the last few months! i skip my games for you, i pick stupid wildflowers for you, i do—"

you cut off her monologue, pressing your lips to hers in a soft, sensual kiss, and billie hesitates for a second, before wrapping her arms tightly around your waist, deepening the kiss, sliding her tongue into your mouth, exploring it with special passion. the only problem was the oxygen, which ran out quickly, forcing you to pull away from each other, foreheads now gently pressing together.

"i know you like me," you whisper, playing with the hairs on the back of her neck as she moves down to your jaw, leaving soft nips and gentle kisses. "being with you gonna ruin my reputation."

she pulls away with special enthusiasm, looking into your eyes, and you can see a tail wagging behind her.

"did you just say you'd be my girlfriend?"

"yes"

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts, @thebluediner

[elleaitch22]

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 12: Not for Show

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Azzi Jazlyn Fudd is the best person on the planet. She motivated me to write instead of go to the pool and tan. Please ignore any errors! As always, I hope you love it! xx Elle

Warnings: Emotional abuse, psychological abuse, manipulation, low self-worth, panic attacks

Word Count: 5.3k words

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

“Can you tell me what the dinner’s for?” Azzi questioned, knowing she’d be more confident and comfortable if she had a little background information.

Paige looked at her quickly. Azzi’s knee was bouncing anxiously. Paige reached, cupping her knee gently. Smiling when the movement stopped, she answered. “The Houser Foundation is having an appreciation dinner for their investors. Very lowkey, it’ll be like thirty people there. And they’re good people.”

“What does the foundation do?” Azzi’s eyes traced the veins beneath the pale skin.

“It’s a nonprofit. Takes in battered women and children, gives them a place to stay for however long they need, and they provide lawyers to them so they can get divorces, restraining orders, custody – anything they need.” Paige listed, stopping the car.

They were in front of Nobu, a restaurant Azzi had only seen on social media.

She grabbed Paige’s wrist before she could open her door. “I think it’s really great that you’re supporting a cause like that.”

The blonde’s cheeks tinted a little, a cute, closed-mouth smile appeared for a split second before both doors are opened. Paige hands her keys to the valet, walking around to Azzi to help her out of the car and guide her into the restaurant.

Azzi teetered on her heels as they got to the elevator. A deep sigh fell from her lips as she ran her hands over her hair.

“I don’t understand how you do this so much,” She breathed. “How do you make sure you keep it all together?”

Paige stepped closer to her, “I remember that none of these people matter. The only people I worry about impressing are the people in my family. They’ll love me whether I make small talk and close a deal or if I come home broke. You don’t owe these people anything. Just relax and go with the flow.”

Azzi stared into hypnotic blue eyes, listening to everything she said, ready to do whatever she’d asked.

“Remember the rules, Az. Ask me if you need help or a break. I won’t be mad.” Paige’s voice was firm, quiet but not commanding.

She couldn’t reply, not even a nod, before the elevator doors were opening.

The rooftop at Nobu was beautiful. In downtown Chicago, it had a perfect view of the expansive skyline, making it easy to feel like you were on top of the world.

The vibe was completely different than the one at the Children’s Hospital Gala, and Azzi was grateful. There weren’t fifty photographers scrambling to get a shot. There weren’t people standing around with champagne making small talk. The atmosphere was calm and warm. Instead of intricate centerpieces, there were small plants with a few candles on each table. Chairs were wicker sofas and arms chairs with soft cushions. There was a string quartet in the corner, deepening the intimate feel. There was no seating chart, no place cards, like everyone invited would like each other.

A breath Azzi was unaware she was holding was breathed out quietly.

Paige turned to her, smiling softly, “Not so bad, right?” Her hand was low on Azzi’s back, guiding her further into the space.

An older woman comes up, eyes happy to see Paige. “Hi, baby. I missed you.” She pulled her into a tight hug and dropped a loud kiss to her cheek.

“Katie,” Paige whined, wiping her cheek. “Katie, this is Azzi. Azzi, this is my stepmom, Katie Houser Bueckers.”

Azzi’s eyes widened a bit. She didn’t think she’d be meeting her blood relatives. “Houser, like the Houser Foundation?” Her brows furrowed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Azzi.” Katie giggled, lightly.

Azzi’s eyes dropped to the floor. Asking a question like that instead of replying to the introduction was so fucking rude. I should–

Before she could get too deep into her self-deprecating spiral, there was a light squeeze on the back of her neck.

Paige.

She was trying to reassure her, calm her down.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bueckers. It’s really nice to meet you.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the blonde. “Paige didn’t tell me it was her family’s foundation.”

Katie scoffed. “It’s not ours, it’s hers. She just didn’t want her name on it.” She paused. “Or run it, I guess. She left that to me.”

Azzi turned to the taller woman. She huffed quietly at the way Paige was avoiding eye contact.

“Well, I think we’re going to go find a seat somewhere.” Paige rushed out, already leading Azzi away from her stepmother.

“Don’t forget to let the photographer get a picture!” Katie called after them.

Paige looked a little like a kicked puppy, but Azzi hadn’t noticed.

Why wouldn’t Paige have told her she was going to be meeting her family tonight? Was she worried I’d panic? Was she ashamed?

“I – I’m gonna go find a restroom.” Azzi shot up from the table, not listening for a response.

Her steps were even and controlled.

She would not embarrass Paige more than she already had. She focused, looking for signage or a clue about where she could go to collect herself.

Bingo.

The bathrooms at Nobu were just as nice as the rest of the building. Azzi gripped the edge of the sink tightly, forcing her breaths to come calmly.

She couldn’t do this. She didn’t belong in this world, and soon, everyone would know just how much of a fraud she really was.

She was too busy spiraling to notice someone following her into the bathroom. She didn’t realize until the door was locked behind them.

Azzi froze.

“Azzi,” her name is breathed out quietly.

Not Grant. Azzi thinks to herself. She turned to Paige, eyes mistrusting. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your foundation? Why didn’t you give me a heads up about meeting your family?”

“I should’ve told you, I know. I had a plan to tell you this morning and let you grill me about them all day; thought that would make you more relaxed, but I forgot.” Paige’s hand went to the back of her neck nervously. “I was focused on the rules and completely blanked after that. That’s my fault. I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I just feel unprepared. Or like I’ll embarrass you in front of your family. They’re gonna see right through it, and everything will be ruined.”  The words came out quickly, breathing picking up.

“I know, and I’m so–”

“I need help.” Azzi said, palms starting to sweat.

Paige was behind her in a heartbeat. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to fuck it all up, and I’m scared.” Azzi whispered shakily.

“Azzi, you’re perfect.” She paused, “You’re not here to impress anyone, family or not. I just want you to be yourself. Azzi Fudd is more than enough exactly how she is.”

Paige’s hand wrapped around her waist, pulling Azzi into her chest. The blonde’s deep breaths pushed against Azzi’s back, a gentle reminded for her to slow her breathing.

“But your family– ” Azzi started.

“Will love you because I’m the happiest I’ve been in a while.” She cut her off, smiling gently.

Paige’s hands rubbed up her arms, landing on her shoulders.

“I don’t belong here.” Her voice still wavered, only a little now.

“You belong wherever I am.” Paige’s tone left no room for rebuttal. “Say it, Azzi.”

The brunette’s eyes widened, meeting the blue ones in the mirror.

“You belong here, Azzi. With me. Say it.” Paige urged. “Now.” The command was soft, but effective.

“I belong here.” Azzi breathed out.

A brown brow lifted in expectation.

“I belong wherever you are, Paige.”

A satisfied smile stretched across Paige’s lips. “Very good.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

I was right. Paige thought to herself, watching Azzi mingle with the other guests. People had gravitated to her like she was the sun. Katie had taken her under her wing, introducing her to everyone, while also providing some protection.

“You didn’t tell us you had a girlfriend, P.” A low voice came from behind her.

Her lips lifted in a smirk, “What’s up, Pops?” They embraced quickly before turning back to the two radiant women. “Stuff like this makes her anxious. I hadn’t gotten her permission yet.”

“Permission, huh?” His brows lifted. “So, it’s serious?”

Paige was quiet, she didn’t want to keep lying to her dad, but she didn’t want to look suspicious either. “I think it will be. The crew loves her. Soleil is obsessed with her.”

“And she’s good? Safe?” He questioned.

Paige was lucky to have a father who cared as much as he did, even though she was old and grown.

“She’s amazing, Pops. She’s kind and patient. I have never heard her yell. She’s smart. She’s just so good.”

Bob Bueckers was happy. In the 27 years Paige had been on the planet, he had never heard her talk about someone like that. “Well, that’s good. I hope she’s here to stay then.”

He walked away from his daughter, going to meet the girl who’d stolen her heart.

Paige waited for Azzi to be alone again before she made her way back over to her.

“How you doing, superstar?” She nudged her, gently.

Azzi’s face lit up, “I was wondering where you were. You left me all alone.”

“You looked comfortable, and I knew Katie wasn’t going to let anyone say or do anything to you.” She gently cupped one tanned cheek. “I’m proud of you. You’re going a great job.”

Azzi’s cheeks turned a nice shade of pink, and she looked so cute that Paige couldn’t help herself. A quick kiss was planted on her forehead.

“I need to go make a call really quickly. Will you be good here?” Paige asked, leaning back.

The brunette blinked hard. “I – Yeah, I’ll be good. I can finally eat.” She quickly sat down.

Paige walked to the backside of the terrace; the only place she’d be able to get some silence. She dialed the number quickly, breath coming out a little shaky.

“What’s good, Twin?” The faint Croatian accent in her words.

Paige sighed deeply, “I caught feelings, like real feelings.”

“I thought we already knew this,” Her pitch rose on the last word, almost like it was a question.

“No,” Paige groaned, running a hand down her face. “I knew that I wanted her. Like she’d be perfect to fuck, and that she’d be good for Soleil if she stuck around.”

The Croatian was silent, which wasn’t a good sign for Paige. “Pause. You thought that Azzi Fudd was going to be good for you to fuck and keep on the side?”

Paige rolled her eyes at the way she’d been thinking a week ago, “Aye bro, don’t blame me. I literally have never felt like this about a girl. Ever.”

“What makes her so special, P?” Nika challenges.

“What?”

Nika sighed, “If you can’t tell me what makes her special, you probably shouldn’t be going after her.”

Paige went silent, trying to compile her thoughts in a way that would make sense.

“Azzi’s like chocolate chip cookies.”

“Poetic,” Nika started, and Paige could hear the furrow in her brow. “Wanna explain that?”

Paige gave a slow smile, but didn’t look away from the glass. “She’s sweet. Warm. Familiar in a way that makes you want to breathe deeper, even though I haven’t known her that long. Comforting. Like, you don’t even realize how tense you are until she smiles at you.”

Nika stayed quiet now, letting her continue.

“It reminds me of times when Katie would have fresh cookies waiting for me when I got home from practice. It reminds me of being safe. Of being soft. That’s her. She’s sweetness with just enough edge to be interesting. Like the chocolate’s a little dark, the dough’s still warm in the center. You can’t just have one moment with her. You want more.”

Nika hummed into the receiver, not saying anything, but letting Paige know she was listening.

Paige swallowed roughly, “That’s what Azzi feels like. I don’t know how to hold that. I’m scared I’ll burn it. She’s still healing, maybe just starting. I don’t want to push her, make her feel like it’s forced.”

“Do you think staying in this fake thing is gonna help her?” Nika didn’t give her time to respond. “You’re probably confusing her more than anything; trying to figure out what’s real and fake seems exhausting. She will probably make herself think nothing’s real until you say it.”

“I don’t know what to do. How to make her see it’s real.” Paige muttered, the creases on her loafers becoming much more interesting.

A scoff came through her phone, “Stop pouting.”

“I –“

“I can hear it in your voice, Bueckers.” Nika sighed, “You’re giving her structure, and that’s good. But it’s a fake foundation. If you want to build something with her, something that will last, you have to be real with her. Stop hiding.”

Paige nodded, “Okay. Yeah, okay. I can do that.” She wanted to ask her sister to help her plan a date or something, but she’d already been gone for five minutes, and didn’t want to leave Azzi completely abandoned. “Thanks, Nik. I gotta go though. See you tomorrow?”

The brunette hung up and Paige made her way back to the dinner.

She spent the rest of the night mingling with other attendees with Azzi on her arm. Four different times, Paige was lectured about how amazing was and how she couldn’t let her slip away.

On the way home, Azzi’s cheeks were still pink, and her doe were bright with glee.

“I told you, you belong there.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi had a spread of breakfast pastries, fruit, sausage, and bacon laid out on her kitchen countertops. She was cursing herself for not thinking of having more than apple juice and oat milk when a knock sounded at the door.

Today, Ice, Jana, and KK were coming over to help her set up her apartment. Azzi couldn’t remember the last time she had friends come over, even if the girls were only coming to help her get set up. She may have gone overboard with all the food, but she wanted to make sure everyone had things they liked.

Azzi cleared the negative thoughts about herself from her head. It was number two on today’s list.

1. Set up apartment with the girls 2. Be kind to yourself 3. Lunch with P and S 4. Ten minutes outside (get sunlight) 5. Stay hydrated

It was her first day with a real list from Paige, but it didn’t seem too tough. She’d already completed four and five. She drank two glasses of water while she ran through a ten-minute stretch outside. Though the goals weren’t hard, Azzi was a little proud of her progress.

Another knock broke her out of her trance. She put the note back on the fridge and moved to the door.

“Hey y’all!” KK said, walking into the apartment like she owned it. She was empty-handed as she plucked a few pieces of sausage and a Danish from the spread.

Jana and Ice came in, each rolling a wagon full of paint and supplies. “Hey girl.” Ice started. “KK stop being a pig!” She rolled her eyes.

Azzi moved to take out one of the drop cloths to set up.

“Um, what are you doing?” Jana called from a bar stool.

Azzi blushed, “Oh, I was just gonna start setting everything up.”

KK’s sausage dropped back to her plate. “Girl boo. You better come eat with us.”

Azzi smiled softly, walking back to the kitchen. She hadn’t had friends to fuss over her in over five years.

She stood at the end of the counter, grabbing a few pieces of fruit here and there. She broke the ice by asking one of the most basic questions. “How’d you get into your work?”

Jana spoke first, excited to go first. “I used to draw these outfits on mannequins and send them to all these different companies.

“Oh! That’s really cool! Which company are you working for now?” Azzi questioned.

Giggles broke out among the girls, and Azzi was left looking around like she’d said something wrong. “Sorry, it’s just nobody gave me a chance, and these two heard all about it. Paige was invited to this awards ceremony though, and everyone wanted to dress her. She told them she wasn’t working with anybody who had declined my designs.”

“P. Boogers is the sweetest,” KK chimed in.

“Yeah, so the only group who hadn’t sent my stuff back was Kid Super. I’ve been working with him since that summer. And now, I can do my work from anywhere.” Jana reached to place her hand on Azzi’s, “Best decision ever.”

“And with me,” Ice said, moving to stand in front of KK, “I’ve always designed our space. I would make a sample board with a list of stuff we needed, Paige would get it, and everywhere we've lived has been gorgeous.”

“Wait, y’all all live together?” Azzi could have sworn everybody had their own space.

KK’s head popped out. “Nah, but me and Ice share penthouse 7. Nika and her boyfriend are in 4, and Jana is in 6. Ice did design all ours, so you’ll officially be in the family once yours is done.”

“She wasn’t even talking to you, KK.” Ice rolled her eyes. “When Paige bought Aurelia, she asked me to redesign everything before she opened it back up to the public. Now, anytime she has a client with Kairos, I get to design something as a part of their rebrand.”

Azzi nodded, filing the information away. She turned to KK expectantly.

“My story isn’t as cute as theirs. I got my bachelor’s in accounting and my MBA. After I graduated, I could get hired anywhere in town. So, Paige made me VP of the Houser Foundation so I wouldn’t have to move back home.”

Azzi looked at all three women, brows furrowed. “Did Paige tell you all to say things to make her look good?”

They all burst into laughter and launched into story times about how annoying Paige was. Apparently, she had a nasty pranking streak, and only one person had ever gotten her back.

“Amari hid in this big ass box and popped out when Paige came into the apartment. She screamed so loud the camera didn’t even pick it up!”

And even though they were telling ‘bad’ stories about Paige and each other, they were mainly just silly. Azzi could see how much they all loved each other, and how much they adored Paige.

“Paige is the grumpiest person in the morning, but every year during Ramadan, she wakes up at 4 a.m. to make sure I had suhoor before classes or workouts.”

The quartet talked about any and everything. They melted when they saw the room Azzi had set aside for Soleil’s afterschool/homeschool routine. They painted a giant sun on one wall and a sunset on the other. There was a small table with crayons, markers, colored pencils, and an assortment of glitter and glitter pens. A bookshelf lined the wall by the door, already full of some of the girl’s favorites. Bean bags laid on the floor, ready for Azzi to break them in.

It was such s nice room.

Soleil’s room was the only one in Azzi’s house that felt complete.

They painted and yapped until it was lunch time. Azzi had to go upstairs to Paige and Soleil, so the rest of the crew went home.

On the elevator ride to penthouse 8, Azzi smiled to herself. It was nice having friends again.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Maison Noire was quieter than usual — elegant as ever, but calmer in the way that suited conversation more than spectacle. Paige had reserved the same table they used for the gala pre-dinner. She did it on purpose, though she hadn’t yet told Azzi why.

Like the last time, Azzi was intentional about what she chose to wear. She needed to look alluring, like she could afford the be a guest there. She decided on a fitted satin dress. The red fabric draped across her figure, hinting at her shape without putting it on display for all to see. There was a slit that ended high on her leg. Her feet were encased in sky high golden stilettos, and she chuckled realizing she’d be taller than Paige. Gold hoops and a simple ‘A’ chain decorated her ears and throat nicely. Her hair was out tonight, leaving it down for the first time they’d come.

Azzi, meanwhile, was quiet. Not withdrawn, but waiting — bracing.

The waiter set down drinks. A sparkling elderflower lemonade for Azzi. Dirty Shirley for Paige.

"You didn’t order for me this time," Azzi said softly.

Paige smiled. "Figured you’d want to choose."

Azzi looked down at the table. “You’ve been… different.”

Paige studied her. “Different how?”

“Softer. More real. I don’t know what tonight’s about, but…” Her throat tightened. “You’re scaring me.”

Before Paige could respond, Azzi’s phone buzzed on the table. 703 area code.

“You can ignore it,” Paige said gently.

Azzi stared at the screen. “It’s a Virginia area might be my family.”

She answered.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then:

“Took you long enough, sweetheart.”

Azzi’s entire body stilled.

“You playing house with your new sugar momma? You look like a whore in that dress.”

Her shoulders curled inward. Paige’s eyes sharpened, locked on her.

“Tell me. Does she know yet? Does she know what a filthy, needy little thing you really are?”

Azzi’s hand and lip trembled. Paige reached out and took the phone, slowly but without hesitation.

She pressed it to her ear. Didn't say a word.

Grant kept talking.

“She’ll figure it out, you know. Just like I did. You’ll fuck it up. She’ll get tired of fixing you, and when she leaves, you can come crawling back. That’s all you are, Azzi. A project. You don't get love. You don’t deserve it. You get pity.”

Paige stood. Her face was neutral. Cold. Dead calm.

She walked a few feet away from the table and let the words sit between her and the phone before she spoke. Then, she spoke.

“If you ever call her again, I will fucking bury you.” Tone deadly.

There was a pause.

“Not with a lawsuit. Not with an interview with a magazine. I will break you piece by piece. I will buy your debt, your name, your silence. I will make sure you owe me the rest of your life.”

“You think you’re smart, Grant? I’m smarter. I don’t need to find you — I already did.”

“If you ever touch her again, even with your voice, I will destroy every part of your miserable existence. And when that’s done, I’ll make sure the world forgets you ever existed.”

“She’s not afraid of you anymore. But you should be afraid of me.”

She ended the call.

Azzi sat frozen, her chest rising and falling like she couldn’t get enough air. Paige returned to the table and placed the phone face-down between them.

Azzi looked at her, wide-eyed. “You’re scary when you’re mad.”

Paige knelt beside her seat, voice low. “Never at you.”

Azzi’s jaw trembled. “I — I’m sorry — he just — he always knows what to say to ruin me. He’s right. I’m broken. I make things worse. You’re gonna get tired of me too.”

Paige reached up and cupped her cheek, firm and grounding.

“Don’t do that.” Warm hands brushed across Azzi’s cheeks. ”He’s not right about anything. You are not what he did to you. You are not too much. You are not broken.”

Azzi was unraveling fast, her breath stuttering now, panic close behind.

“Come with me,” Paige said.

She stood, helping Azzi up, and led her to the dim hallway Room 35. She pulled her gently into the room and in front of the mirror. Paige stood behind Azzi as she turned her to face their reflection.

“Look.”

Azzi couldn’t. Her eyes dropped.

“Azzi.” Paige’s voice left no room for retreat.

Azzi lifted her head, tears brimming.

“Say what I say,” Paige instructed. “Out loud.”

Azzi hesitated.

Paige slid a hand to the back of her neck, thumb at the base of her skull. A soft, grounding hold.

“I am not what he did to me.”

Azzi whispered it. “I am not what he did to me.”

“Again.”

“I am not what he did to me.”

“I am perfect the way I am.”

“I am perfect the way I am.”

“I am safe.”

“I am safe.”

“I am known.”

“I am known.”

“I am seen.”

“I am seen”

“I am needed.”

“I am needed.”

“I am appreciated.”

“I am appreciated.”

“I am loved.”

“I… am loved.”

“I am wanted.”

Azzi hesitated.

Paige pressed closer, voice right behind her.

“You are wanted. By me. Every version of you.”

Azzi’s lip trembled. She said it.

“I am wanted.”

She said it again.

And again.

Until her voice didn’t shake.

Until it sounded like a truth she could hold.

Paige rested her forehead against Azzi’s temple. “That’s my girl.”

They stood like that for a moment — two women, one reflection, and no ghosts in the glass.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The elevator ride back to the Aurelia was quiet. Not strained, just full. Every breath, every glance carried the weight of everything that wasn’t said in that private room. Paige stood beside Azzi, one hand loosely holding her coat, the other occasionally brushing her pinky against Azzi’s.

Azzi leaned into the wall, eyelids heavy but not from sleep. Emotion had drained her. She was still processing Paige’s rage, her protection, her voice in the hallway like a blade held at someone else’s throat.

And then the softness after. The hand at her neck. The affirmations she wasn’t sure she believed but wanted to.

The elevator dinged, opening to Azzi’s floor.

Paige didn’t rush. She walked Azzi to her apartment in silence, pausing in front of the yellow-painted door.

Azzi turned, looking at Paige with cautious eyes. "Thank you... for what you said. For everything."

“I meant all of it,” Paige replied.

The hallway was still. The lighting low and warm. And suddenly, Paige looked nervous.

“I have to tell you something, but you have to hear me out. You can’t spiral until I’m done.”

Azzi blinked. “Okay...?”

“I asked you to come because I need to end our arrangement.”

Azzi flinched, just barely, but Paige saw it. “Wait —” Azzi’s voice cracked. “Is this because of tonight? Because I panicked?”

“No.” Paige shook her head. “No, you’re perfect. It’s because I want more.”

Azzi’s breath caught.

“I don’t want you in my life because I made a deal with you. I want you because I miss you when you’re not around. Because Soleil lights up around you. Because you make my whole day softer and brighter without trying to. Because when you’re hurting, I want to be the one who helps you put the pieces back together.”

Paige took a small step closer.

“I don’t want to be your safety net. I want to be your person.”

Azzi opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Her fingers fidgeted at her side. She looked dazed, like she was trying to breathe underwater.

Paige continued gently.

“I’m not asking for anything tonight. I just want to take you out. On a real date. No rules, no expectations. Just you, me, and something you don’t have to earn.”

Azzi’s eyes burned. “What would we do?”

Paige smiled, nervous but proud. “You’ll see. But it’s casual. Comfortable. Something that feels like us. Something I think you’ll like.”

There was a pause. Azzi looked down at the doorknob, then back at Paige.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I think I’d like that.”

Paige reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Get some rest, Az.”

Azzi nodded and turned to unlock her door. Before stepping inside, she looked back over her shoulder.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. It’s not an arrangement anymore.”  Paige paused, “It’s a beginning.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Journal Entry – September 18

I don’t really know how to explain tonight. I feel like I’m still floating inside my skin, like my body and mind haven’t caught up to each other.

We went back to Maison Noire. The place where everything started. The place I told myself to play a part. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like a character trying to earn her way into the room. I felt like myself. I was still nervous (terrified really) but not of messing up. I was scared because Paige matters to me. Too much.

And then Grant called.

His voice hasn’t changed. Still lazy. Still smug. Still poison wrapped in silk. It didn’t matter that I was dressed up or that I’ve been safe for two years. One word and I folded in on myself like I was still that girl he trained to flinch. The shame came back so fast I didn’t even realize I’d stopped breathing.

Paige took the phone from me. Just reached over and took it. I thought she was going to end the call or maybe say something cold and clipped. I didn’t expect what I heard.

She didn’t just defend me.

She destroyed him.

It wasn’t just anger. It was fury. Rage. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. It was calm, controlled, and terrifying. But she wasn’t scary to me. She was scary for me. Like a sword that only turns in one direction.

No one’s ever done that for me before. Not without strings.

She came back to the table, and I told her she was scary when she’s mad. But what I meant was I’ve never felt more protected. And I didn’t know that could be… gentle, too.

Of course I spiraled. I told her the worst things; all the fears I’ve been hoarding like some cruel little collection:

You’ll get tired of me.

I’m too broken.

I make things worse.

I’ll never be normal.

And she didn’t argue. She didn’t try to fix it or fight me on it. She just led me to the mirror and asked me to look.

She said, “Say what I say.”

I wanted to run.

But I stayed.

She made me say:

I am not what he did to me.

I am perfect the way I am.

I am safe.

I am known.

I am seen.

I am needed.

I am appreciated.

I am loved.

I am wanted.

The last one broke something open. Because I do want to be wanted. Not as a project. Not because someone feels bad for me. Not as a thing to save. Just… as me.

And Paige looked at me like I am.

When she told me she wants to end the arrangement, I thought for a second she was going to say I wasn’t worth the effort anymore. That she wanted out.

But she looked right at me and said she wants more. She wants me. (!!!!!!!)

It would’ve been so easy to back away. But I didn’t.

I said yes.

I said yes because I want her, too.

And because when she looks at me, I don’t feel like a liability.

I feel seen.

I’m still scared. I still don’t know what this means. I still think I’ll mess up.

But tonight, for the first time, I didn’t feel broken.

I felt real.

And I think that’s worth holding onto.

~ Azzi

[robotsandramblings]

i think, of all the master & apprentice duos in star wars, that Kanan Jarrus & Ezra Bridger are my favourite 💚🧡

[tanadrin]

i think one of the most interesting things about generative ai is not just that it was a pretty unexpected thing--seems like very few people were sitting around ten years ago imagining we would have this technology in 2025--but that i think it is also pretty difficult for people who aren't well versed in the technical background to trace how we got here from there, you know? like when the internet became a big thing, i think if you were familiar with the concept of the telephone or even just one computer networked to another somewhere else you could grok the fundamental concept: it's just a bunch of electronic machines connected to a bunch of other electronic machines; it's an extremely cool piece of engineering, but packet-switching is not (at least at the nontechnical level) that conceptually different from a telephone exchange.

and you could extend this backward pretty far. electronic computers from mechanical ones; the telephone from the telegraph. likewise future developments that emerged from the internet: smart phones are not to conceptually different from computers and radios, they just ("just") are very sophisticated devices that use new versions of those older technologies. and a lot of technology is like that. if you understand a cannon you can understand the basic principle of the space shuttle.

gen ai seems... not like that? that kind of, i guess, statistical approach to problems in computer science wasn't invented in the 2010s, i gather it's a lot older, but it was mostly a niche research topic, i think? and there were some nifty demos of still pretty crude versions of stuff like deep dream, but it's not like we'd had twenty years of this kind of stuff being part of the wider milieu of technology in everyday use before gen ai started getting good. it's weird! it wasn't an accident, people had been working on this stuff for a while. but in some ways it feels like the discovery of antibiotics, one of those medical breakthroughs that happens just as kind of an a priori discovery of something useful out in the world.

and because computers are already omnipresent in our lives, unlike a medical breakthrough, it's suddenly everywhere. and yeah often it's used or promoted in ways that are pretty obnoxious, but even still, no wonder it provokes feelings of dislocation and anxiety. technologies which emerged much more gradually into society have provoked just as much unease. and the idea that it might keep getting more useful, as much more useful as computers have gotten over the last, say, 25 years--that's just hard to fathom from any angle. i think it's as hard to estimate what kind of social impact that would have as it would have been to anticipate all the social impacts of the internet back in the 1980s.

and it kind of seems a pity to me that the three camps in the discourse right now generally seem to be "ai is useless and stupid and a fad and a scam", "ai will destroy the human race", and "ai will usher in a post-scarcity utopia," because the possibility that ai is neither a complete mirage nor the end of human civilization as we currently understand it is much more interesting. and much harder to speculate about.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

This is a weird question and im really sorry if im overstepping, so if i am just say and I'll shut up. I was scrolling through your blog for fashion inspo and I noticed you said in one post you're Cuban American. I notice a ton of Cuban Americans online consider themselves white, and admittedly a lot of Cuban Americans do look white, including pitbull my beloved, but im a British turk, a lot of turks do also look white (myself included) and we don't consider ourselves white outside of turkey (my mum is light brown and lived her entire 30 something years in Turkey believing she was white and had an extremely rude awakening in london). Are race and whiteness just very different in Cuba and the United States? Ive been to America as a toddler once, and unfortunately never been to cuba or anywhere in Latin America, so I have no idea what your cultures are like beyond what I see on tv

Hello! For background, I am 2nd generation American on the Cuban side. My dad was an anchor baby.

Ethnicity and race are different concepts in America, but they tend to only be applied to Hispanic/Latin American people -- it's obvious in the checkboxes on our official forms. It's also very important to understand that this ethnicity is not immune to internal and external white supremacy.

I cannot say firsthand how whiteness is perceived in Cuba itself -- my dad always went solo on his trips to the island.

I consider myself white, even though the Cuban side was fairly brown until 3 generations ago. The family has strong ties to Spain, which is why many of us in my family tree ended up with reddish hair and green eyes.

I am a white man who fortunately grew up with close connections to his culture, which is why it is important for me to call myself Hispanic. I grew up with the language in the house, with the food, the celebrations, the multi-gen household, the religious side, the fraught relationship to machismo, etc. I have distinct cultural earmarks I can point to wrt my upbringing, unlike a lot of white Americans who have homogenized so much, their own culture is mainly football and shopping.

But, my Cuban side also includes a lot of assimilation into American white supremacy, which carries both shame and a sense of diaspora. Cubans in America tend to run conservative, which feels traitorous to me, given the current plight of black and brown Hispanics/Latin Americans.

I'm of a generation that lost their Spanish in the name of assimilation. I still can't forgive my parents, both fluent speakers, for stopping to teach my sister and I Spanish. But to be fair, the schools threatened to hold us back a year if we were to be bilingual.

I move through this world as a white man. My ethnicity is mainly considered in the context of medical risk (explains my heart disease coming in young). Because a woman carried the Cuban name, I am no longer a Suarez. I have a faux German last name (more assimilation, from the other side of the family) and am treated differently for it.

There are more educated people than I on this subject, but whiteness in America only has to do partly with skin tone. Whiteness is also about a certain type of "desireable," which is why Jews, the Irish, and Italians, to name a few, have all had periods in history where they were not "white," despite their complexion. And I try to remember this lesson and hope other white Hispanics/Latin Americans realize that our whiteness is purely conditional and can be taken away at a whim. Which makes it all the more important to support our brethren of color.

[joeldarling]

The View Between Villages (Part I) - Oldman!Joel x F!reader

Summary: Based on a request I lost, you are immune and Oldman!Joel saves you.

Warnings: Glasses!Joel mentioned, no reader description at all, no smut on this part but there'll be on the next one, a bit of angst and slowburn, stubborn!reader x caring!Joel, Abby doesn't exist here. Mentions of violence but nothing graphic. Joel just want to fix things and make reader happy.

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: Anon, I lost your request and I know that wasn't what you asked but I promise I will make something else, I just wanted to say I got REALLY inspired and it turned out something totally different, your idea was amazing and IT WILL BE SOLID ON MY NEXT WRITING! English it’s not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any typos. I enjoyed so much this one and the next part will be out in two days with the smut! I just felt like writing some angst background was necessary. You can find more oldman!Joel in my masterlist as well. Feedbacks are utterly appreciated and my requests are always open. 💌

When you arrived in Jackson on a hurried, blood-covered night, carried by a stranger and utterly terrified, you never imagined the community could feel so familiar, so much like home, as if the end of the world wasn't a primary concern. Here, people arrived from all corners, given the chance to reinvent themselves.

And you did the same, leaving your old life behind and deciding that your new beginning wouldn't depend on anyone's help. You were born to be alone, and you were—and always would be—a lone wolf. That no longer bothered you as it did when you were younger and less experienced, almost a burden to those who carried you like unwanted baggage. You had sworn to yourself that you'd never count on anyone again, a vow made the moment an exorbitant number of clickers had chased your last group, decimating all of them except for you, for a peculiar reason.

You were immune—and of course, you had climbed the highest tree you could find and hidden for two entire nights, unsure if you would survive.

You'd always known you were different. As a child, you were left almost dead by a group of revolutionaries after being bitten, but two weeks later, you were still alive, hungry and alone. The wound seemed to heal at a snail's pace, but it didn't kill you. That seemed like a secret to keep, especially with radical scientists looking for a cure. And when one of them finally captured you, you thought it was the end of the line, thinking that maybe what you deserved after tricking death so many times.

Joel Miller was a skeptical man, but few knew the violence that had led him to be so gentle.

Tommy and him had been investigating the same group that had taken Ellie years ago. Even with the significant loss of that damned doctor that Joel had killed, the doctor who was willing to sacrifice a child for a cure he clearly couldn't provide, they hadn't rested. They continued searching for those immune to Cordyceps. When they discovered a part of the group's hideout, Joel was the first to question whether they were holding hostages—people who had a chance to survive and live full mediocre lives—for an almost impossible greater purpose.

It was obvious Tommy didn't approve of his decision. But Joel wanted to understand Ellie; he wanted her to live in a world where, if someone else like her existed, she might feel a little better within Jackson's fragile walls.

Perhaps then, she could forgive him.

He embarked on a journey alone in the middle of the night, giving the excuse that he had swapped his patrol shift with some young boy he couldn't even pronounce the name correctly. He rode all night until dawn when he reached what appeared to be an abandoned hospital, experiencing the same flashbacks of years earlier when his heart raced at the possibility of losing his daughter—again.

Because Ellie was his daughter; he couldn't deny it. Not to himself, not after so much effort and sacrifice had been made to ensure she was breathing safely miles away.

Joel heard loud screams, which sounded like a woman, a desperate one, and didn't hesitate to enter the location with his gun ready to kill whoever was necessary. The place was empty somehow, with only a female figure chained to a gurney, wearing little more than a hospital gown, though it seemed she still had on her underwear. She was scared, appeared injured, and still had two IV access points in her arms.

"Ain't here to hurt ya," he said, his accent echoing strong and gravelly. Despite being almost sixty, Joel was still in good shape, except perhaps for the prominent belly from all the beer he used to drink at Tipsy Bison with Tommy almost every night, and the knee pain he always ignored until he had to take a day or two off patrol to recover. "M'gonna take those access out of ya' and then I will give you m' jacket, okay?"

He slowly described everything he was doing to keep you from screaming, but your eyes were pure panic, as if you were completely dissociating, a way to make everything less painful. And well, the doctor and nurses weren't gentle at all; your arms would certainly be all bruised later if you made it out alive, and the wound around your waist had been roughly shaved so they could examine it. Gods, they didn't even have the right equipment for it. You screamed, begged for them to stop.

It was useless.

But as Joel tried, you nodded. It would be better to die by a bullet than slowly from pseudoscientific experiments.

Joel carefully removed the access points, adjusting the dirty piece of cotton as best he could to prevent any bleeding. Once he got you sitting on the gurney, he took off his own jacket and put it on you. It would be a long ride to Jackson, and you two hadn't much time before they returned. Joel had promised himself he wouldn't kill anyone unnecessarily, knowing how much Ellie would disapprove if she found out. He was tired of being a monster, but he wouldn't leave you to die to the whims of chance or fate.

You didn't say anything, no sound emitted except for a few moans of pain when your bare feet hit the cold, dirty floor. Joel agilely lifted your body and, even with his back aching, carried you with surprising gentleness to the back exit where his horse was tied. Getting onto the animal was a little difficult, but when he managed to adjust your body in front of his, trying as much as possible to keep your body warm in a respectful way, he didn't hesitate to move as fast as he could. Even during the small, breathless pause he took in the middle of the dark and silent woods, you refused the food he offered, not out of fear, but because you felt the horse's swaying would make you vomit at any moment, still groggy from the excessive amount of medicine they got you. Joel remained silent, his expression worried. He had briefly seen the wound that should prove your immunity when he put you on the horse, your body still trembling, but he said nothing. It was none of his business anyway.

You certainly didn't remember when you had fallen asleep, but when you did, you only woke to the sound of metal creaking and distant shouts. A group seemed to be on standby in case they needed to go looking for Joel, but they began to disperse when they saw the old man riding back to the gates, almost two days later, given his figure, holding a young woman in his arms, especially as she clung with all the firmness she could to his thick plaid flannel, which wasn't much, completely weak and hurt.

From that, you were taken to a doctor, received proper care and a new chance, without ever crossing paths with the man to whom you owed your life out of pure stubbornness.

He seemed hesitant whenever he saw you, always about to say something but never doing it. You gave no opening, afraid he would tell others about your secret or feel too intimate to be a regular part of your life.

However, Ellie Williams, or whatever her name was, seemed willing to break down all your walls effortlessly. She struck up conversations during lunch and all other meals, invaded your space, offered to walk you home even if she filled the silence the whole time with chatter and you couldn't even pay attention. It was more like she wanted to be listened to, and later you discovered that she was Joel's adopted daughter. He saved her just as he saved you.

It was one afternoon while she was skipping beside you that Ellie revealed Joel had told her about your immunity — you froze. It wasn't his secret to share. You opened your mouth and closed it, still unsure what to say to a teenager who genuinely seemed to want your friendship. You didn't want to hurt her feelings, but the anger was boiling your blood.

"I am like... this. No one knows it, of course, it's still dangerous even here but... Joel told me the day you guys arrived and made me promise I wouldn't act weird." Her voice was low, as if the two of you were sharing a secret, and in fact, you were. "I thought I was a monster but... You don't look like one. That just means I'm not alone."

A knot formed in your throat as you continued walking, your gaze fixed on your own feet. The wound, a constant reminder of your past, seemed to sting a thousand times more now, burning with shame. It was painfully clear that a girl like her, Ellie, was just lonely. And though you were still frustrated with Joel, you started to understand his perspective. It wasn't his fault, or yours, or hers. You simply didn't know how to handle it.

"I don't like talking about it." You cut the conversation short, something you'd never done before. Ellie looked upset, clearly taken aback by your sudden shift, but you didn't care. You'd reached your house anyway. Slowly, you climbed the steps, crossing your arms, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You stepped inside and slammed the door shut, unable to shake the annoyance. All of this felt like a curse, and honestly, you didn't care about a cure. Not when, after all these years, it clearly wasn't going to work. You were alone, and there was no reason for you to sacrifice yourself for anyone. Selfish tears streamed down your face as your body collapsed onto the sofa. You didn't even notice the fireplace was lit, as if someone had been there, not until you read the note left in rough letters on stained paper on the wooden coffee table.

"Figured ya'd could get cold. The house needs some fixing, let me know when you're available. — J" 

You weren't alone; all those people wanted to help you. Still, the only thing you felt was rage, having spent so long surviving on your own that any display of affection felt like the end of the world. You didn't feel worthy; you felt dirty.

But you weren't the only one. You weren't a freak of nature. You could handle this.

You should.

You fell asleep right there, and when you woke, sunlight had already faded, giving way to the stars and the full moon, another cold night. You searched for Joel’s jacket, the only one you owned, and put it on, deciding to head outside. The clock read nine o'clock; dinner had barely begun.

The leather still carried his scent. You hadn't mustered enough courage to return it, and it was warm, lined inside, preventing the dampness from reaching your other layers of clothing. For the first few days in your new home, you even wore it to sleep, not because you were cold, but because it felt familiar, something you couldn't recall feeling throughout your entire life.

As you walked toward the community hall, shrinking further into the jacket, your mind drifted far away. You knew you should apologize to Ellie; after all, you were the adult, and despite everything, she deserved answers too. You understood more than anyone how lonely Jackson could be. Maybe if you found her there, you could tell her how sorry you were and start again.

Your dissociative state, however, shattered when your body collided with another, sending you sprawling to the ground, your tailbone protesting with a loud crack from the sheer lack of exercise.

“Jeez’, doll!” You'd recognize that voice even with your eyes closed, but staring at his worn and heavy boots was enough to confirm it was Joel offering his large, calloused hand to help you up, a worried look on his face. He was wearing another thick, dark jacket, a scarf, and his glasses seemed fogged by the cold. His curly, graying hair was slicked back as if he'd just stepped out of the shower. “Didn’t saw ya’, my bad. Was lookin’ for ya’ the other day and…” 

His eyes lingered on your body as you stood, brushing dirt from the jacket. Joel would never admit how much his chest swelled with satisfaction seeing you still wearing his jacket. It was certainly too big, but even so, it looked better on you. His gaze softened on your rosy lips, on features he found so beautiful he almost forgot the years that separated you. You were certainly in your mid-twenties or so, but he was still sixty and could be your grandfather.

"I…" You started, trying to form a sentence, but since you'd arrived in town, you hadn't exchanged a single coherent phrase with him, stunned and scared. Joel seemed to understand. "Thank you, Joel. For everything."

That's what escaped your lips, and he nodded, the phrase heavy with meaning dissolving the earlier anger. Because above all, you understood he was just an old man who wanted the best for his daughter, who wanted to understand her world, and yet, he was generous enough for that to involve saving strangers in hospitals and risking his own life during the process.

"Ya' don't have to thank me," he mumbled back, realizing he was still holding your hand and making no move to let go. "Hope I didn't burn your house down with the fire today."

"No, you did not," you replied, pulling your hand from his and burying it in the jacket's pockets, feeling your cheeks burn with a shyness you didn't know still existed deep inside you.

Joel cleared his throat, sounding as awkward as you felt, but instead of moving on, just as he was about to take a step away, he looked at you again.

"Ellie told me ya' got a bit upset today. It was my fault, not hers. She likes you a lot. Don't be mad at her," Joel confessed, sounding somehow emotional. "It was the first time she really talked with me in months… When I rescued you, I told her the reason but… Today was the first time she…"

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't know she wasn't talking with you." You were sincere. "I was going to apologize to her. Maybe we could walk together? I… suppose you're heading to dinner?"

You stumbled over the words slowly, captivating Joel's attention with every second without even realizing it. He wasn't going to dinner, no. It was rare for Joel to have dinner; he usually spent his nights at the Tipsy Bison and ate whatever he found at home afterward since he hated all the chatter in the community hall and all the lines, the stress of choosing a group to interact with due to the lack of individual tables… Well, he was kinda a lone wolf too.

"Yes, sure," he grunted. It was funny how Joel's grumpy demeanor extended to everyone but you. How he seemed to ignore all the waves, especially from all the middle-aged women, as he walked silently beside you, hands in his pockets, toward the community hall.

Before you could even step inside, voices were already audible and you flinched. Joel seemed to notice, looking at you with a raised brow. You certainly hated the stares you attracted; it wasn't as if you'd arrived in Jackson as a refugee or anything. Joel had gone out on his own and returned with you, and whatever his reasons were, clear to you, they certainly weren't—and shouldn't be—to the rest of the community.

"I have sum' stuff at home I could cook for us. I know how… suffocating it can be," he offered gently, as gentle as his husky voice allowed, which sent shivers through your entire body. You knew you shouldn't accept, knew you should continue your life as alone as possible because you viewed all attachments as weaknesses.

That's what they had taught you your whole life. But here… here, affection was present in absolutely everything, and it made you long for something you couldn't have.

Even so.

"That would be nice…" You agreed, sighing in relief. The great food wouldn't compensate for the small talk that churned your stomach, all the filtered parts of your past during a thirty or forty-minute period.

You both began walking in the opposite direction. Joel had a long stride but seemed to make an effort not to let anxiety consume him, adjusting his pace to match yours.

"I saved ya' that day because I was looking for someone like Ellie. Maybe a child or a young man but… that wasn't… just fate. These damn so-called-doctors are stalking people down and treating them like a fuckin' experiment." He sounded almost angry, and you wondered if that's how his and Ellie's lives had crossed.

"I never stepped in to say thank you properly," you began, feeling utterly embarrassed. "I was alone since my last group left me to die, and I… Well, these people you rescued me from, whatever they are called, found and knocked me down. The last thing I remember was being tied and having my bruise scalped and…" Tears threatened to fall from your eyes, the air suddenly thin, and you couldn't finish your sentence, clearing your throat and looking up at the starry sky.

You rarely saw stars in the dense forest; they seemed almost a miracle, a gift.

"I just want you to know that I was alone my entire life, and it's hard for me to let people help… That doesn't mean I'm not immensely grateful for what you did for me. You saved my life, and I owe you forever." You said, your voice still thick with emotion.

"You owe me nothing, darlin', just be happy, and I'll be satisfied." He seemed sincere. Joel was difficult to decipher.

You walked for a bit longer before he pointed to his own house with his right hand. He lived at the end of the street, with a rather beautiful view of the surrounding fields and mountains. When he opened the door and let you in, it felt much more like a home than yours. The furniture was of the same worn standard, but picture frames were scattered about with the few photographs he had: an unknown girl in a purple shirt, placed directly above the fireplace in a photo where he was smiling and looked years younger, even before everything happened. A photo of Ellie and another one of Tommy beside a younger Joel. They weren't many things, but they felt personal.

The sofa held a beige blanket, and the fire in the fireplace was almost dead. He attentively switched on the lights and gestured for you to make yourself at home.

Joel wasn't good at small talk but neither were you and the silence felt comfortable. You settled into one of the chairs around the not-too-large table, entertained by what looked like a cube full of colors that never seemed to align correctly.

You hadn't seen much of the world, never even had the opportunity as you were born after everything had fallen apart. Deep down, you held onto the belief that you couldn't miss something you'd never experienced. Still, you knew life was about more than just surviving, eating rabbits, and leaving a trail of blood wherever you went.

"It's called a 'magic cube,' you have to match the colors right," Joel said, his tone almost playful, as he put pasta into a pot of water and searched for other ingredients to make what was presumably a sauce. "I never solved it; it's quite impossible."

"Indeed it is," you agreed, examining it with curiosity, trying to find a solution.

"How old are you?" he asked, using another pot and pouring ingredients into it.

"Twenty-four. I'll be twenty-five next spring. I just don't know the day, so I just assume it's the first one after that." You answered, still too focused on the cube, but deciding to put it aside the moment you realized it truly seemed to have no solution, letting out a single laugh to yourself. “It’s funny.” 

“You can take them. Ellie has plenty of those. She lives in the garage.” He explained, seeming hopeful that maybe his relationship with his daughter could improve.

Joel continued to unravel the mysteries in his own kitchen and you started to feel slightly useless just standing there. Rising from that feeling, you moved to the sink, beginning to wash whatever he dirtied and set aside for more than three seconds. It was almost like a silent connection. You both seemed to function well, your bodies nearly touching, sharing the small space in synchrony with the warmth you both emanated.

You knew Joel was a broken man, and like you, he carried demons he'd never dared to face. Perhaps, that was the most beautiful part of him.

When everything was ready, and he set the food on the table, along with the plates and glasses filled with cold water, you moved towards your chair, bumping into him for the second time that night. This one, however, instead of letting you collide, Joel caught your waist, and your faces were forced to meet. His breathing seemed labored, and his strong arms were exposed by his moss-green t-shirt, having shed his outer layers minutes before for better mobility.

"Watch out, beautiful," was the only thing he said, making no move to release your waist, his touch deepening, as did the tension between you. He looked at you almost as if he were starving, and the confusion in your eyes didn't seem to be an impediment, because deep down, you felt the same thing. 

Joel finally looked into your eyes, and all you knew was that the entire world had fallen silent, as if it were waiting for something.

[sizzlingstarlightsky]

Anchor In The Storm

Bucky x Reader

Summary: You felt it in your bones, a deep, bone-tired ache. You're used to migraines, but Bucky isn't one to let you suffer alone. [hurt/comfort]

Word count: 1127

Warnings: migraine induced nausea/ vomiting

As you closed the door to your room, the soft click echoing down the hallway, you felt a heaviness settle over you. Leaning back against the wood, you craved the sweet oblivion of sleep, but you knew it would be a while before your mind would let you go.

Thump

Thump

Thump

Your skull was a grenade, pin lost in the oblivion. Awaiting the inevitable.

The door creaked open. "You okay?" Bucky's voice was a gentle rumble. You forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Yeah, just a bit... off."

He stepped inside, eyes searching your face. "Looks like more than 'a bit'. What's going on?"

You sighed, admitting defeat. "Cluster migraine. I can feel it coming in like a storm."

Bucky's gaze softened. He'd seen you in pain before, but this was different. The understanding in his eyes told you he knew the monster you were about to face all too well. "Let me help," he offered, and there was no hesitation in your nod.

He moved closer, his steps careful not to disturb the precarious balance of light and sound in the room. You watched as he pulled the shades, plunging the space into a soothing darkness. A sudden relief washed over you like a cool breeze.

"I've got a few tricks," he said, his voice low and comforting. "Things I've learned in my time. Techniques that helped me when my head fells like it was being crushed."

You nodded, willing to try anything to escape the pain's relentless grip. Bucky disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a damp washcloth. He approached the bed and gently placed it over your eyes, the cold fabric sending a shiver down your spine. The pressure was just enough to ease the tension without being overwhelming.

"It's going to get worse before it gets better," he warned, his voice a gentle caress in the quiet room. You felt his hand brush against your forehead, checking for fever. "But I'll be here. We'll get through it."

The mattress dipped slightly as Bucky sat beside you, his presence a comfort you hadn't realized you needed. He began to gently massage the base of your neck, his hands tender. You couldn't help the small sigh of relief that slipped through your clenched teeth.

"This isn’t the first storm I've weathered," you managed to say, attempting to inject some humor, but the words came out choked, your voice a whisper of its usual self. The migraine was already tightening its grip, turning your words into a battle against the pain.

"I know," Bucky replied, his voice steady and calm. "But you don't have to do it alone."

Thump

Thump

The pressure in your head grew into a constant drumbeat. Buikding itself into the background music of your life. Each pulse sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through your stomach. You reached out, blindly finding Bucky's hand, and squeezed it tightly. His fingers wrapped around yours.

"Hold on," he murmured. His other hand slid down to your wrist, feeling for your pulse. His touch was grounding. "Breathe with me." His voice rhythmic.

Matching the beat of your heart. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The pain didn't recede, but it felt slightly more manageable with his guidance.

He continued to massage your neck, his thumbs pressing into the tight knots of muscle. It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt, the kind that promised relief. The migraine was raging in full force now, the thunder so loud you could feel the bed vibrate with each pulse. You gripped his arm harder, focusing on his steady breaths.

The nausea grew, climbing from your stomach to your throat. You swallowed it back, not wanting to break the fragile peace Bucky had managed to create. But it was a losing battle. You rolled over, your hand still in his, and barely made it to the trash can before everything came up. It burned your throat, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

Bucky didn't flinch. He gently wiped your mouth with a tissue and held your hair back. "It's okay," he soothed, his voice steady; a lullaby against the storm. "Try and drink some water."

You took small sips from the bottle he handed you, the cold liquid a soothing balm against the fire in your throat. He waited until you nodded, indicating you could handle more of his ministrations. His hands returned to your neck, working in slow circles, applying just enough pressure to ease the knots without exacerbating the pain.

"Can you gently press my right temple? The pressure builds there."

Bucky nodded, his touch as light as a feather. His fingertips rested on the spot you indicated, applying a slight pressure. You took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the tension in your body loosening a fraction.

"It just bubbles and builds," you continued, "like a balloon being filled with air. And sometimes, it just gets too much." You paused, the metaphor painfully apt. "And when it does..."

Bucky nodded solemnly, his thumbs moving in slow, soothing circles on your skull. "I know," he murmured. "It's like your body's trying to escape the pain."

You felt a single tear escape the confines of the washcloth, tracing a warm line down your cheek.

"You're doing so well doll," Bucky whispered, his thumbs now moving in smaller, more precise circles. The pain didn't dissipate, but it retreated slightly, giving you room to breathe.

You felt the mattress shift again as Bucky leaned over, placing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Let's try to get some rest," he suggested. You nodded, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your skull, but you managed to ignore it.

Bucky moved behind you, his body curving around yours like a protective shield. He pulled you into his embrace, the chill of his metal arm enveloping you in a surprising comfort. His steady heartbeat thumped against your back, syncing with the rhythm of your breathing. It was as if Bucky's presence had turned down the volume just a notch.

The migraine didn't leave, but it retreated enough for you to find a semblance of peace.

For a few blessed hours, the thumping in your skull faded to a dull ache. You weren't asleep—not really—but you were in that in-between state where pain and consciousness danced in a delicate balance.

Bucky's arms around you were a lifeline in the dark, the anchor holding you together while you're lost at a sea of pain. He would be there the next time high tide rolled in.

It's been a bit since I posted something. I have a couple of short things stuck in the final check stage, I just can't find the motivation to complete them.

So why not write something completely different, right?

[ooooo-mcyt]

no wait ur right. wait can u elaborate on desert duo + box boys + divorce quarter queer-codednees PLEASE ur right but i cannot put it into words

For me it's a matter of nonconformity.

The root of the queer coding in Double Life to me lays in the Double Life societal expectations. Soulmate relationships were held above all other relationships and there was an immense pressuring expectation to both be interesting in/prioritize the soulmate bond and to be with the "right" person, the person who you are assigned to and who it is "correct" to be with, who you are supposed to want to be with. To me this reads as a very strong standin for both amatonormativity and heteronormativity.

Scott and Cleo have always been the ones who immediately struck me as being very obviously queercoded with how they presented their narrative. Choosing each other and the joy they find together despite the expectations on them, and talking at length about how invaluable it is to find your own path and choose the kind of love that's true for you even if people think it's wrong and even if it's hard. It's also no surprise to me that the characters with the most explicit queer themes happen to be played by cc's who are both queer irl. It's also worth nothing how much the reaction of other players to their relationship adds to these themes- confusion, discomfort, even judgment. BigB tries to console Scott that there's still time to connect with his real soulmate. Jimmy repeatedly calls their relationship 'fake' to their faces. Nobody quite seems to understand.

The themes are less spelled out with Ren+Martyn and Grian+BigB, but they're still there. Ren and Martyn are both outwardly fixated with the people they're 'supposed' to be with, but at times it feels almost forced, like their minds are more on doing what is expected of them than on the actual people who are their soulmates, meanwhile they're frequently drawn toward each other in the background, because love doesn't care about the bounds of strict societal expectations. BigB and Grian have a very open struggle between what's expected of them and what they really want, because they want each other, regardless of what they're expected to want, and they're constantly torn between these two factors, trying to be together in secret because they don't feel like their relationship can be accepted publicly.

Scar is slightly different from the others in that he doesn't seem to want a relationship at all, which in of itself is a form of nonconformity. He's 'supposed' to want his soulmate, but instead Scar seems focused on himself, on his own projects, and on his connection with animals. This lack of concern with what is supposed to be the most important and special relationship is framed, by most people, as ridiculous, a failing on Scar's part, because of course anyone would care more about finding their soulmate than about the things Scar is focused on. Scar's desires conflict very strongly with the societal expectation for relationships in Double Life, and he struggles with the outside pressure to prioritize a relationship he never really wanted, just because he's expected to want his soulmate.

I'd say Pearl is the one I don't read queer themes as explicitly from. I always got the feeling she did want her soulmate, and that she did value soulmate relationships strongly, her isolation coming from circumstance rather than Pearl having fundamentally divergent desires. That being said! Pearl is also very very negatively impacted by societal standards of Double Life! I've said it many times, but Pearl wasn't isolated because Scott rejected her, Pearl was isolated because it was impossible to form a real support system in Double Life. Because the soulmate relationship was seen as so deeply important and was centered in everything, Pearl could never feel like she belonged anywhere, always an outsider looking in when she tried to form friendships with soulmate pairs. Pearl was also frequently either pitied or viewed as if there was something wrong with her for not having a soulmate, which reinforced how lonely, bitter, and hurt she was. Pearl doesn't have queer themes to me, but I view her as the symbolic standin for how amatonormativity and heteronormativity can be extremely damaging even for people who aren't queer through shaming and pitying people who don't have relationships, making them feel defective, and isolating them through making non-romantic connections seem less real or meaningful (in many cases this also disproportionately impacts women- who are in many cases valued solely through their relationships- and disabled people- who in many cases have a harder time making connections and are more likely to be viewed as 'defective' generally.)

Anyways sorry for rambling but Double Life is truly a story about amatonormativity and heteronormativity to me and I'm kinda insane about the themes.

[silenzahra]

THE MASTERPIECE IS READY AND UP HECK YEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH 🥳🥳🥳👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻🔥🔥🔥

BOMA. My extremely and amazingly talented sissy!!!! You freaking OUTDID yourself with this one!!!!! 🥹🥹🥹 AAAAHHHH it's been so AWESOME to see the creation process of this wonder and how it slowly grew and evolved!!! I'm so grateful and lucky that you shared your progress with me, and so amazed that now I get to see the full piece in all its glory!!! 🥹🥹🥹 SHE'S BEAUTIFUL, MY FRIEND.

I swear that all the adjectives that I can think of feel like an understatement. This is a freaking MASTERPIECE, sissy. I can see all your hard work, starting with the castle on the first panel which, seriously, I am in AWE. I could stare at it forever!!!

But then with our beloved characters and their interactions and expressions and... WOWKGKEPQJÑ Boma I love this SO MUCH. The progression is just PERFECT and even if there were no dialogue, it'd be easy to read exactly what each character is thinking/feeling just from their expressions. And then this comic has EVERYTHING that we all love and adore ‼️‼️‼️

The little bit of Luaisy at the beginning, with Daisy comforting her man and being so worried for him and his brother. The BEAUTIFUL brotherly love on the second page (I'm weak for the forehead touch and the way Luigi jumps to Mario's arms ❤️💚). Then Daisy realizing that she could've lost her dear friend but still pretending like she's not worried for herself but for Luigi. And then the hug... Aaaahh sissy, the hug is so PRECIOUS 🥹🥹🥹 I just ADORE that Mario understands what his friend is doing and simply hugs her, and the way Daisy slowly gives in and starts crying while she hugs Mario back made me freaking tear up 😭😭😭 Aw my heart is so MELTED. And those "I can't lose you" while they fall down to their knees, OMG I'm but an emotional mess right now 🥹🥹😭😭

Sissy, I freaking LOVE the way you portray Mario and Daisy's relationship. They're such good friends and they love each other SO MUCH 🥹🥹😭😭 THANK YOU for feeding us, these two besties deserve more time together and you never fail to give us what we need!! 👌🏻👌🏻👏🏻👏🏻

Also, I can't fail to mention the lighting. It's WONDERFUL how everything looks so dull at first, especially when they don't know what happened to Mario, and then when he and Luigi hug everything looks lighter!! As for Daisy, I love the progression of the lighting in the first panels of the third page, when she's witnessing the brothers' reunion and then realizes that she could've lost Mario... And then everything turns lighter again as they hug and she stops concealing her feelings 🥹🥹 Absolutely GENIUS, chef's kiss, so freaking DELIGHTFUL. I'm at your feet, you awesome QUEEN 🙇🏻‍♀️👑

The last panel is so beautiful and heartwarming and it put the biggest smile on my face 🥹🥹 I love the change of colors and just how happy and relaxed they all are now that they're together. I swear I just can't stop staring at it!! The brotherly love, Daisy lovingly teasing Mario, the walls of the castle like in the movie... So precious and perfect 🥹🥹👌🏻👌🏻 My favorite panel for sure!!! 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

And of course I also LOVE the bonus comic!! Aaahhh it's so SWEET to see Mario and Daisy joking together while Luigi goes to get some ice for his brother's eye, and it works so freaking well without any dialogue 👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻 And I ADORE the little bit of Mareach that we get there!! Hehehe the way Peach bounces on Mario is so hilarious 🤭😂😂 And I'm sorry but I just can't with Luigi's expression here 👇🏻

His face just KILLS me, oh my GOD 💀

Anyways, it's both a funny and adorable ending, and I also love Daisy's and Luigi's expressions in the background as Peach pampers her plumber in love and kisses 🤭 And Mario's last sentence is just PERFECT 👌🏻😂

Boma, I know I keep saying this with almost every piece you share with us buuuuut... New favorite piece of yours? At the very least favorite comic, hehe 😁😁 All your efforts paid off, my dear sissy!!! Heck, I could almost print and hang this MASTERPIECE on my wall so I could stare at it 24/7 and admire it as it deserves 🤩🤩🤩

This is so FIRE and I'm so freaking PROUD OF YOU 🔥🔥🔥AMAZING WORK, MY FRIEND 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻🧡🧡🧡

“I Can’t Lose You”

A princess and a plumber who were no more than friendly competition to each other… who knew a near-death experience would really break the ice?

bonus comic with Peach cause I didn’t know where to put her in the main 😭

[maymaymay5th]

Love, Agency, and the Real Meaning of Feminism in The Handmaid’s Tale

⸻

I just finished The Handmaid’s Tale Season 6, and honestly, I’m heartbroken and angry.

The relationship between Nick and June has been one of the most powerful threads in the series since Season 1. Nick risked his life again and again to protect her. Their love wasn’t a fairytale—it was born from pain, danger, and limited choices. But that’s what made it real. In a world built to crush them, they chose each other. That wasn’t “being a lovesick fool.” That was human courage, emotional agency, and resistance in its purest form.

But in Season 6, the writers reduced Nick to a mere background character, labeling their history a “situationship.” This not only breaks character logic—it disrespects everything that viewers have emotionally invested in. Years of life-or-death devotion were tossed aside for thematic convenience.

But here’s my truth: Feminism doesn’t mean stripping women of love, tenderness, or emotional complexity. Feminism means giving women the freedom to choose, fully and freely, without judgment.

I loved June in Season 1 because she was imperfect. She made mistakes. She still chose to love Nick. She still fought for her daughter. And she did all of it while holding on to her own sense of self. That’s not weakness. That’s personhood.

Season 6, on the other hand, flattened her into an abstract figure of righteousness—who erases people not because of real harm, but because they no longer fit her narrative. That’s not strength. That’s inhuman.

⸻

📣 So let’s stop calling love a weakness.

Let’s stop telling women that to be “strong,” they must be numb, angry, or alone.

Feminism means freedom. Freedom to choose love, freedom to walk away. Freedom to be a person.

I’ve seen so many shippers feeling deeply disappointed and angry — and I understand them completely.

But honestly, I think the answer lies exactly in what The Textual Poachers says: fanfiction has power.

Fanfiction is not just about indulging fantasies — it’s about reclaiming meaning. When the official narrative abandons characters we’ve loved and followed for years, we have every right to take them back. We reshape the story, not to ignore canon, but to challenge it, to heal what it broke, and to honor what it erased.

Even if the writers dismissed Nick and June’s relationship as a “situationship,” we remember what it actually was: sacrifice, longing, mutual recognition in a broken world. That kind of bond doesn’t vanish because a script says it does.

We write because we remember. We create because we refuse to let someone else tell us what mattered and what didn’t.

In a way, fanfiction becomes a form of emotional justice — a space where readers and writers say:

“No, this was real. You don’t get to take that from us.”

And maybe that’s the most powerful resistance of all.

[luckyroll3]

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 4

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Additional warnings: Talk about domestic violence and physical abuse.

Word Count: 8,003

Days melt into one another in Christopher's mansion, each falling into a pattern that grows more comfortable than you'd like to admit. Within the first two weeks, mornings find you in his bed more often than your own, though you sometimes retreat to your wing when you need space to remember who you are outside of his orbit. The mansion staff move around you with practiced invisibility, and you find yourself settling into the rhythm of this temporary life, this borrowed luxury that fits like someone else's expensive coat; it’s beautiful, but not quite yours.

It's during a quiet dinner on the terrace, the Los Angeles skyline twinkling below like earthbound stars, that the first real crack appears in the formal wall between you. Christopher has been less tense today, his usual sharp edges softened by good news from Taiwan and a rare afternoon free from meetings. The wine is excellent, as always, and you've grown to appreciate the chef's impeccable taste. Tonight's sea bass is buttery perfection and the pairing is exquisite.

"Tell me about your family," Christopher says suddenly, setting down his wine glass with deliberate care.

The question catches you off guard. Clients don't usually ask about your background; they prefer the fantasy, the blank canvas onto which they can project their desires.

"What do you want to know?" you counter, buying time to decide how much truth to offer.

Christopher's eyes, dark and observant, study your face. "Whatever you're willing to share."

You consider fabricating something palatable, like a middle-class upbringing, parents who are conveniently deceased… the standard escort backstory that invites no further questions. But something about the genuine interest in his gaze makes you offer a piece of truth instead.

"Working class," you say, watching for his reaction. "Only child with a single mom who worked three jobs. Dad wasn't in the picture."

Christopher nods, no judgment in his expression. "Which jobs?"

"Diner waitress mornings, hospital custodian evenings, weekend shifts as a cashier at a 24-hour drugstore." You take a sip of wine. "She was always tired, but the rent and utilities got paid."

"Sounds familiar," Christopher says, surprising you. "My mother cleaned office buildings overnight. Came home smelling like industrial disinfectant every morning."

You tilt your head, reassessing the man across from you. "I thought you came from money. The mansion, the clothes, the art collection..."

A dry smile touches his lips. "All earned, not inherited. I grew up in a two-room apartment in Queens. Father worked construction until his back gave out, then drank himself to an early grave." He says this without self-pity, just stating facts. "Mother raised three of us on minimum wage and stubbornness. I’m the oldest; I helped where I could."

The revelation shifts something in your perception of him. Not the ruthless titan born to privilege, but someone who clawed his way up from circumstances not unlike your own. You find yourself offering another piece of truth, unprompted, in exchange.

"We moved a lot. Rent increases, evictions, following my mom's jobs. I went to six different schools before high school."

Christopher nods, understanding in his eyes. "Must have been hard to maintain friendships."

"I stopped trying eventually," you admit. "Easier that way."

"Smart," he says, and there's respect in his tone. "Self-protection is an underrated skill."

The conversation flows more easily after that, each of you trading small truths that build a bridge between your worlds. You learn that Christopher earned a full scholarship to Dalton, an exclusive prep school in Manhattan, at fourteen; it was his ticket out of poverty.

"The first day was a nightmare," he tells you, refilling your wine glass. "Designer clothes everywhere, kids talking about summer homes in the Hamptons, the French countryside, and St. Barts while ordering take out. I showed up in Walmart's finest, a bagged lunch that I made mysefl, and an accent that screamed outer borough."

The image of a young Christopher, proudly defiant amid wealth he couldn't comprehend, tugs at something in your chest. "I get it. I had a similar experience."

His eyebrows rise in question.

"Brentwood in LA," you explain. "Full academic scholarship my sophomore through senior years. The girls had handbags that cost more than my mom's three month salary."

Christopher's expression brightens with recognition. "You too, huh? How did you handle it?"

You smile, remembering. "Studied their accents, their mannerisms. Thrift stores for designer castoffs. Learned to fake it until they couldn't tell I didn't belong."

"Chameleon survival," Christopher nods. "I did the same. Though I was less into blending in and more about proving I was better than them despite my background."

"Chip on your shoulder?" you tease gently.

"A fucking mountain," he corrects with unexpected humor, leading you to chuckle. "Still there, just better disguised now."

As dinner concludes and you both move to the lounge, the revelations continue. You discover you both majored in business; you at USC Marshall, him at Columbia. Both first-generation college students. Both driven by a hunger born of early deprivation.

"So how did finance win out?" you ask, curled in an armchair across from him, shoes discarded, feet tucked beneath you in a posture more relaxed than you'd normally allow yourself with a client.

Christopher's fingers tap thoughtfully against his wine glass. "Money equals security. I watched my mother count pennies, literally, at the grocery store while people watched annoyed because she was holding up the line; decide between electricity and heat in winter; patch our clothes instead of buying new ones. I never wanted to make those choices again." His gaze grows distant. "And I was good at it… understanding markets, predicting movements, taking calculated risks."

"With Hyunjin?" you prompt, recalling their easy rapport despite their different styles.

A genuine smile crosses Christopher's face. "Hyunjin was my first ally at Dalton. Really my first friend there. Old money, but never made me feel like the ‘scholarship kid’. He understood the game but never took it too seriously. And he taught it to me." Christopher shakes his head. "We immediately became inseparable; best friends. His friendship and status offered me a bit of protection, I guess. We have complete opposite approaches to life, but somehow it works. He smooths my edges."

"I've noticed," you say wryly, thinking of Hyunjin's casual invasion of Christopher's space, the way he teases Christopher and also seems to delight in drawing his best friend out of his well-manicured shell. "He gets away with things no one else would."

Christopher acknowledges this with a cute giggle that makes you smile. "Jin tends to do that." He pauses, his eyes more probing now. "What about you?" he asks, his voice slipping into a different register, one loaded with curiosity. "How did you decide to start escorting?"

The question shouldn’t surprise you given what you’ve both been sharing about your lives, but it does. It's one clients rarely ask, a subject that usually remains as untouched as the emotions you're not supposed to have. You tap your nails against the wine glass as you weigh your response, momentarily tempted to give him the standard story: college loans, a suggestion from a friend, a temporary gig that turned lucrative. But you sense Christopher won't be satisfied with clichés. "It seemed like a better option than unpaid internships, minimum wage jobs, and ramen noodles for dinner every night," you say, letting a hint of humor show. "And I was good at it. Still am, according to some sources." You wink at him.

Your comment makes Chris grin. “So you started in college?”

“Officially, yes. But really it was high school,” you reply. You watch as Christopher's eyebrow raises at the confession. You know he’s silently urging you to elaborate, and you decide to give him more than the usual guarded truth.

“Started when I was seventeen,” you tell him as his expression shifts to one of disbelief mingled with intrigue. “I had already been sexually active for a few years and really enjoyed sex. But sex with other people my age was just not great. Teen guys think they’re amazing at fucking because they watch porn all the time.” You roll your eyes. “So I eventually started dating older men. One of my first boyfriend’s, and I use that term lightly because we never really ‘dated’, was older. Much older.” You pause, letting that sink in. “He liked taking care of me, buying me things. And I let him.”

You notice Christopher forming a response, but before he can interrupt with a question, you continue.

“He introduced me to other older men who liked giving me expensive gifts in return for my time. And it was easy because most never really wanted sex. They wanted to talk, to be held, to have someone young and cute on their arm to impress their buddies. But when they did want sex, I made it worth my time physically and financially.” You can see the understanding beginning to dawn in Christopher's eyes, the pieces clicking into place. "No one called it escorting, but that's exactly what it was. I wasn't forced into anything or taken advantage of; I was just having fun and getting off at the same time."

You sip your wine, recalling the thrill of power and independence that came with those first encounters.

“I sold most of the things they gave me and used the money to help my mom pay bills, while also building my savings. The best was when I’d have the same purse or clothing item as one of the popular mean girls; they’d wonder how I was able to afford it not knowing that it was their dad who gifted it to me and probably bought it at the same time as theirs.” You chuckle to yourself. “By the time I got to college, I knew exactly how to play the game.” You hold his gaze, unapologetic. “And I knew I was good at it.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But why stay in it? You have the degree, the skills. Why not go corporate?”

You take another sip of wine. "Because it’s not as different as you might think. Invest some time upfront identifying your target audience and crafting the brand, create a marketing plan to sell the product, build a loyal client base, and the returns are higher than most entry-level jobs. And," you add, giving him a pointed look, "I don’t have to answer to anyone but myself."

Christopher considers this, his expression shifting from inquisitive to something closer to admiration. "Using your degree after all," he says. It’s not a question.

"From day one," you confirm. "Business school really taught me how to operationalize what I was already doing organically. And I was able to use my ‘hypothetical’ business plan as my honor’s senior thesis; I won the top award and even had a couple of the judges approach me to inquire about investment opportunities to get my company off the ground, not knowing that I was already three years in. I always knew what I was getting into, and I set the terms. No risk of a glass ceiling in my line of work."

There's a moment of silence as he absorbs your words, and you wonder if you've revealed too much or just enough. You feel exposed, but not uncomfortable. It’s strange, this impulse to tell him more than you should.

Christopher's eyes refocus on you, something warm and assessing in his gaze. "You're not what I expected," he says finally. “At all.”

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more... calculated. Less genuine." His admission surprises both of you. "The women I've had arrangements with before were skilled at telling me what they thought I wanted to hear."

"Hmm… Maybe you weren't listening properly," you suggest, not unkindly.

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "Maybe I wasn't interested in hearing. From them anyway."

The moment stretches between you, laden with implications neither of you are ready to examine too closely. Finally, you break it with a yawn that's only partially performative. "It's getting late."

Christopher rises, offering his hand to help you up, a gentlemanly gesture at odds with the dominant force who took you on one of the pool chairs two nights ago. "Eastern wing or mine tonight?" he asks, giving you the choice.

"Yours," you answer, the decision made before you fully consider it.

His smile, small but genuine, warms something deep in your chest that you promptly try to freeze again.

This is business, you remind yourself. 

Just business.

The next morning, you encounter Hyunjin in the kitchen, helping himself to breakfast pastries as if he owns the place. Christopher has already left for an early meeting, leaving you to navigate his friend alone.

"Morning, sunshine," Hyunjin greets you, sliding a cup of coffee from a local cafe across the counter. "Christopher mentioned you take it with a splash of creamer."

You accept the coffee with murmured thanks, suddenly aware you're wearing only Christopher's discarded dress shirt from yesterday. Hyunjin’s eyes are observant but not leering.

"You look comfortable," he says instead, leaning against the counter with feline grace. "That's new."

"What is? This shirt?"

"No. Christopher allowing someone to look comfortable in his space. Usually he prefers everything and everyone as tightly coiled as he is."

You sip your coffee, considering how to respond. "We have an arrangement. It's professional."

Hyunjin's laugh is soft and knowing. "Sure it is. That's why he cancelled our standing Thursday dinner for the first time in six years last week. Because it's 'professional,'" he says sarcastically, his fingers curling in air quotes.

The information catches you off guard. "He did?"

"Said he wanted a quiet evening at home." Hyunjin's gaze is too perceptive. "In the eighteen years I've known him, Christopher Bahng has never once prioritized 'quiet evenings' over work or obligation."

You maintain a neutral expression, though something flutters in your stomach. "People change."

"They do," Hyunjin agrees, studying you over his coffee cup. "But not usually this quickly." He pushes off from the counter, moving toward the door. "Just an observation. Do with it what you will."

Before he leaves, he turns back.

"Oh, and he actually smiled during yesterday's board meeting. Nearly gave old Jenkins a fucking heart attack." His expression grows more serious. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. Just... be careful with him, okay? He doesn't do casual very well."

After Hyunjin departs, you stand in the kitchen, coffee cooling in your hands, his words echoing in your mind. The warning, be careful with him, strikes you as backwards. Shouldn't he be warning Christopher to be careful with you? You're the escort, the temporary arrangement, the one who will walk away back to your non-billionaire life when the contract ends.

Yet as you move through the mansion that's becoming familiar territory, as you shower in a bathroom where your products now sit beside Christopher's, as you slip into clothes from a closet that holds both his gifts and your own possessions, you recognize the danger. The lines, professional and personal, business and pleasure, are blurring.

You retreat to your wing, needing space to think. Sitting on the edge of your barely-used bed, you run through mental exercises you developed years ago when you first started escorting. Reminders of what this is and isn't. Boundaries that must be maintained. The danger of mistaking transaction for connection.

But your usual mantras ring hollow against the memory of Christopher's face when he spoke of his mother, the unexpected humor in his eyes when he admitted to his chip-on-shoulder past, the gentleness of his hands caressing your skin when he thought you were sleeping.

You're good at your job, at giving clients what they need all while protecting your core self. It's what's made you successful, sought-after, well-compensated. But as you sit in your beautiful room in Christopher's mansion, you face an uncomfortable truth: the wall you've carefully constructed between your professional and authentic selves is developing hairline fractures.

And Christopher Bahng, with his unexpected vulnerability and careful attention, is finding every single one.

****

“You look good.”

Eva’s voice greets you the second you step into your penthouse. Her greeting, blunt as ever, is paired with a glass of wine and a knowing smirk. You abandon your small bag by the door and take both.

"Good to see you too. You still have my key, huh?" you reply, sinking into your plush sofa next to her. It's strange how it doesn't feel as much like home as it used to. "And thanks for that."

Her eyes narrow, appraising as you bring the glass to your lips. "You've got that 'man' glow. The one that says you're getting fucked regularly but not thinking clearly."

You laugh, a real one, because only Eva could frame it like that. "Is there any other kind of glow?"

"Not for us." She leans forward, curiosity naked and unapologetic on her face. "So? How's the arrangement going?"

You knew this was coming. "More intense than I expected," you admit, swirling the wine before taking a sip.

"After a month? Ooh, do tell."

"He's... different." You're surprised by how much you mean it. "Not quite as straightforward as I thought."

Eva arches a brow, her interest piqued. "Different how? Kinky? Controlling? Batshit crazy?"

"Yes to all three," you say, and she laughs again, demanding details with a tilt of her head. You give in, recounting the first night at his mansion, the unexpected chemistry that's only grown since.

"And he's opening up to you?" Eva asks, her voice edged with disbelief.

"More than I expected," you confess. "He's told me some pretty personal things."

"Like?"

You hesitate but know there's no point holding back; Eva will get it out of you eventually. "About his family, like his alcoholic dad. And about his past, his childhood."

"The poor little rich boy routine?" she probes shrewdly.

"No," you say quickly, more defensive than you mean to be. "It's real. Our upbringings are actually pretty similar. Single moms working multiple jobs, scholarships to private schools, etcetera etcetera."

She studies you closely before speaking again. "What else?"

“He cancelled dinner plans with his best friend to spend an evening with me,” you say, watching her reaction closely.

Eva whistles low. "That’s serious. Sounds very personal."

You shrug off the accusation even though something in your chest tightens at the truth behind it. “It’s not supposed to be serious,” you insist, even as doubt creeps in. "It's still business."

“And yet…” She lets the words hang, unspoken implications weaving through the air between you.

You let out a breath and shift topics before the conversation gets too close to places you're not ready to go. “Enough about me. How was Miami?”

Eva takes the hint with a knowing smile. “Profitable and exhausting,” she says, leaning back with practiced grace. “The usual wolves in designer clothing. No one worth remembering.”

“Didn’t meet any potential benefactors?”

“No one who could compete with a billionaire who actually listens,” Eva retorts.

You try to mask how much that statement hits home by draining your glass and pouring another. "It's not all roses," you say lightly. "He's demanding as hell."

"Bet he is." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "In bed too?"

Your answering grin is wicked and unguarded. "Especially in bed."

She laughs, rich and full-throated.

The rest of the evening passes in a familiar blur of laughter and too much wine, Eva sharing more stories of her own clients and their absurd expectations until you're both doubled over in hysterics.

When Eva finally leaves with a hug and a warning to keep your head on straight ("or bent over if that's what he prefers"), you're left alone in the silence of your penthouse. It feels emptier than usual without her kinetic presence or Christopher's steady intensity filling the space.

You wander from room to room, picking up your phone more than once before putting it down again with a frustrated sigh. It's ridiculous how much you want to call him, hear his voice, even though you've only been away from him for a few hours.

****

The weeks unspool in a blur of luxury and unexpected intimacy. Your life with Christopher settles into rhythms both planned and spontaneous with formal events where you play the role of the exquisite companion on his arm and quiet moments of startling connection that weren't outlined in any contract. Time becomes marked not by dates on a calendar but by the gradual shift in temperature between you and the slow dissolution of the carefully constructed boundaries. You tell yourself it's just excellent acting, just the professional adaptation to a long-term client. The lie tastes bitter even as you repeat it nightly, like swallowing medicine that doesn't quite work.

The first charity event arrives five weeks into your arrangement. Christopher delivers a garment bag to your room personally, watching with undisguised anticipation as you unzip it to reveal a gown that catches light like trapped lightning. It’s silver and midnight blue, cut to accentuate every curve while maintaining an elegance that whispers old money rather than shouting new wealth.

"Tom Ford," Christopher says, fingers trailing over the fabric. "Couture."

The implication isn't lost on you; he had this made specifically for you, which means he'd been planning your public debut long before you'd agreed to the arrangement. The presumption should annoy you. Instead, something warm unfurls in your chest at the thought of him imagining you in this dress, directing designers to capture your essence in fabric and thread. You also wonder how in the hell he somehow managed to get his hands on your exact measurements.

That night, you stand before the mirror as Christopher fastens a diamond necklace around your throat, his reflection watching you with that particular intensity that makes your skin prickle.

"Perfect," he murmurs, hands lingering at the nape of your neck. "You'll be the most beautiful woman there."

"That's what you're paying for," you remind him, the words automatic, a defense mechanism.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, something flashing in their depths. "No. That's just who you are." You feel heat rising in your cheeks and hope you’re not blushing.

The event passes in a whirl of champagne flutes and calculated small talk. You play your role flawlessly. You’re charming, intelligent; the perfect accessory to Christopher's power. But you notice how his hand never leaves the small of your back, how his eyes track you even across crowded rooms, how he introduces you as his date with a possessive inflection that makes his claim clear without words.

Later that night, he fucks you against the balcony door of his bedroom, your face and tits pressed against the glass, the city lights spread beneath you like a carpet of stars, his grip bruising on your hips as he whispers "mine" against your skin with each thrust. You cum with his name on your lips, and the line between performance and truth blurs a little more.

You fall asleep against his pecs, lulled by the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing. His arms are tight and possessive around you, clutching you like you might disappear at any moment. You find the comfort unsettling but addictive, leaving you unable to pull away despite knowing you should. The house is quiet, the only sound is the gentle rustle of the sheets as he shifts closer in his sleep, murmuring your real name with a tenderness that makes your heart squeeze in your chest.

You wake to him tossing, turning, his forehead creased with lines of tension. He's still holding you, but his grip changes; it’s less conscious, more frantic. 

He's having a nightmare.

His body jerks, and his breathing turns ragged against your neck. You cradle his face, whisper his name softly until his eyes blink open, haunted and disoriented.

"Hey, you’re okay," you say gently, brushing damp hair from his forehead, feeling a strange twist of emotion when he calms at the sight of you.

He doesn't pull away or try to downplay his vulnerability. He just presses his face into your shoulder with a low, relieved breath.

You’ve never seen him anything less than in control, and the unguarded moment overwhelms you, makes you do something stupid like care. You rub his back soothingly until his muscles relax, until his hold on you becomes less desperate, until he falls back into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.

And somehow, despite knowing better, you do too.

The pattern repeats. Another week. Another occasion. Another dress tailored and delivered. Another event blurring the line between business and indulgence.

This time, it’s a dinner with investors where Christopher positions you beside him rather than at the opposite end of the long table, a calculated placement designed to show everyone present exactly where you fit into his life, how he views your relationship.

The attention from the other investors flickers over you with interest, but Christopher's gaze is relentless, claiming. As dinner is served, his hand finds yours beneath the tablecloth, a subtle intimacy breaking through the polished, professional veneer. His thumb strokes your palm, and the deliberate intervals at which he reaches for you make your pulse escalate, make you hyper-aware of each touch and the promise it holds. Each course arrives with more intensity, more heat building between you, the food a secondary indulgence to the simmering electricity.

Christopher leans in to murmur something that sounds like an offhand comment about the market, but all you register is his breath on your ear, something far more intimate. His hand slides from yours, and you nearly gasp when it finds your thigh. He's talking to the table about the latest economic forecast, but it feels like he's speaking only to you, each word causing his fingers to inch higher, under your dress, teasing the edge of your panties while you struggle to keep your expression neutral. The investors around you are mostly oblivious, absorbed in their own conversations and the high-end wagyu steak dinner, but you're sure that everyone can hear the erratic beating of your heart. Your breath catches, and Christopher pauses, as if waiting for you to protest or stop him. When you do neither, he resumes his exploration, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your underwear, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. His eyes meet yours, dark and knowing, as two fingers sink deep, curling in exactly the right way to make you clamp around him.

You try to focus on the discussion about projections for the next quarter, on maintaining some semblance of decorum, but Christopher is ruthless, relentless, moving inside you with rhythmic precision. Your nails dig into his forearm, a silent plea that only makes him go deeper, more insistent. You’re on the brink, legs trembling, your free hand clutching the table for stability. The world around you fades, the conversation becoming white noise as Christopher crooks his fingers and presses his thumb to your clit.

After you cum quietly around his fingers, he sucks your juices off of them while one of the investors tells a joke, then leans over to press a soft kiss to your bottom lip. .

At a gallery opening a week later, he watches your reaction to the art more intently than the pieces themselves. A few days after, you return to the mansion after pilates to find one of the paintings you’d lingered at mounted on a wall in your east wing bedroom.

Then there’s a weekend brunch with Hyunjin and one of the many women he keeps in rotation, where the conversation and inside jokes flow so naturally you almost forget this is a temporary arrangement.

A work event at Christopher's firm reveals new dimensions to his possessiveness. You wear a conservative but striking maroon dress, appropriately elegant for a corporate function. Christopher's expression when he sees you is approving, but there's a tightness around his jaw you've learned to recognize: desire held in check, control exerted.

Martha greets you with an enthusiastic hug, her warm energy wrapping around you just as tightly as her arms. She is one of the few people in Christopher's company who talks to you like a real person rather than a precious artifact he's decided to display. There's genuine affection in her voice as she compliments your dress, her eyes sparkling with something akin to approval. “You’re simply adorable, dear,” she gushes. You beam, as you can’t remember the last time someone called you ‘adorable’.

Martha is charming in her efficiency, seamlessly transitioning between small talk and event logistics when someone interrupts with a question without missing a beat. You laugh when she mentions that Christopher will likely have a coronary if even one tray goes unsampled. "I don't want to be the one to resuscitate him," she jokes, glancing over your shoulder with a wink.

You follow her gaze and see Christopher watching you from across the room, a small smile playing at his lips. The look is possessive, approving, and entirely too satisfied, as if he knew you'd charm everyone effortlessly and he's proud of the show. He nods when he catches your eye, a silent signal that he's pleased, and you feel a ripple of satisfaction… or maybe that's just the champagne.

You're surprised when he doesn't immediately stake his claim, instead allowing you to navigate through the room with freedom. It feels like a test, like he's seeing how far you'll go and how long you'll last without him by your side. Then you realize with a smirk that he's just as likely pacing himself, saving his appetite for dessert.

The evening progresses smoothly until you find yourself in conversation with one of Christopher's colleagues, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes and sharper wit. He's entertaining, making you laugh in a way that feels genuine rather than practiced. You're mid-anecdote when you feel Christopher's presence behind you, his hand sliding around your waist in a gesture that appears casual but conveys unmistakable ownership.

"Lee," Christopher acknowledges the man by his last name, voice cool. "I see you've met my partner, Noelle."

The word choice, partner, not date or companion, raises eyebrows, including yours, though you maintain your composure.

"Indeed I have," Lee replies, eyes shrewd as they move between the two of you. "She was just telling me about her thoughts on the Miyazaki acquisition. Sharp mind, this one."

"Yes," Christopher agrees, fingers pressing slightly firmer against your side. "One of many reasons I’m attracted to her."

The possessiveness should feel stifling. Perhaps with another man it would. But you recognize something beneath Christopher's territorial display, not just ownership but pride. He wants everyone to know you're his, yes, but also that he recognizes your value beyond the physical. It's a distinction that matters more than it should.

Later that night, when you ask about his choice of words, Christopher pauses in the act of removing his tie, expression unreadable.

"Lee has a reputation," he says finally. "I wanted to be clear about your status."

"As your possession?" you challenge, testing boundaries that have grown increasingly flexible.

Christopher approaches slowly, stopping just short of touching you. "As someone who matters to me." His admission hangs in the air between you, more intimate somehow than the countless ways he's had your body. "Does that bother you?"

The truth, that it doesn't, that it warms something cold and protected inside you, feels too dangerous to acknowledge. "Just clarifying the parameters," you say instead.

His smile is knowing, seeing through your deflection. "The parameters are evolving. Isn't that what happens in any relationship?"

But this isn't a relationship, you want to say. This is a contract, a transaction, a temporary arrangement beneficial to both parties, designed to fulfill both of your needs. You should counter his words, remind him of what he’s paying for, but the way he watches you makes you hesitate.

The words stick in your throat, dense and unspoken, as he spins you around and bends you over the dresser, holding your face down against the smooth polished wood, hips pressed against your ass before you can push back.

You smile when you hear him undo his zipper with his other hand before he flips up your dress and plunges into you roughly from behind.

“Ugghhh!” you groan.

His hands pin your wrists in place on top of the dresser as he thrusts into you.

The motion is hard, immediate, a declaration without the need for language. He fills you completely. His hips crash into you, each hard plunge rattling the dresser and driving you to the edge of something you can’t quite define. He’s relentless, pounding so deep, over and over, like he needs to remind you in every way how he owns you, like he knows exactly how you’re starting to question everything. There's nothing soft or careful about the motion. It's blistering, primal, tearing down the walls you've built, making your vision spark white and your thoughts scatter, and you wonder if you're the one who's been wrong all along.

You’re gasping, breathless, the impact shredding through your carefully constructed defenses and unmooring the truths you’ve clung to, until all that’s left is Christopher pushing you to the very brink.

You moan loudly in absolute pleasure when you cum.

****

Saturday mornings become sacred somehow, an unspoken ritual neither of you planned. Christopher, usually awake before dawn even on weekends, lingers in bed, his usual precision softened by morning light and the absence of anywhere he needs to be.

You discover he reads poetry; Neruda and Angelou and contemporary voices you don't recognize. Sometimes he reads aloud, his voice roughened by sleep, words flowing over you like warm honey.

One such morning, as Christopher sits with his back against the headboard and you lie next to him, you find yourself tracing the scar on his ribs, the question you've wondered about for weeks finally finding voice.

"How did you get this?"

Christopher's hand covers yours, pressing your palm flat against the mark. "Street fight when I was sixteen. Three of my classmates decided the scholarship kid needed a lesson in hierarchy. So they found a way to distract Hyunjin after his swim practice and jumped me from behind as I walked towards the subway station." His tone is matter-of-fact, not seeking sympathy. "They learned a different lesson instead. Rich kids never realize they can’t fight until they actually fight someone who’s not from their neighborhood. And when Jin realized what was happening, he ran from where he was and his scrawny ass leaped onto the back of one of them. I think he broke that fucker’s nose for me." He smiled as he thought of the memory.

You can picture it, young Christopher, outnumbered but refusing to yield, that same intensity in his eyes that you see when he negotiates deals or fucks you. The image stirs something protective in you that has no place in this professional arrangement.

"And this one?" Your fingers drift northward to the scar on his shoulder.

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing before it's tucked away. "My father. Broken bottle. I got between him and my mother when I was ten and paid the price."

The simple statement reveals volumes about his childhood, about the origins of his need for control, about the boy who became this carefully constructed man.

You press your lips to the scar, a gesture of comfort decades too late but offered nonetheless. You feel his story in the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles initially tense when your lips touch the raised tissue. Christopher's fingers tangle in your hair, holding you close against his chest, a silent plea for closeness that he doesn’t need to vocalize, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

"I think you're the first person I've told," he says quietly, “other than Jinnie,” and the admission feels like being handed something fragile and irreplaceable, a token of trust so unexpected that it makes your chest constrict with a mix of emotions you’re not sure you can name. In that moment, the lines blur beyond recognition: personal and professional, fake and real.

You lift your head to kiss him on the lips, intending comfort but finding something deeper, a connection that scares you as much as it draws you in. You straddle him without breaking the kiss, your need to be closer to him a magnetic force that pulls you out of yourself and into this moment.

Beneath you, you feel his cock start to harden, and your hips respond automatically, sliding back and forth against him like it's the only thing they know how to do. When he’s fully erect, you reach down and position the tip of his dick at your entrance before sliding down on it fully, taking him with a smoothness that feels like inevitability.

Christopher groans into your mouth, a sound so raw and needy that it sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, amplifying your desire, making you wetter, hungrier. "Fuck," he breathes as you set the pace, riding him with long, deep strokes that leave no room for pretense or defense mechanisms. Just skin on skin, all boundaries obliterated.

You sink your teeth into his shoulder, the sex too good, your need too great to contain quietly. The bite makes him thrust upwards, hitting you at an angle that makes your vision blur and your breath catch. You dig your nails into his chest, marking him, claiming him in the only way you know how. As you drop onto him again and again, you see the earlier hurt in his eyes replaced by something intense and adoring. 

The vulnerability of his confession shifts into possession. His hands grab your hips, taking control, guiding you up and pulling you down with a ferocity that shatters your last defenses. "Baby Girl," he rasps. "I'm not going to last." The words should be a warning, but they push you closer to the edge. You want him to lose it. You want him to know he's the only one who can make you like this, trembling, incoherent.

As his thrusts become desperate, frantic, you slip a hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, circling, pressing, needing that final spark to send you over. You clench around him, and Christopher’s growl is primal, possessive, as if claiming every part of you. This time, he cums first, burying himself so deep inside you that you can’t tell where you end and he begins. But he continues thrusting upwards until your orgasm hits, violent and consuming, his name tearing from your lips.

You collapse against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder as he leans his back against the headboard, both of you trying to catch your breath, the room ringing with the aftermath of what just happened. Words feel inadequate, too small for the enormity of what lies between you. Christopher strokes your back, a gentle counterpoint to the way you’ve just fucked him, and you let your eyes close, savoring the unexpected tenderness amid the wreckage of your carefully constructed barriers after only a month and half. You’re not sure how you’ll ever keep your distance, how you’ll ever keep it strictly business. But maybe, you think as you curl up beside him, maybe... you don’t want to.

****

The Tokyo business trip comes as a surprise: not the trip itself, which Christopher had mentioned weeks ago, but his insistence that you accompany him.

"I'll be in meetings most days," he explains as you pack. "But the evenings will be ours. There are restaurants I want to show you, places I think you'll appreciate."

The thought he's put into imagining your preferences, into planning experiences you might enjoy, catches you off guard. This goes beyond the parameters of your arrangement, beyond what you're being paid for. You tell yourself he's just maximizing his investment, ensuring his exclusive companion remains available even during travel.

The lie grows thinner each time you repeat it.

Tokyo unfolds around you like a revelation with neon and tradition interwoven together and energy humming beneath meticulous order. Christopher keeps his word about the meetings, disappearing each morning with Hyunjin in tow, returning each evening with the day's tension melting as soon as he sees you waiting.

He takes you to tiny restaurants hidden in back alleys that require passwords or personal connections to enter. He guides you through temple gardens at dawn, before the tourists arrive, his knowledge of Japanese culture surprising and extensive. He buys you small, thoughtful gifts: a silk scarf from a fifth-generation artisan, a rare edition of your favorite poet found in a dusty bookshop, a pair of earrings that he says catches the light ‘exactly as your eyes do when you laugh’. That last one makes you roll your eyes playfully, which he smirks at until you kiss it off his face.

None of these gestures were stipulated in your contract. None fall under the obligations you agreed to. Each feels like a stone added to a scale that's increasingly tipping away from the transactional and toward something you're afraid to name.

In bed at the hotel, with Tokyo sparkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, Christopher maps your body with the dedication of someone memorizing territory they never want to forget. His usual domination is tempered by something that feels dangerously like reverence.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs against your inner thigh, each word a breath on your skin.. He’s asked this before, his voice typically a low growl, an insistence. But not this time. There’s a difference in his tone now, a softness. This time it’s a request, not a demand, leaving the power squarely in your hands. It’s a change that thrills you more than you expected. You guide his head between your legs, your fingers threading through his hair, and he gives in to your silent response, his mouth on you with worshipful precision. Each flick of his tongue pushes you closer to the edge, unraveling you, turning your request into a litany of whispered “please” and “right there, daddy” and “more.” And when he's made you so wet and desperate that you're no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or never stop, he pulls away. 

He’s inside you in one hard thrust, his body covering yours, his skin burning against you, his lips seeking yours with a yearning that matches your own. His moves are careful but determined, like he wants to consume you whole but is savoring each moment before he does. You hook your legs around his waist, forcing his thrusts deeper, faster, feeling the full possession of him. You bite his bottom lip, too close to stay silent, too close to hold back. Each drive forward is a question. An answer. A promise. A plea.

Tonight, when you come apart beneath his mouth, his hands, his body joined with yours, the name you cry isn't ‘Christopher’ or ‘Daddy’ but ‘Chris’, the forbidden diminutive only Hyunjin is allowed to use.

Instead of the correction you expect, his rhythm falters, his control slipping as he nuzzles the tip of his nose to yours and follows you into release with a hoarseness in his voice that sounds like surrender when he calls your real name.

Neither of you mention it afterward. Some revelations are too raw to acknowledge in words.

Back in Los Angeles, the pattern of your days continues to evolve. Christopher starts adjusting his schedule to maximize time with you. He’s leaving the office earlier, bringing work home to complete after you've fallen asleep beside him, scheduling his most demanding meetings early so his evenings remain uncompromised.

"You have a five o'clock with the Singapore team," you remind him one afternoon, having overheard his conversation with Hyunjin earlier that day.

"Rescheduled for tomorrow morning," Christopher replies, sliding his laptop closed. "I thought we could drive up the coast for dinner. There's a place in Malibu I think you'd enjoy with a fantastic view of the sunset. You interested?"

The casual reprioritization of his time, Christopher Bahng, who built his reputation on ruthless efficiency and availability to clients, speaks volumes. Even more telling is how he no longer phrases these changes as demands, assuming your consent, but rather as invitations for shared plans, assuming your desire to be with him.

The most unsettling part is how rarely you want to refuse.

Hyunjin notices, of course. His perceptive eyes miss nothing, especially where Christopher is concerned. You find him in the kitchen one morning, contemplating the coffee maker with theatrical confusion.

"This thing gets more complicated every time I visit," he complains, though his smile suggests the helplessness is at least partially an act.

You take pity, preparing his coffee along with your own. "Christopher's already left for his soccer game," you inform him, assuming that's who he's looking for.

"I know." Hyunjin accepts the mug with a nod of thanks. "I came to see you, actually."

The admission surprises you. "Me? Why?"

Hyunjin leans against the counter, studying you with that gaze of his. "Because Christopher's different with you. Calmer. More present." He sips his coffee. "Less like he's waging war against the world and more like he's found something worth protecting in it."

You don't know how to respond, so you focus on adding cream to your coffee, stirring longer than necessary.

"He's never brought anyone to the Tokyo restaurants," Hyunjin continues, his voice gentler now. "Those were places we discovered together years ago. Our private sanctuaries in a city that never stops moving."

The revelation sits heavy in your chest. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I care about him. And because I think, despite your best professional intentions, you're starting to care too." Hyunjin's directness is kind but uncompromising. "The question is what happens when your contract ends."

The question follows you through the day, through the week, through moments when Christopher's hand finds yours without conscious thought, when his eyes seek you out across rooms as if confirming you're still there, still his. The evidence accumulates like the formation of snowflakes—small, individual moments that together create something that shouldn’t exist, something substantial and something impossible to ignore:

The way he's memorized how you take your coffee.

The book of poetry he left on your nightstand, passages marked that made him think of you.

How he calls you by your real name in private, never Noelle.

The protective way he positions himself between you and crowds.

The genuine interest when he asks about your day, your thoughts, your dreams.

At night, in the darkness of what has become undeniably "our" bed rather than "his," you face the truth you've been avoiding. Your professional detachment, your carefully maintained boundaries, your emotional self-protection, all compromised by this man who approached your arrangement like a business transaction but somehow transformed it into something else entirely.

You suspect Christopher Bahng is falling for you, in his own controlled, measured way. Worse, you might be falling for him too. Most dangerous of all, you're no longer certain you want the contract to end in four months' time.

The realization terrifies you. You've built your career, your independence, your entire adult life on maintaining control, emotional and financial. On keeping transactions clean, boundaries clear. On never needing anyone enough that losing them would matter.

Christopher shifts beside you in sleep, his arm instinctively tightening around your waist, pulling you closer against him. Even unconscious, he seeks you out, claims you. In the sanctuary of darkness, you allow yourself to sink into his embrace, to acknowledge the warmth that spreads through you at his touch.

Your guarded heart, the one you've protected so carefully for so long, is quietly, treacherously surrendering. And despite every professional instinct screaming caution, you find yourself letting it happen, one moment, one touch, one shared breath at a time.

A/N: This was probably my favorite chapter to write. Hope you enjoyed it.

[laifromthecosmos]

Magha Woman: The Lonely Warrior against Patriarchy

The throne of Magha is not given, it is remembered. Those born under this constellation carry an invisible calling, an ancient yearning for an authority that was never truly granted in this life – but that pulses deep within the soul. The woman of Magha is born a queen without a kingdom, a priestess without a temple, a warrior without an army. And yet she does not bow.

— laifromthecosmos

Follow me on Twitter/X: @rahueyes.

In my personal life, I have a warrior mother. Since a young age (and when I say young, I mean as a child), she was already providing for our poor household. My grandmother worked as a housemaid, and while she was out, my mother would go to the streets and try to find something to do in exchange for a tiny amount of money, just so that when my grandmother came home, at least the bread would be guaranteed. My grandfather was ill and often hospitalized, so there was no male figure present, despite my mother's older brother, who later destroyed his life with drugs. Like many women with the Moon in Cancer, my mother became a maternal figure to her younger sister, my aunt. It was a family burden she carried from a very early age, and she lived only to provide for this family, which led to her delaying her own life and ultimately falling into a deep depression. With an Ascendant and stellium in Capricorn, Sun in Purva Phalguni, and Rahu in Magha, my mother became a front-line figure both in our family and in her work, despite constantly having to solve serious problems. She used every bit of argumentative skill and courage to resolve injustices, and in the end, even people in higher leadership positions respected her.

With her Moon in Cancer, my mother always thought of the well-being of her family and the education of her children. She wanted to give us what she never had — and she succeeded. I believe one of her problems today is facing the fact that she has a daughter with the same strength — or perhaps even greater — than her own. I was born with the Moon in Purva Phalguni and Mars in Magha, but with a very different background thanks to her. Since I was very little, I’ve been rebellious, but my mother repressed me a lot so that I wouldn’t be that way. As a result, I grew up without developing my ability to handle many things. I let people take advantage of me while I kept silent. This repression is resurfacing now, and while I used to think it was only due to my Ascendant in Ardra — the fiercest Nakshatra — I realized it actually comes from my Mars placed in a sign he is very comfortable in, but in a Nakshatra that, unfortunately, in this patriarchal life we lead, is a problem for women: Magha.

I have this placement in the 2nd house (according to KP ayanamsa), and the problem is obviously located in the family area. Having a father who assumes the image of a king and commander, expecting his daughter to be obedient and not complain about anything, is the punishment women of Magha often bear. My mother always sides with him whenever there’s a confrontation between us, because I’m the one who is supposed to be wrong — even when he’s the one who committed the offense. Reading about this Nakshatra — especially about the women who carry it strongly — made me realize I am not the problem, despite being constantly labeled as such. I have no support, and I often feel alone in a war that never ends. I have no voice, no reason, I’m the one who doesn’t understand, the stubborn one, the selfish one. Even when I’m right, I’m wrong. The symbology of Magha is highly patriarchal and deeply connected to ancestry — particularly paternal ancestry. The Leonine aspect of sovereignty, authority, respect, leadership, and other traditionally masculine traits are all found in this Nakshatra. But it plays out very differently for men and women. Barbara Pijan described on her website that Magha is beneficial for men and malefic for women in a patriarchal system (not in those exact words — this is my interpretation): men of Magha are seen as kings, while women of Magha are seen as witches. My brother, who has his Ascendant in Purva Phalguni, is seen as a kind-hearted man. I, with my Moon in Purva Phalguni and Mars in Magha, am seen as cold, difficult — even called a disgrace. I posted a short explanation on Twitter/X, but I’ll expand more on it in this post.

Magha Nakshatra is ruled by the Pitris — the “Ancestral Fathers,” spirits of those who lived before us. They are not gods like Vishnu or Shiva, but ethereal presences who uphold tradition, lineage, and sacred order. They watch over rituals, preserve the sacred heritage of the social structure — not in terms of progress, but of continuity. This connection with the Pitris brings a unique spiritual mark. Those born under Magha are bound to ancient family karma — a web of inherited commitments, vows, and glories. There’s an invisible debt to the dead, to those who came before. In Vedic tradition, this debt is repaid through honor, service, and maintenance of the social order. But the problem is: this structure was never made to house feminine power. Magha is the Nakshatra of the seat of power, the throne, legacy. It speaks of the highest place one can reach — but that place is guarded by the names, rules, and forefathers of a masculine lineage. In patriarchal cultures, the throne is the father, the husband, the king. The Magha woman is born, then, as an intruder in this space — or worse, as an invisible figure, whose power is only acknowledged when mediated by a man.

Magha means “the mighty,” “the magnificent.” It is one of the Nakshatras most traditionally associated with authority, status, honor, and ancestral legacy. Its symbol is the royal throne — a sign of the right to rule, to command, to preserve the established order. Here lies the tension for women: this throne has, for centuries, been reserved only for men. Women with the Moon or personal planets (or Atmakaraka) in Magha are natural leaders — proud, charismatic, and often feel isolated in their strength. There’s a deep sense of carrying out a familial or ancestral mission — but rarely is there any recognition for it. In patriarchy, the Magha woman becomes a threat: she questions the role of tradition (Pitris) without necessarily rejecting it; she possesses inherent authority that was not "granted" but spiritually inherited. Her radiance is seen as arrogance, her leadership as defiance. The throne of Magha was made for ruling, but the woman born with this energy must still earn the right to sit on it. She does so by confronting the patriarchy — not as a declared enemy, but as a forgotten heiress reclaiming what was taken from her.

The woman who carries Magha in her heart — whether through the Moon, Ascendant, Atmakaraka, or significant conjunction — is born with a deep sense of inner royalty. She knows she comes from a powerful spiritual lineage. But the world around her does not recognize this calling. Instead of a crown, she receives criticism. Instead of a throne, the domestic altar. Instead of glory, the duty of silence. The karma of this woman is to challenge this system — not out of empty rebellion, but out of awareness. She does not seek to destroy the past, but to transform it. She does not sever ties with her ancestors — she confronts them. The Magha woman must learn to be the living ancestor — the matriarch who builds a new tradition inside a house that once tried to erase her.

examples I posted on twitter/x about man with Mars in Magha vs. Magha woman.

Prash Trivedi, one of the deepest interpreters of the Nakshatras, describes Magha as the Nakshatra of the “priest-king” — an archetype that combines authority with spirituality. In women, this creates what he calls a “cultural dissonance”: they don’t know where they fit in. Many try to mold themselves into what’s expected — good wives, good mothers, quiet — but that social role tears at their core. Others become solitary, distanced from family, seen as strange or difficult. Komilla Sutton writes that the greatest challenge of Magha is finding expression for its authority in a world that fears powerful women. She notes that these natives tend to carry the weight of tradition, but are called to transcend its limitations. Often, they must forgo traditional marriage or redefine it completely. Bepin Behari reinforces the idea that Magha is the Nakshatra of the spiritual continuity of the soul and that individuals under it are "guardians of lineage." The Magha woman, then, doesn’t just live her own life — she continues an ancestral journey. This journey often involves breaking from patriarchal structures — not out of rebellion, but by destiny.

For the Magha woman, patriarchy is a distorted mirror of her own soul. She was made to reign — but placed to serve. And this imbalance causes not only external pain but also an internal war. That’s why many Magha women struggle with self-esteem, difficulty trusting others, or feelings of isolation. They feel forced to do everything alone, to constantly prove their worth, to endure betrayals and disloyalties without breaking. Patriarchy tries to reduce Magha to her reproductive function. But she is not just a mother — she is a matriarch. She is not here only to give birth — but to birth worlds, ideas, cultures. The great challenge is that her authority comes from within, not from outside. And in a system that only recognizes male and external power, the inner throne of the Magha woman becomes invisible.

The Magha woman is, in essence, a living ancestor in a young body. She carries in her bones the voices of the silenced women who came before. She was not born to obey — but to remember. And her journey is a solitary one, because the path of inner leadership has always been forbidden to women.

Her power is ancient. Her presence, real. Her struggle, spiritual.

She does not fight to assert herself.

She fights to remember who she is.

some answers about the thread. Women of Magha are powerful even though they are oppressed, there is no regret for having acted so courageously to face injustices but sadness for not having support.

[astrologydray]

…Pallas in the houses…

Pallas through the houses shows how and where your brain naturally sees patterns, solves problems, and defends what matters. It’s your built-in strategist, often working in the background through intuition, logic, or observation—this is the part of you that “just gets it.”

1st House – The walking strategist

You naturally read situations fast and lead with sharp instincts—people may feel like you’re always five steps ahead. Your mind and identity are fused; you can spot the game, make the move, and stay calm under pressure.

2nd House – The value-based problem solver

You’re great at figuring out how to make things last, make things make sense, or make money. You’re wise when it comes to worth—whether that’s self-worth, price tags, or how to build real security.

3rd House – The verbal pattern genius

You’re sharp with words, ideas, and reading the room—you could probably win a debate with your eyes closed. You solve problems by talking it out, explaining it clearly, or connecting dots no one else sees.

4th House – The emotional strategist

You instinctively know how people feel and how to protect what’s sacred. You’re the person who can sense emotional patterns in family, memory, or childhood dynamics before anyone else picks up on them.

5th House – The creative chess master

You use art, humor, flirting, or performance as tools to read and shift energy. You solve problems by shining your light in smart ways—and you’re great at making others feel seen or outwitted, depending on your mood.

6th House – The low-key expert

You’re a behind-the-scenes brain who knows how to fix, tweak, heal, and improve things quietly but powerfully. Your mind thrives in routines, systems, health practices, or jobs that require smart efficiency.

7th House – The relationship whisperer

You can see through people, understand dynamics instantly, and know exactly how to handle conflict without making it a war. You’re a master at reading between the lines in partnerships—business or romantic.

8th House – The emotional hacker

You’re psychologically sharp—you just know what’s going on under the surface. Your intuition is next-level, and you often solve deep, taboo, or emotionally messy problems like it’s nothing.

9th House – The big-picture thinker

You’re gifted at seeing patterns in belief systems, cultures, or worldviews. You solve things with a zoomed-out view—philosophy, teaching, spirituality, or calling out BS with facts and faith.

10th House – The public mastermind

Your wisdom shows up in how you move through your career, reputation, or leadership role. You’re seen as someone who “has it together,” because you apply smart strategies to your goals and grind.

11th House – The visionary connector

You’re brilliant in groups, ideas, or future plans—you just get networks, friendships, and what society needs. Your brain is wired for innovation and creating smarter systems for collective growth.

12th House – The intuitive mystic

Your wisdom comes from dreams, subtle energy, or divine downloads—you solve problems through gut feelings, not spreadsheets. You might not always explain how you know things… but you always do.