#As if they're not still trying to get back into your life to make you suffer even from afar

[captain-astors]

Finished up my attempt at Deuce within @where-does-the-heart-lie's fighting game AU! Feeling a little iffy about it but I might've just been staring at this for too damn long. Anyways thoughts, symbolism explanation, and sketches I made in the attempt bellow the cut.

Okay! So in general I worked with a rule of 2's when it came to Deuce's hearts with the exception of his camera, but that's supposed to pair with the pen with the little heart cap, I just didn't remember to keep that in my final drawings somewhere. Trying to strike a balance between "Just a guy" and "fun stylized outfit" was hard and I don't think I quite got it, but it was enjoyable nonetheless!

Heart glasses- Representative of how he loves observing the world and aspires to adventure through it. The cracked lens represents how the damage he's received from people he loved has caused him to look at others cynically at times. Meanwhile the unshattered lens sort of represents his tendency to look at those who earn his love with extreme levels of internal praise, half of Ace's first novel is just him waxing poetic about how lovely Ace is and I think that's hilarious.

Hearts on the gloves- He shows his love for the world and for people through the writing he does with his hands! But they're somewhat damaged because they've been utilized for the medicinal legacy that was forced upon him.

Heart on the camera/pen- A specific love for journalism and writing and telling a story, credits to Whery for the first one.

Spade on the shirt- Not technically a heart but it's a little play on how he keeps the Spades close to his heart/tends to be kind of pokey if you try to get close.

Spade/heart on the back of the shirt- Symbolic of the whole life-devoting love within him, so it's large, but it's kept guarded and tethered by the camera strap and can only be seen beneath a layer and if he trusts you enough to turn his back. It's mostly upside-down to look more like a heart if I'm honest, but that as well as that it's on his back and so guarded is all representative of how the family that he presumably once loved shamed and pressured him, making a sort of "weight on his back". It's spade shaped because that's who his devotion and love belongs to, but also when counted with the other one, Deuce!

One of my scrapped ideas was having the coat be a doctor's coat with the only hearts on it being scorched edges because something something fire set him free but he still uses his medicinal abilities to benefit people in his new life, but I couldn't get it to look right so I went with the summery looking thing he's wearing now. It's fine but it kind of lacks a personality, I think that's the main thing I'd try to revise if I redid this but I've already overthought it to hell so. Another day.

Ace in Dr. Robotnik's outfit from the sonic movie is there for facial reference and emotional support I guess, I made that a while ago.

And in one last vaguely related tangent, yours truly has a very distinctly heart-shaped birthmark on my foot. It symbolizes that I'm tired. (Jokes aside I think it's cool, afab actually stood for Assigned Fighting game character At Birth)

[ahgasegotarmy116]

Desiring Defiance | Kim Taehyung | One Shot | Teaser

Summary: Taehyung as a Mafia Lord takes care of his own, but when his priority becomes you, imagine his surprise...and delight when he figures out you want nothing to do with him. Pairing: f!reader x Mafia Lord Taehyung (Contract Marriage) (Taehyung's pov) Word Count: TBD Warnings: Smut, Explicit Language, Weapons, Drugs, Violence etc. (I haven't finished it so I'll add more warnings when the full fic comes out) A/N: I wanted to get this out to see if there's any interest in this story since I usually write fics for Jungkook but I'll be writing it regardless. Just wanted to have an opportunity to get a taglist going if possible p.s. This is my first Mafia fic and it's barely edited so pls have mercy on me 🥲 Requested by @bluehaven143 💜

"I've scheduled the jet for your birthday and have alerted the local staff to be ready for your arrival" my assistant relays, my men and I having a leisurely meeting and therefore feeling comfortable sharing in front of them since they're usually a part of those plans.

"You should book this new stripper I found while we're there. I've heard that she leaves her patrons thoroughly…satisfied" one of them says, wiping his nose off after inhaling a line of a white powder that we all know leads to no good.

I wave him off, knowing if I let him run his mouth the suggestions will go from crude to vulgar if left unchecked.

"No stripper?" one of the guys chimes in, feeling as though he got a toy he was entitled to taken away from him.

"You guys aren't coming this year" I say after telling my assistant we'll discuss this matter later.

"What do you mean we're not coming?" another chimes in, looking utterly betrayed. "I have other plans in mind this year" I inform, loosening my tie, it suddenly feeling a little too tight.

"Who are you going with if not us?" another asks, the notion completely ridiculous from their self centered viewpoint.

"My wife" I say, pulling out my phone to check her location, seeing that she's still at the office when she was supposed to be home an hour ago making me sigh and stand up, the group raising to their feet as a sign respect.

"You mean the woman you paid to marry you?" one of them mumbles, making a bold statement leaving me chuckling darkly while shaking my head, my pace slow but deliberate as I walk up to him, resting my hand on his shoulder before drawing my gun seconds later and placing the barrel against his temple.

The cold steel on his skin makes him shudder, the implications of what just one single pull of it's trigger could do to his life. His very well being dancing in the palm of my hand, oh so tempting to snuff out but I show some restraint and press the gun a little harder against his temple making him lean over, trying to get away from the no doubt painful pressure.

All the rest of my men are frozen in place, knowing better than to intervene, knowing that any sign of fear or questioning of my judgement could result in the intent to kill being pointed towards them.

"I suggest you watch your fucking mouth when you talk about my wife" I growl and he nods, apologizing profusely, sinking further and further down onto the floor, practically shaking with fear and when I cock the gun I can see the way his body tenses up in restraint, holding back the wince he no doubt wants to let out.

I stand there for a while, debating whether or not I should make an example out of him in the most extreme way possible.

I ultimately decide to withdraw my gun, placing it back on my person, fixing my suit jacket and running my fingers through my hair, letting out a sigh.

"Take him out back" I say and turn to walk away, leaving his pleas for mercy to fall of deaf ears.

He should know better. They all should know better than to question me or my judgement. Leaving me turning back to address the rest of the group once the guilty party is taken away, his wails for mercy soon being exchanged for wails of pain, muffled by the door now separating us.

"My business with my wife is none of any of your concern. Plus, it's not like many of you remember the reason we go abroad at the end of the year anyways, so there's no need for you to be included" I say and they all turn their eyes down disappointed but not surprised that this was cemented as a result of one man's sin.

"Make sure there aren't any loose ends I need to tie up while I'm gone…or when I get back" I say giving a pointed look to all of them, resulting in a unanimous sound of intent to do as they're told.

"Clean up my office. I don't want to see a single crumb or anything out of place when I get back" I say looking at one man in particular that has been crunching on a bag of chips since I walked in leaving him closing and setting it aside.

I leave with a unison farewell from all as I head to my car that's been pulled around front, waiting for me.

"Where to sir?" my driver Andrew asks once I get in the back seat, the only one I let speak freely in front of me. "My wife's office" I say leaving him humming. "You don't approve?" I ask, cocking my brow at him through the rear view mirror but he finds no fear in it.

"She's requested not to be disturbed until she's called for a ride home" he relays leaving me sighing, debating on whether or not I should respect her wishes. She's always so stubborn when it comes to work and does everything she can to keep my claws from sinking into it.

I don't feel like listening tonight though, especially not after what happened.

I want to see her. I need to see her.

"Sir?" he asks, trying to see if I've changed my mind given the new information. "My wife's office" I repeat and sit back, knowing I'm making the wrong choice but I won't let anyone keep me from getting what I want.

Not even her.

~~~~

Please let me know what you think and comment or click the link to join the taglist <3

Taglist: @jkslipppiercing @trina864 @kaitieskidmore97 @goddesofimortality @coolbluedude @coralmusicblaze @whoa-jo @00frenchfries00 @pastelpinkjoon @joonwater Taglist continued in the comments 💜

[cybrasigilism]

Hey, I was wondering if you could do a dae ho x reader x thanos, where they both are trying to do outlandish stuff to get the readers attention on them and not the other. they're both so goofy at times

This Means War (Kang Dae-ho/Thanos X F! Reader)

warning: no smut! | not proofread | lowercase intended | OOC (bc daeho and thanos don’t really interact in the series) | love triangle(?) | this is my interpretation of these characters, please be respectful even if my opinions on the characters differ from your own

characters: kang dae-ho (player 388), thanos/choi su-bong (player 230)

A/N: this may be the most entertaining fic i’ve written yet! thank you so much for the brilliant request, i’ve tried my best to make it an enjoyable read for you all! this is a mixed POV story so apologies for the confusion as it reads, i wanted to try something different but if this was too much of a confusing read i likely won’t do this style of fic very often. AND ik its short, i’m so sorry, but this is only the beginning of this story (if you guys like it)

–––-𖤓⋆˖⁺‧₊𖤐₊‧⁺˖⋆☾-–––

dae-ho was sure he’d never seen someone quite so captivating in all his life. the moment you grabbed his attention from across the room at the very beginning of the games, he knew he had to get to know you. whether it was the way your face managed to light up the dark atmosphere of the common area, or the way you carried yourself in a calm, collected, self assured manner amongst all the uncertainty; he fell head over heels effective immediately.

unfortunately for dae-ho, he wasn’t the only one who seemed to have noticed you. thanos had clocked you the minute people started filing out from their bunks, and he felt things right then that he hadn’t felt for anyone before. he was totally drawn to you, it was almost as if he knew he had to stake his claim on you sooner rather than later, lest someone make their move first. he would be damned if he lost his chance with the most gorgeous girl he’d ever laid his eyes on to some random.

as for you, you were spending more of your time focusing on your current situation rather than scouring the location for potential suitors. you didn’t notice any familiar faces, to be honest you were kind of relieved at that. you would have been embarrassed to see a colleague or a friend there, knowing full well the predicament that you must have been in to even consider joining these sketchy games. you maintained a level head up to the point where you were all led to this photo center like cattle, taking photos for whatever reason before entering the first game. just as you were joining a line to take your photo, you heard someone call out your number out of nowhere.

“sẽnorita!” the same voice called out once again this time followed quickly by a whistle, causing you to turn your head and see this purple-haired guy with a crowd of people surrounding him. “i’ve got room for one more here, c’mon!” he beckoned for you to join the cramped circle. you felt your face contort into a concerned expression before simply turning away and joining a line far away from whatever that was. you could still feel that guy look at you for a quick moment, but when you glanced in his direction, he was long gone.

—

this first game, Red Light Green Light, was not anything like what you or anybody else were expecting. when the rules stated that players who moved would be eliminated, you didn’t conclude that that meant they would be assassinated. poker face be damned, you could feel your body vibrate every time that creepy doll turned her head back round to face the players, eyes scanning for even the slightest bit of movement. the next time you were all allowed to move forward, this tall, dark haired guy moved in front of you almost deliberately. when you all froze again you noticed he had his hand extended out to you behind his back, with his mouth covered you could hear him whisper “just stay close to me, okay?” you waited before that damned dolls head was turned around again before you grabbed his hand and the two of you took off.

once you both crossed the finish line, you looked up at your mystery saviour. “thank you for doing that..” you said, voice noticeably shaken from all the death you witnessed, and were still witnessing. he looked down at you and smiled. “of course, anything for you.” that last part warmed your heart, it was nice to know you had already found someone you could rely on in these trying new circumstances of yours. you let your gaze shift off subconsciously and noticed that purple headed guy from earlier, staring daggers at the man who had just essentially saved your life.

—

after the surviving players returned to the common area, cast their vote, and split off back to their beds, thanos made a b-line for dae-ho, looming over his bed to which dae-ho quickly took notice.

“that was some lame shit you pulled.” dae-ho had never been so perplexed at another person in his life. “what’re you talking about?” he asked, earning a laugh from the quirky stranger. thanos kneeled down, making eye contact with dae-ho now. “you know damn well, 388,” he started, spitting out dae-ho’s number as though it were a dirty word. “swooping in, acting like the hero for that chick.” dae-ho looked unamused, trying to be unassuming about the whole ordeal. “i don’t know what you think this is, i was just trying to keep somebody alive-“

“i didn’t ask what you were trying to do, did i?” thanos interrupted, getting closer to dae-ho now. “just know this. she’s mine. so i wouldn’t waste my time if i were you.” dae-ho held back a laugh, before looking his newfound opponent up and down. “that’s funny, the feeling didn’t seem mutual when she gave you the cold shoulder during photos.” thanos scoffed, turning away in an attempt to keep his cool. “whatever man, she’s just playing hard to get.” his voice trailed off at the end, when he clocked you sitting in your own bunk, knees to your chest.

“yeah, i don’t think that’s true.” dae-ho stated, getting up out of his bed, and patting thanos on the back. “i get that you’re probably used to having girls fall over themselves for you, so it’s definitely shocking when someone like that doesn’t give you a second look.” dae-ho’s slight smugness about the whole ordeal left thanos speechless, watching with seething rage as dae-ho made his was over to where you were sat. he knew that the games weren’t the only thing he wanted to win over now. he knew he was certainly not going to let dae-ho captivate your heart so easily, and he knew that he was definitely not going down without a fight.

dae-ho knew something too: he now knew he had to keep you safe from thanos because something inside told him that if that maniac was capable of inadvertently killing random people in order to advance in the first game, there was no telling the lengths he would go to gain your attention. he made a vow to himself to never let you out of his sight while you were in your current situation. over his dead body would he let someone like thanos prevail.

the two of them both made a nemesis that day, each one swearing that they could get to you before the other did. they now knew it was about more than just the games.

they now knew that this meant war.

–––-𖤓⋆˖⁺‧₊𖤐₊‧⁺˖⋆☾-–––

apologies again for the length, or lack there of, of the fic! if anything i want to make this multiple parts but i understand if the format of this particular fanfiction is too confusing, and again i am sorry for that! just wanted to experiment :)

as always, advice and constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing are appreciated and requested!

have a splendid day/night lovelies 😙

tags: @gongyoosgf @agornotsworld @kvstjwonnie @marymustdie @pink-apples001 @fiicalapsiholoaga @wonestro @luvlyfandoms @putrescentpoet

[olderthannetfic]

Hi OTNF and everyone,

I am finding that it's harder and harder and harder to get into anything - book, show, movie... most things seem, you know, to just not be doing it for me, be it fanfic or original stuff.

In part, I think, it's a general restlessness and that it's become harder to give anything enough time to get into the stories, the characters, the settings, the narrative voices... I guess you can call it attention deficit on my part, just a need for stories to deliver those sweet, sweet hits quickly, but they're not.

I'm not currently ficcing but I did for years (might again in the future, who knows), and it's made reading, specifically, harder. It's like I've become more aware of what goes on behind the scene, I guess? I feel like I can see the writer giving up on a sentence, skipping a scene because fuck this, trying hard to not repeat a word although it's the only one that fits, etc.

Or maybe it's just the *everything* around us in the world that is weighing on me too much? I could say it's adult life, but then again I have more free time than most (and boy do I need hours of doing nothing to survive the other hours), and no family/partner (all that would put even more pressure on me): what is wrong, to make everything so UGHHH?

I feel like I'm stuck in a rut with a brain moaning feed me, feeeed me, and whatever I try to give it, it spits everything out. (Yes, I've tried hobbies, and nothing sticks there either. I've never really found rewards or satisfaction there, so...)

Decades ago as a kid, I was a voracious reader, although studying literature took the pleasure of it away from me. It took time and discovering fanfic that brought me back to reading, but at the time the internet was starting to be a thing, too, and it can't have helped the attention thing. AFAIK I'm not ADHD but then again, I couldn't get a proper diagnosis (the therapists I saw were either dismissive or just about The Talking, which was pointless for me).

I just wonder how it all disappeared, you know? Sometimes I find something that catches my attention for a while - a book (but I read quite quickly when motivated), a fandom... but it's been a while now, and it's just so frustrating! When is it going to come back? Will it ever? *gulp*

I know that books were escapism when I was a child, and then fandom was escapism, but at the moment I find myself grabbing at air and my empty hands are mocking me. Give me my escapism baaaaack!

So, uh. Anyone here with me?

--

Yes.

I felt like that during part of lockdown. Anhedonia is common in those kinds of circumstances.

Getting your mojo back is certainly possible, but you may need to go see a professional about depression and have some chemical assistance (yes, even if you don't feel sad per se), or you may need to change your lifestyle to one that doesn't have the thing causing you to need eleventy billion hours of downtime.

Aside from serious interventions like that, you can consider a social media detox. Remove every source of doomscrolling and time wasting of that type. When the attention span is zero and nothing brings joy, the tiny and useless hits from finishing a game of solitaire or seeing one more instagram post become very attractive. This is a trap. It will suck what little energy and joy you have and make your muscles flabby for the work of getting into an in-depth book/hobby/experience.

I know the feeling of being able to see how the sausage is made, but... well... first, being in a better mental state will make that matter less, and second, reading prose that is more competent will make that less of an issue. A lot of mainstream tradpub genre fiction is not, in my opinion, very well written these days. Obviously, people are still enjoying it, and that's fine, but if you're noticing writers fumbling around, it might be time to check out some literary fiction or some other category known more for prose quality than anything else.

It's also important to have some structure and some things to look forward to. Even if you feel tired, overwhelmed, and busy, sometimes, the answer is to do more... But it must be things that are distinct and significant and that get you off of the couch, like going to one museum every weekend.

I saw some advice once about this kind of thing that phrased it as "One big adventure; one small adventure."

Every week, you should have those two things to look forward to that matter. Check out a new coffee shop. That could be the small one. Go to an event: a gallery opening, a concert, whatever.

Physical exercise and doing some things that aren't as verbal and conscious thought-involving is important too. Painting is a better hobby for zoning out than writing is. Taking long walks in nature is good for most people.

--

The kind of intense, obsessive love I had for reading as a child and that I sometimes have for fandom requires a lot of attention and some time. It's escapist, but that masks how much work it actually was. It didn't feel like work only because we were in training.

If you've filled your brain and your day up with a thousand petty annoyances or minor and useless attempts to feel something, you won't have the capacity for those deeper things.

Because you are already at a point that's equivalent to a bad sprained ankle, trying to get back to running right now won't work. You have to stay off of the ankle for a bit, then build your strength and stamina back up.

[morgannalefey]

I'm going to try one more time because I'm I dunno a glutton for punishment or something. I don't have a lot of hope, though. My impression is that most folks aren't actually reading everything I have to say and are, at best, skimming. Which, to be fair, is par for the course on this site. For this reason there's a tl;dr at the end you can jump to if you're so inclined. The rest of this post is pretty long in order to explain, but if you don't really care about the explanation and just want to be horrified, go for it.

I'm fifty nine years old. I have been married for thirty six years. Prior to that marriage, I had been with a lot of different people in the 8 years between when I became sexually active and I got my spouse. So I am not inexperienced in either sexual encounters, problems relating to sexual relations, relationships (both long and short term), nor differences in hygiene habits.

In response to your incredulity over people's learned behaviors fading over time:

Habits of childhood can be difficult to unlearn. It's possible to make an effort to change a habit, but then for other things to come up that distract and the change gets forgotten in favor of the muscle memory from childhood. There are many things that I've learned over time that are better ways to do a thing, but sometimes still forget that I've learned a better way and resort to how I originally did the thing. There are many reasons why this might happen such as distractions or having too many things to think about so my body operates on autopilot for some things. If this continues for a while, one typically loses the new habit and has to relearn the new way of doing things. Though it does tend to come back faster than the initial attempt did, it's still a conscious effort that has to be made.

Back to the main point. The assumption I'm attempting to address here is the one where everyone learns all the same basic hygiene lessons and that no one could ever have any reason for not having learned to make sure to wash their privates all the way down to and including the perineum and anal area. This assumption carries a whole lot weight. Here's a partial list of things being assumed:

That they have a parent or family member who has taught them how to clean themselves well.

That the family had water that was safe to wash thoroughly in most of the time.

That the family had the money to pay for the water bills and didn't deliberately avoid certain washing rituals because of the cost of water.

That they had present family members at all.

That they weren't living unhoused for part or most of their childhood, making washing (and especially washing the private parts) less common or safe to do because showers and such weren't always available and washing on the street could get one arrested.

This is a list of situations I can think of off the top of my head that might mean a person wasn't really taught how to clean themselves properly or that might have prevented them developing the habit. It is hardly exhaustive.

Because I recognize that people have very different lived experiences than I have had, when I'm faced with a situation like has been mentioned in this thread, I'd be more likely to just ask some questions or try to have a conversation about it. As I said before, assuming that the relationship was otherwise a good one. No one is perfect and if I threw out an entire, very good, loving, and supportive relationship because of discovering a situation in my spouse's upbringing that was weird and a little gross to me, I wouldn't still be with my spouse. If, after talking with them, it turns out that they're just a lazy, dirty person who won't even try learning a new way to exist in order to not make their partner sick, that's a completely different situation.

Now that being said, I've broken up with a guy because of how he chewed (I could not stand it, his whole family chewed like that. Even the slightest possibility of having to spend my life around those people gave me the screaming willies. Still, I did mention it to him and he was unwilling to adjust how he chewed for me. So that was it). I've broken up with guys because I couldn't stand how they smelled even after showering.

I'm not saying it's not a break up worthy offense to not keep one's privates clean for one's partner. I'd probably be far less inclined to talk to him if he were an occasional partner, not a "boyfriend" but "boyfriend" suggests a certain degree of emotional entanglement that usually means one has put some effort into the relationship. It just seems extreme to not even talk to the boyfriend about the issue to see how they respond and instead to just dump them, but maybe that can be chalked it up to my extreme old age.

tl;dr Not everyone learns exactly the same lessons about washing their privates. Basic hygiene is a skill that has to be taught, it is not instinctive. Not everyone grew up with the same resources, family, water, time, as everyone else. The term "boyfriend" seems more involved than "fuck buddy" and so taking the time to talk to the boyfriend about something that's bothersome doesn't seem like an unreasonable course of action.

[cherryxbooo]

Okaaaay I can't resist on sending in another idea ❤️😊 I just loved the previous imagine too much!

Maybe some more Tim angst, where he's dating another officer for a while now and they're really happy. Then someday they get into an argument about something stupid, so she keeps ignoring him for nearly the whole shift. Later he hears over the radio that one officer got shot during a call and he already has a bad feeling. Just then his phone rings and Grey confirms his fears that it was you.

At the hospital it's not sure if you'll survive and Tim fears losing you without apologizing. In the end you survive of course and it's all just cute and fluffy in the end 🙊

We’re in this together

Summary: A police shift goes wrong, nothing out of the ordinary for an officer, but it hits differently when you’re losing the love of your life, and your last interaction was a fight.

Reader x Tim Bradford

Genre: fluff/angst

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the small kitchen as I leaned against the counter, cradling my favorite mug in both hands.

The first sip sent a warmth through me that was only rivaled by the sight in front of me.

Tim sat at the table, hunched over, tying his boots with the same care and focus he brought to everything he did.

Sunlight poured through the window, framing him in a soft glow, and I couldn’t help the way my lips tugged into a smile.

“Another day, another shift,” I teased, my voice gentle as I took another sip of coffee.

He glanced up at me with a crooked smile that never failed to make my heart flutter.

“Another day of you trying to boss me around.”

I raised an eyebrow, setting my mug down as I sauntered toward him.

“You love it when I boss you around.”

Tim chuckled, his hands pausing on his laces as he gave me a look that was all warmth and affection.

“You might have a point, sweetheart.”

He tugged the laces one last time and stood, towering over me in that way that always made me feel both small and completely safe.

“But I think I deserve a little credit for putting up with you.”

“Putting up with me?” I repeated, crossing my arms but unable to stop the grin spreading across my face.

“Who’s the one who burned breakfast again last week? Pretty sure I’m the patient one here.”

Tim stepped closer, his hands finding their way to my hips as he leaned down just enough to press a kiss to my temple.

“I burned breakfast because you distracted me,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, sending a little shiver through me.

I rolled my eyes, laughing softly as I rested my hands on his chest.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you’re perfect,” he replied without missing a beat, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that was sweet and unhurried.

He pulled back, just enough to look at me, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheek.

“Ready to head out, or should we take another five minutes to ‘discuss’ who’s the patient one in this relationship?”

I laughed again, giving his chest a gentle shove.

“Grab your jacket, Bradford. We’re not showing up late just because you can’t stop flirting.”

Tim grabbed his jacket and slid it on, but not before stealing one last kiss, quick but lingering enough to leave my heart racing.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured as he opened the door for me.

“You make it too easy.”

The drive to the station was filled with the kind of soft, easy conversation that came with knowing someone inside and out.

Tim reached over at one point, his hand brushing against mine where it rested on the console.

Without a word, he intertwined our fingers, his thumb tracing gentle circles over my skin as we drove.

“Think Cap will still be in that mood again today?” Tim asked, a hint of teasing in his tone.

“Probably,” I replied with a grin.

“You know how he gets when things don’t go perfectly. Angela said he spent half the night poring over those reports. Sounds almost like you.”

Tim shook his head with a soft laugh, his eyes briefly meeting mine.

“He needs to take a page out of your book and learn how to relax. Just like how you thought me.”

I smirked, squeezing his hand. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

“You would,”

he replied with mock exasperation, but his grin softened as he lifted my hand to press a kiss to my knuckles, his lips warm and gentle.

“That’s why I keep you around, you keep everyone on their toes.”

My cheeks warmed at the affection in his voice, and I leaned back into the seat, savoring the quiet comfort of the moment.

With Tim, even the drive to work felt like something special, like a little pocket of peace in the chaos of our lives.

As we pulled into the station’s parking lot, Tim shifted the car into park but didn’t move to get out just yet.

Instead, he turned to me, his gaze soft and adoring.

“What do you want to do on our next day off? Our day off is sacred, you know.”

I tilted my head, pretending to think, even as a smile tugged at my lips.

“How about a picnic? Somewhere quiet, just us. You bring the sandwiches, and I’ll bring dessert.”

His smile widened, and he leaned in to steal one last kiss before we stepped out into the world of uniforms and chaos.

“You always know how to make a day perfect,” he murmured against my lips.

“So do you,”

I whispered back still not believing I've got the grumpy Tim Bradford wrapped around my finger.

The precinct was already alive with its usual controlled chaos when we arrived.

The familiar hum of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air.

Officers walked around, exchanging case files, refilling coffee mugs, and prepping for the day ahead.

Tim and I stepped through the front doors together, the click of his boots against the tiled floor perfectly in sync with mine.

Ever the gentleman, Tim held the door open for me, his hand brushing lightly against the small of my back as I walked in.

The gesture was small but grounding, one of those quiet moments of affection that felt uniquely ours.

We didn’t make it three steps inside before Lucy’s voice rang out, full of teasing energy.

“Oh, look, it’s the power couple gracing us with their presence!”

she called, grinning from ear to ear as she leaned against her desk.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips.

“Good morning to you too, Chen.”

Angela was quick to join in, an amused smirk playing on her face.

“Wait a second... is that a smile on Tim’s face? What did you do, bribe him with something?”

I turned to Tim, arching a playful eyebrow.

“See? They think you’re less grumpy. Guess I’m rubbing off on you after all.”

Tim let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he slid his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not that grumpy,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him by twitching upward.

“Oh, sure,” Angela replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“And I’m the King of England.”

I laughed, giving Tim a quick wink as we moved toward our desks.

“Don’t worry, Bradford. I like you grumpy. Keeps things interesting.”

He shot me a mock glare, but there was no hiding the warmth in his eyes as he pulled his chair out and settled in across from me.

The morning briefing was the usual mix of updates and assignments, with Grey running through the day’s agenda in his signature no-nonsense tone.

Tim sat beside me, his leg brushing mine under the table, a quiet reminder of his presence that made my heart skip despite the mundane nature of the meeting.

When the captain finally dismissed us, Tim leaned over, his voice low enough for only me to hear.

“You zoning out on me, sweetheart?”

I smirked, tapping my pen lightly against my notepad.

“Nope. Just wondering how you manage to look so serious all the time.”

He tilted his head, a playful gleam in his eye. “It’s a gift.”

“Must be exhausting,” I teased, standing and grabbing my notes as we joined the others heading toward the bullpen.

The rest of the morning passed in a comfortable rhythm as Tim and I fell into our usual routine.

Working together had become second nature after months of finding our rhythm.

We didn’t need words to communicate half the time, a shared glance or the slightest tilt of his head was enough to tell me what he was thinking.

But as the hours ticked by, the warmth of the morning started to shift.

Calls came in one after another, each one more demanding than the last.

The weight of the job pressed down on us, and the lighthearted banter that carried us through most days began to fade.

During a brief moment of reprieve, Tim appeared beside me, holding out a steaming cup of coffee.

His expression was softer now, more serious, but the affection in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Thought you could use this,” he said simply, his voice quieter than usual.

I took the cup, my fingers brushing his for just a second longer than necessary.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said softly, meeting his gaze.

He gave a small smile, one of those rare, genuine ones that he saved just for me.

“Don’t mention it. You’ve got my back, and I’ve got yours. Always.”

It was moments like these, tucked between the chaos and the noise, that reminded me how lucky I was.

With Tim, the hard days felt a little less heavy, and the good ones felt extraordinary.

Tim and I rarely fight, but if we did, we were quick to make up. But this time I wasn't so sure about that.

It began in the shop during a lull between calls, one of those rare, quiet moments when the hum of the engine was the only sound filling the air.

The city seemed unusually still, as though even it were taking a breath.

I glanced out the window, watching the sunlight play off passing buildings, when the thought struck me.

“Hey,” I said casually,

“we’re out of supplies in the first aid kit.”

Tim, who’d been focused on the road, flicked his eyes toward me briefly.

“You forgot to restock it, didn’t you?”

His tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried an edge that immediately put me on the defensive.

I turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“Me? You’re the one who used it last.”

He let out a short breath, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel.

“Yeah, and I told you to refill it afterward.”

“You told me?” I shot back, incredulous.

“No, you mentioned it in passing, and I assumed you’d take care of it since, you know, you used it.”

Tim’s jaw tightened as his gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead.

“It’s not about who used it. It’s about being prepared. What if we get a call and need it? Are we supposed to improvise because you didn’t think to check?”

His words, laced with frustration, hit a nerve.

My temper flared, and I turned in my seat to face him fully.

“Oh, so now it’s my job to clean up after you? Got it. I’ll just add that to the list, right after making sure you remember to pack your lunch and not leave your coffee mug in the car.”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

“This isn’t about me leaving my mug. This is about you taking responsibility for something important instead of deflecting every damn time.”

The way he said it like I was careless or didn’t pull my weight, sent a sharp pang of hurt through me.

“Wow, Tim,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Thanks for the lecture. I’ll be sure to put it in the suggestion box right after I file all the other things you think I should be doing better.”

“Forget it,”

he muttered, his tone curt as he turned his attention back to the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

I crossed my arms, glaring out the window as silence fell over the car.

The warmth and ease of the morning were gone, replaced by an icy tension that made the air feel heavier.

By the time we pulled up to the next call, the tension had settled in so thickly it felt like another passenger in the car.

Neither of us spoke as we stepped out and approached the scene, our usual rhythm replaced by clipped movements and short, professional exchanges.

For the rest of the shift, I kept my responses to Tim short and curt.

If he asked for status updates, I gave him the bare minimum.

If he cracked a joke to try and lighten the mood, I didn’t even spare him a glance.

It was petty, but I wasn’t ready to let it go.

I could feel his frustration growing with every brush-off.

The way his jaw clenched or the flicker of annoyance in his eyes when I avoided meeting his gaze only confirmed it.

By mid-afternoon, he stopped trying altogether, the usual back-and-forth banter between us replaced by strained silence.

Finally, during a rare quiet moment back in the car, Tim broke the silence.

His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

“You going to keep this up all day?”

I didn’t look at him, instead staring out the windshield at the street ahead.

“I don’t know,” I said flatly.

“Are you going to stop being an ass?”

He sighed, long and heavy, the sound of someone grappling with his own frustration.

“Fine,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Have it your way.”

But even as he said it, there was something in his tone that softened the edges of my anger.

I stole a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, catching the faintest flicker of hurt in his expression.

It wasn’t like Tim to let things fester, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d pushed too hard.

Still, my own stubbornness held firm, and I looked away before he could catch me staring.

The silence between us stretched on, heavier now than it had been before.

The next day arrived, and the tension between Tim and me hadn’t eased.

With us both being too stubborn to give in.

We were back at the station for our next shift, with the two of us still clearly not on speaking terms.

The air was thick with unspoken words as we went through the motions of starting our day.

Tim was focused, doing his job with the usual precision, but the distance between us was palpable.

Angela and Lucy exchanged looks as they watched the two of us, sensing that something was off.

“So,” Angela started, leaning against the counter with her coffee cup,

“what’s going on with you two? You guys usually can’t keep your hands off each other, and today—”

She gestured between us, her eyes wide in disbelief. “Nothing?”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, glancing between Tim and me.

“You two seriously not talking?”

I glanced at Tim briefly, but his attention was fixed on the paperwork in front of him.

I sighed inwardly, turning to face my friends.

“It’s just... a disagreement,” I said, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

Angela looked unconvinced.

“A disagreement? You’ve barely looked at each other all morning. Come on, you can tell us. What happened?”

I didn’t know how to explain it.

The argument from yesterday still felt fresh, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not yet.

“It’s fine,” I said, shrugging it off. “We’ll work through it.”

Lucy wasn’t convinced either, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Right, because it’s so obvious you two are just fine.”

I forced a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Now, we’ve got work to do, right?”

Tim didn’t seem to notice our conversation, too absorbed in whatever report he was reading.

I glanced at him again, feeling the weight of the silence between us.

Part of me wanted to reach out, to say something, but the other part was still too angry to make the first move.

The next few hours felt like a blur of cases and calls, my mind distracted by the unspoken words lingering between us.

At least I was scheduled to go on patrol with a rookie today, which meant I’d be away from Tim for a while.

The rookie, Aaron, seemed eager enough, though I could tell he was still finding his footing.

I was relieved, in a way, I didn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of being in the same shop as Tim while we were still this... distant.

Late in the shift, the radio crackled to life, breaking the silence.

“Units 23 and 45, we have a report of a suspected robbery crew holed up in an abandoned warehouse. Multiple units responding. Proceed with caution.”

I immediately grabbed my gear, my heart rate spiking slightly.

This was serious.

Aaron, looked at me, his face a mix of excitement and nervousness.

“You ready, Officer?”

I gave him a reassuring smile, though it didn’t reach my eyes.

“Just follow my lead.”

The ride over was quick, the weight of the situation settling in as we pulled up to the scene.

The warehouse loomed in front of us, abandoned and desolate, like something out of a movie.

Officers were already moving into tactical formations, their expressions tense as they communicated through earpieces.

My stomach tightened as we got out of the car, the sound of officers shouting commands echoing through the air.

We were assigned to clear the second floor of the building.

I glanced up at the stairs, the darkened interior of the warehouse giving off an eerie vibe.

My instincts kicked in, but I pushed the thoughts aside, there was work to do.

Aaron and I moved cautiously up the stairs, checking our corners as we went.

The silence was deafening, the only sound our footsteps on the dusty floor.

It was too quiet.

As we reached the top of the stairs, I motioned for Aaron to take the left side while I covered the right.

We moved slowly, staying low to the ground.

My hand hovered near the grip of my weapon, but something felt... off.

And then, a single gunshot shattered the silence.

The sound was deafening, ringing in my ears, and before I could react, pain exploded in my side.

I gasped, the force of the impact knocking me to the ground.

My breath hitched as I tried to focus, feeling the warmth of blood soaking through my uniform.

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to stay conscious. “Aaron…���

My voice was shaky, but I could still hear the panic in his voice as he called for backup.

But all I could focus on was the searing pain in my side and the growing sense of fear that gripped me.

At that moment my mind went blank and the last thing I could think about was... Tim

Meanwhile,

Tim was still at the precinct, sitting at his desk, his mind occupied with the usual paperwork and the hum of the station around him.

It was a rare quiet moment, one of those in-between times when the calls had slowed down, and officers were catching their breath.

He barely noticed the radio crackle to life at first.

But then, a voice came through, sharp and urgent:

"Officer down. Requesting medical assistance."

His stomach dropped.

A cold wave of dread swept over him, his breath catching in his throat.

The world around him seemed to slow as he stared at the radio.

He was trained for these moments, for the harsh reality that could hit at any moment.

But this? This felt different.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he looked around the bullpen. His heart was racing.

The words replayed in his head. Officer down.

The feeling of helplessness, of not knowing who hit him like a freight train.

But he had a feeling who it was, otherwise he wouldn't be reacting like this right?

"Who is it?" Tim's voice was low but desperate, laced with an emotion he wasn’t willing to admit.

The other officers in the room exchanged glances, but no one had an answer.

The station seemed to be holding its breath as everyone waited for more information.

Tim didn’t wait.

His eyes locked on his phone as it began to ring, the screen lighting up with a name he’d never wanted to see in this context: Grey.

His heart pounded harder, a sickening sense of dread seizing him.

He grabbed the phone with shaking hands, swiping it to answer.

"Grey," he said, his voice tight, barely holding it together.

There was a pause on the other end. A heavy silence.

Then, Captain Grey’s voice came through, thick with an emotion Tim couldn’t place.

“It’s Y/L/N, Tim,” Grey said, his tone grim.

“She’s been shot. They’re taking her to St. Joseph’s.”

Tim froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow.

Y/n has been hit. He couldn’t breathe.

His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one a blur of terror and disbelief.

His hand tightened around the phone, his knuckles white as he struggled to keep it together.

“Tim…” Grey’s voice softened, as if he could sense the storm raging inside him.

“Get to the hospital. They’ll need you there.”

Tim didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.

He just slammed the phone down, his body already in motion, his heart racing like it might beat out of his chest.

The sound of his boots pounding against the floor was deafening in the silence of the station.

He didn’t think. He didn’t ask questions.

His mind was consumed by one thought, one single, unrelenting impulse: Get to you.

He grabbed his keys off the counter, his fingers fumbling as he rushed to the door.

He didn’t stop to grab his jacket, didn’t hesitate for a second.

His eyes were wild with panic, his breath shallow as he sprinted out of the station.

The drive to the hospital felt like an eternity. Every second that ticked by felt like a hundred years.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his grip so tight it was painful.

The sirens of other emergency vehicles echoed in the distance, but they only made the dread in his chest grow deeper.

What had happened? Were you okay?

His mind raced with questions, but every time he tried to focus on the answers, the fear crept back in.

He couldn’t let himself go there, not yet.

He didn't even get to apologize, to hold you, to tell you how much he loved you.

The hospital loomed ahead, its lights flashing in the early evening dusk.

Tim didn’t slow down as he pulled into the parking lot, his car screeching to a halt.

He was out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop, barely registering the cold night air as he rushed inside.

His heart was pounding in his ears, the noise around him a blur as he darted through the hospital’s hallways.

He had no idea where he was going, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get to her.

Finally, he reached the ER. The doors swung open, and he froze for a moment, his breath caught in his throat as he scanned the room.

Nurses and doctors moved quickly, their expressions grim as they passed by.

"Sir," a voice called from behind him, and he turned to find one of the paramedics who had been at the scene and knew about Tim's arrival.

“She’s in surgery.”

Tim’s breath hitched, and he felt his knees go weak. Surgery.

The word felt like a punch to the gut.

“Is she…” His voice cracked, but he couldn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t want to hear the answer.

The paramedic’s eyes softened, but there was no comfort in them.

“We don't know yet, the bullet went deep making it a dangerous operation. They’re doing everything they can.”

He was out of breath, his chest tight, his mind spinning.

He couldn’t shake the image of you he created in his brain, lying on the floor of that warehouse, the pain in your eyes, he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there to protect you.

He walked over to the waiting area, collapsing into a chair, his head in his hands.

His body felt like it was made of stone, but his mind was all fire, anger, guilt, fear, tearing him apart.

All he could do was wait. And pray.

Tim sat in the sterile, quiet hospital room, his fingers gently tracing the back of your hand, his eyes fixed on your face.

The soft beeping of the machines monitoring your vitals was the only sound that filled the space, but even that felt too loud, a reminder of the fragile thread that you were hanging on.

Tim had barely been able to breathe since he’d received the call about you.

The news had come like a punch to the gut,

'Officer down.'

It was all a blur after that, the frantic rush to St. Joseph’s, the sterile scent of the emergency room, the doctors giving him no guarantees.

They weren't sure you’d make it through.

Those words had haunted him, repeating in his mind over and over, and no matter how many times he told himself you were a fighter, the fear never quite went away.

He never told you that he loved you properly that morning, never had a chance to make it right.

The argument from the day before still felt raw, and the thought of not getting the chance to apologize tore at his heart like nothing else could.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Tim whispered softly, his voice barely audible.

“I should’ve told you I loved you before. I should’ve… I should’ve been better. I’m so sorry.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, as if his touch could bring you back to him.

Your hand felt warm in his, but the stillness of your body only made him feel more hopeless.

What if he’d never get the chance to make it right?

What if this was the last time he’d hold your hand, the last time he’d be able to tell you how much you meant to him?

Angela and Lucy arrived not long after, their faces a mix of concern and support as they entered the room.

Tim hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked away from you.

Lucy tried to lighten the mood, cracking jokes to get him to smile, but it felt impossible.

How could he laugh when you were lying there, so close to slipping away?

She offered him a drink, trying to give him space to breathe, and as soon as she left to go down the hall, Angela stayed behind, sitting beside him in the chair.

“You know, you don’t have to do this alone,”

Angela said, her voice soft but firm, as if trying to remind him he didn’t have to carry the weight of everything by himself.

“You’ve got people who care about you.”

Tim swallowed hard, running a shaky hand through his hair.

The guilt was suffocating, and the uncertainty of what would happen to you next made his chest ache.

“I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve her, not after everything. The last words we said to each other… they weren’t even good ones. We fought. I fought with her, and now… now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to make it right. What if she… what if she doesn’t wake up?”

Angela reached over, gently placing a hand on his arm, her eyes full of empathy.

“Tim, she knows. She knows you love her. She knows you’d never want to hurt her.”

“I should’ve told her that,” Tim muttered, looking down at his hands, his voice thick with regret.

“I should’ve told her before. She deserves to hear that from me, not after everything's already gone wrong. What if... What if she doesn’t know how much she means to me?”

Angela squeezed his arm in reassurance.

“She does, Tim. You just have to believe that. And when she wakes up, you can tell her then. You’ve still got time to make it right.”

“I just wish I’d made more time… before all this happened,”

Tim whispered, his voice barely above a breath, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a dark cloud.

As the hours dragged on, Lucy came back with a drink, and the two women left, sensing that Tim needed some space.

They both exchanged a concerned glance before making their exit, but their presence, their words of support, had offered Tim a little comfort.

Still, as the door closed behind them, he was left alone in the room again with you.

His heart beat painfully in his chest, and the room felt colder now that the comforting voices of his friends were gone.

He sat back down in the chair beside your bed, his hand still holding yours as if he could keep you anchored in this world with his touch.

Then, something unexpected happened.

Your fingers twitched, and Tim's heart skipped a beat. His gaze snapped to you, not daring to blink, as he saw your eyelids flutter.

For a moment, he thought he might be imagining it, but then you blinked again, and this time, your eyes fluttered open, groggy but focused.

Tim didn’t know what to do first. He could barely breathe as he leaned closer, his hands shaking.

“Y/n?” His voice cracked, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

His hand moved to your cheek, gently caressing it as if to make sure you were real, that this wasn’t some dream he was having.

“Baby, you’re awake?”

Your eyes met his, blurry at first, but then clearer as you seemed to recognize him.

A small, weak smile spread across your face, and Tim felt the tight knot in his chest slowly start to loosen.

“Tim?” you whispered, your voice soft, hoarse from the intubation, but still full of recognition.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he breathed out, his voice thick with emotion.

He couldn’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tim called for the doctor immediately, unable to tear himself away from your side.

His heart raced as he watched you, feeling a mixture of relief and fear.

What if you didn’t make it through this?

What if you slipped away again before they could get to you?

But then the doctor arrived, checking your vitals, and gave them the good news.

You were stable. You had pulled through.

“You’re going to be okay,” the doctor said.

“You’ll need to stay here for a few days, but you’re out of the woods.”

Tim let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He felt a sense of relief that he hadn’t felt since the moment you were shot.

You were here.

You were with him.

I let out a small chuckle, despite the pain, trying to lighten the mood.

“Thought I was in heaven when I opened my eyes and saw all these lights.”

Tim couldn’t help but laugh, his hand tightening around yours.

“Please never scare me like that ever again." He said now much more seriously, before speaking up again.

"I’m so, so sorry, babe. For the argument, for the way I talked to you, for everything.”

My smile faltered, my eyes full of vulnerability.

I reached out with my free hand, gently cupping his face.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I never should’ve let us get so angry. I love you, Tim. I just… I just want you to know that.”

“I love you too,” Tim replied, his voice shaky.

“I love you more than anything. And I promise, I’ll never let something like that happen again. I won’t take you for granted. I’ll fight for us, always.”

My voice cracked as I spoke again, tears spilling from my eyes.

“I don’t want to fight anymore, Tim. I don’t ever want us to be apart again.”

Tim kissed my hand, his lips brushing over my knuckles, the tears still flowing freely from both of us.

“I swear, babe, I’ll make it right. I’ll spend every moment from here on out showing you how much I love you.”

“No more fights. No more leaving things unsaid. Let’s never do that again.”

Tim smiled, pressing his forehead against yours as he whispered the words that had been stuck in his heart all along.

“No more fights. I promise. We’re in this together."

"Always.”

In that moment, everything felt right again.

I was alive. I was here, with Tim.

And nothing, no matter what, would ever break us apart again.

The end

[calirph]

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒. all these sentences come from a search on goodread's keywords for fantasy romance and romantasy. please change names, locations and pronouns as you see fit. some of these might be suggestive.

“Rejection is an opportunity for your selection.”

“But I will not run. I wouldn't be standing here if I'd quit every time something seemed impossible to overcome. I will not die today.”

“There is no me without you.”

“They say the soul cannot rest until it finds its match. Then it ignites.”

“You don't love someone because they're a dream of perfection. You love them because of the way they meet their challenges, how they struggle to overcome. You love them because together, you bring out the best in each other.”

“Do you make it a habit to compliment everyone who's trying to kill you?"

“Do you really want to put yourself through this? Is loving me really enough to endure everything you have to just to be with me?"

“Make no mistake, little human. You are under my protection now, and I protect what is mine.”

“Love is when you’d rather see someone one last time and die, than never see their face again.”

“You are sweet to be so concerned over my love life, but I’ve decided only to date guys who have bigger swords than me.”

“Laire, get back here! You do not drink before we meet with our mortal enemy.”

“She's magic, Cassandra. A single flower blooming in an endless desert.”

“I bring you the whole of my heart at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars.”

“You're exquisite. You're transcendent. And you are mine.”

“Fight me, love. You'll need the strength at the pass. Let that power fly."

“Gods, there seemed to be nothing more humiliating than being attracted to someone who didn't feel the same.”

“Call him. Claim him. Speak his Name. Make him thine before all others.”

“They were all short lives. She'd just wanted to spend more of hers with him. She'd just wanted more time.”

“You could never hate me as much as you want me.”

“That’s the thing about life. To know there’s an end, to be unable to run from it, but to live anyway.”

“I would fetch you the moon if only to spare your tears again”

“I am Death. And you are a fool. I hope revenge is worth it.”

“They despise us because we are Immortal, but it is the blood that runs through our veins ...That they fear.”

“The time for hiding is over. The time for fear is over. The time for action is now.”

“You are powerful by birth but have it in you to be good by choice.”

“It's not protection, little dragon. It's a claim. You're mine. No one touches what belongs to me.”

“Maybe you’ve know what it’s like to be at the bottom, but I doubt you’ve known hell.”

“How can I even look at any other guy on campus when you’re always on my mind? Literally.”

“Love is a not a weakness.”

“My future had been set for me before I was old enough to question it.”

“No one doubts your honourable nature, most noble of kings and best of brothers.”

“When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds.”

“Be everything you truly are. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you, my silver one.”

“But if we don’t have peace, we shall have you.”

“Oh, Gesela, do not pretend you despise my attention.”

“He was beautiful and cold, like winter…”

“Answer my question. Send to my will. Why have you come, sweet one?”

“When you spend so long trapped in darkness, you find that the darkness begin's to stare back at you.”

“Iron is made stronger in the hottest part of the fire, Seth. You didn't break me, you forged me.”

“The whole damn world could burn, and I would still love you. When everything dissipates, you're the only thing I see. You've always been.”

“I’ll happily play the villain if you’re my reward, Mareina.” 

“This realm’s moon hung on the skies, mine laid beside me, smiling and radiant.”

“If you're going to lie, make it a good one.”

“No one is killing my king tonight.”

“My beautiful Olivia, you are the moon of my night sky, beaming light and beauty into my life.”

“That’s it, my bride. Take your pleasure.”

“Perhaps, but the mind is also a powerful force. What you believe, you often see. And what you hope, often comes to be.”

“Patience is about as foreign to me as mercy."

“Remember that you are a wolf. And you cannot be caged.”

“I would have suffered a thousand more years to be with you.”

“It’s not easy to ignore an unfinished day that has been set on reminding you of its bitterness.”

“We aren't anything like strangers anymore, and certainly nothing like enemies. Compassionate like friends. Tender like lovers.”

“All or nothing. In dreams as in life.”

“You need me because I am the Queen of Ithicana.”

“You are mine, mo krrá. The same way that I am yours. From now until the end of time.”

“She would not be mastered by anything again; she was the master of herself.”

“When will you see I'm not your enemy, but your weapon. Wield me..”

“I may be evil but I do have a heart, Princess. It belongs to you. “

“There's no room for doubt on the wings of birds, let alone on the mane of moon dust.”

“I'll say it again. I don't care what you are. I care about who you are.”

“Your wish is my command, my queen.”

“I thought all you princes wanted was demure virgins you could pluck for the first time."

“Power was poison, one that slipped beneath the skin and which could turn even the purest soul into a wicked monster.”

“Love was a lethal weapon that rivaled the sharpest sword. It cut directly to the heart.”

“Morgan Pendragon is far from insignificant. She's a force of destiny and you would do well not to trifle with her or ever let her name cross your lips again.”

“I don't think I've ever met anyone as vexing as you,"

“That was what it meant to have power, wasn't it? You could simply destroy that which didn't serve you.”

[aventurineswife]

hey so feel free to ignore this request if you're uncomfortable with it. Can i ask Kinich x suicidal reader? They're already dating and the reader confide in their true feelings about slowly losing the will to live because they feel like they cant handle life.

More explanation: i imagine the reader have a laid back, cheerful and out going personality, the reader joke about offing themself everyday intentionally so nobody will take them seriously if they ever for real tell them about it.

Also i kinda see Kinich as young adult(19/20) and i think the reader is also one who is struggling with adulthood(the reader's family used to spoil them)

Note: this is so self-indulgent, im so sorry if this makes you feel uncomfortable😭 should've just talk to a therapist bot on c.ai or summ.(sorry if this triggers you☹️)

“If I Fall, Will You Catch Me?”

Summary: You and Kinich have been dating for some time, your contrasting personalities complementing one another. While you wear a mask of cheerfulness and make light of your struggles, you harbor a deep internal battle against feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness. One night, unable to maintain the facade any longer, you confide in Kinich about your true feelings.

Tags: Kinich x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Emotional Vulnerability, Found Family, Struggles of Adulthood, Fluff and Angst, Supportive Partner, Healing Through Understanding.

Warnings: Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts and Ideation, Themes of Emotional and Mental Health Struggles, Potential Triggers for Readers Sensitive to Discussions of Depression or Hopelessness, Includes moments of emotional distress but concludes on a hopeful note.

A/N: I'm really glad you felt comfortable sharing this, and I want to remind you that you're not alone in how you're feeling. Struggling with these emotions, especially when the world feels heavy, is so difficult, but it’s okay to reach out and talk about it when you're ready. You don’t need to carry everything by yourself. Life can be really overwhelming, and even though it can feel like you're stuck or that things won’t change, there is support available to help you work through it. It's okay to feel lost or unsure—what you're going through doesn’t make you any less valuable. Take care of yourself, and I hope you find the peace and healing you deserve. You are worthy of it! 🫂💖🫶

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the trees of the canopy. The air smelled of damp earth and the wild, untamed beauty of nature. You sat on the edge of a rock, watching the wind ruffle the leaves, your feet dangling over the edge.

Kinich sat next to you, his eyes scanning the surroundings with that focused, pragmatic gaze of his. He wasn't one for small talk, never had been, and you appreciated that. Silence between you felt like a comfortable thing, a space where words weren't always necessary. Still, you knew him well enough by now to sense when something was off.

You leaned back, stretching your legs, trying to distract yourself from the heaviness that had been creeping into your chest for weeks. Life felt like a mountain you could never quite scale, and no matter how many times you tried to climb, it always felt like it would swallow you whole.

"Hey," you said casually, as if this was just another joke, "maybe I should just go out and... off myself, y'know? Maybe then I'll find some peace."

You tried to make it sound light, as you always did, tossing the words out like they were nothing. It was the same joke you made every day, the one you used to hide the truth. But today, your smile felt forced, and you hated the way the words tasted in your mouth.

Kinich didn’t laugh. He never did when you said that.

You glanced over at him. His eyes were locked on you, unreadable yet piercing. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence drag on.

Finally, he exhaled deeply, his expression softening, but not in a way that was comforting. "You don’t get to joke about things like that with me," he said quietly, his voice steady, almost too calm. "Not anymore."

Your heart skipped a beat. He'd never said anything like that before. You turned to face him, your playful demeanor slipping away as you stared at him.

"Kinich, come on. You know it’s just a joke. I’m fine," you said, trying to backpedal, but the words didn’t sound convincing, even to you.

He didn't say anything, but his gaze hardened slightly, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something deep in his eyes. Maybe it was concern, maybe it was frustration, but it was there. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the intensity of his presence filling the space between you.

"You think I don’t notice?" Kinich said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it held weight. "You laugh and joke, but I can see it. You’re not fine. I’ve seen the way you look at the world like it’s just... too much. Too heavy. Like you’re carrying something too big for your shoulders."

You stiffened, your throat tightening as the words he said felt like they were cutting straight through the walls you’d carefully built around yourself. You didn’t know how to respond.

"I’m... I’m just tired," you managed to say after a long moment. "Everything’s harder than it should be. It feels like I’m never going to figure it out. And... I don’t think I have the strength left to keep pretending."

Kinich didn’t look away. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his gaze that made you feel like you were under a microscope. He didn’t need to speak to convey how much he understood.

"You’re not alone in this," he said softly, and for the first time, there was a tenderness to his words that made your heart ache. "You might feel like you’re alone, but you’re not. Not anymore."

The silence stretched between you two again, but this time, it felt less oppressive. Kinich’s presence beside you was comforting, even if you didn’t fully understand why. He wasn’t the kind of person who offered comforting words freely, but when he did, it always felt genuine.

"I don’t know what you’re going through," Kinich continued, his voice still steady. "But I know what it’s like to feel lost. To feel like you’ve got nothing left to give. To carry things you shouldn’t have to carry. I’ve been there."

You turned your gaze away from him, a lump forming in your throat. You hadn’t expected him to share anything about himself, and it made you realize just how much you didn’t know about him, despite everything.

"Kinich…" you started, but he held up a hand.

"I don’t want you to carry this by yourself," he said, his voice hardening slightly. "I’ll help you carry it. You don’t have to handle everything alone. Not anymore."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

"I’m scared, Kinich. I don’t know how to keep going when it all feels like it’s too much," you confessed, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to remain steady.

He didn’t hesitate. Kinich placed a hand on your shoulder, firm and unwavering, and his eyes softened just a little. "You don’t have to have all the answers. Just take it one step at a time. And if you fall, I’ll be here. You won’t have to do it alone."

You blinked, feeling the walls around your heart crack just a little, the weight on your chest easing ever so slightly. Kinich wasn’t here to fix you. He wasn’t offering grand solutions. He was simply offering to stand by your side, no matter what.

And for the first time in a long while, you believed him.

"Thank you," you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady. "I don’t deserve it."

He shook his head, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. "Don’t talk like that. You’re not the only one who’s struggling. We all have our battles."

You nodded, trying to hold back the sob that was threatening to escape. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you might be able to breathe again.

Kinich didn’t speak further. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough. And that, in itself, was a promise.

A promise that no matter how dark things got, no matter how heavy life seemed, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

You weren’t sure what the future would bring, or how you would handle everything, but you knew one thing for sure: Kinich would be by your side. And that, somehow, made everything a little easier to bear.

[emjayewrites]

royalty • ibou konaté oneshot

SYNOPSIS: Ibou loves his wife — period, point blank. Part 2 to A King & His Queen

WARNINGS: cursing, mentons of religion, rude/judgmental parents - 18+

TAGLIST: @kj77, @ibouchouchou, @saturnville, @lev-1-1, @irishmanwhore, @certifiedlesbianbaddie, @f1-football-fiend @peyiswriting @tsukishimawhore @themaster-2007blog @sucredreamer @muglermami @rougereds

The notifications wouldn't stop buzzing. Ibou turned his phone face-down on the kitchen counter, but he could still see the ghost of those tweets behind his eyelids.

"Konate disasterclass today" "Man's head's not in the game" "25M down the drain"

He pressed his palms against the cool marble, letting out a slow breath. The match replayed in his mind – that missed clearance, the penalty, the whispers in the tunnel after. Everyone had off days, but this felt different. Heavier.

Upstairs, he could hear Saniya throwing up again. Fifth time today. She'd insisted it was just a stomach bug, but watching her get progressively worse over the past week had him worried sick. Add that to her mother's daily calls…

"Have you taken her to a proper doctor?" Mrs. Okafor had demanded yesterday, her voice sharp through the speaker. "Not those English ones. She needs traditional medicine. This wouldn't happen if she kept a cleaner house. I told her, working so much with those athletes isn't good for a wife—"

Ibou had bit his tongue. Hard. For Saniya's sake, always for Saniya's sake. But seeing his wife cry after every call, watching her try to balance her thriving sports psychology practice with her mother's endless expectations of what a "proper wife" should be – it was eating at him.

The sound of retching had stopped. He filled a glass with water and headed upstairs, finding Saniya curled up on their bathroom floor. Her curls were a mess, skin clammy, but she still tried to smile when she saw him.

"Don't even start," she warned weakly. "I know that face. I'm fine."

"You're not fine." He sat beside her, pulling her into his lap. "And I'm not fine watching you suffer."

"Rough day?"

Classic Saniya, deflecting to worry about him instead. "Don't change the subject."

She leaned her head against his chest, and he could feel the slight tremor in her body. "Mum called again."

"I bet."

"Says I'm making myself sick working too much. That if I was a proper wife, I'd…"

"Stop." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "You're burning up, mon cœur."

"It's nothing."

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. More notifications probably, more criticism, more noise. But right now, none of that mattered.

"We're seeing a doctor tomorrow," he said firmly. "No arguments."

"The team needs you for training—"

"You need me more."

She was quiet for a moment, playing with the hem of his shirt. "I saw what they're saying. On Twitter."

"Twitter's not real life."

"But it affects you. I see it in your eyes, in how you carry yourself lately." She looked up at him. "You're trying to shoulder everything alone. The match, my health, my mother…"

"Stop," Ibou's voice was gentle but firm as he held Saniya's hair back. "Whatever you're thinking about not taking care of me, stop it right now."

She slumped against him, exhausted from another round of sickness. The cool bathroom tiles beneath them were a stark contrast to the warmth of his chest against her back. "But the match—"

"The match was one match." He reached for the glass of water he'd prepared earlier, already knowing her routine. "Here, small sips."

"Your performance—"

"—is not your responsibility." He pressed a kiss to her temple, ignoring her weak protests. "And your mother," Ibou interrupted, choosing his words carefully, "is not in this marriage. This is about us. Right now, us means you resting."

"But—"

"No buts." He shifted them slightly so he could see her face. "You want to know what I need from my wife? I need her healthy. I need her safe. I need her to stop listening to voices that make her doubt herself."

A weak smile touched her lips. "Even when those voices are in my head?"

"Especially then." He brushed a curl from her forehead, checking her forehead once more. Still a bit warm. "Now, here's what's going to happen. We're going to get you back to bed. I'm going to call the doctor to schedule an appointment—"

"Ibou—"

"The gaffer already knows. Family first, always."

"The press will talk."

"Let them." He helped her up slowly, keeping one arm secure around her waist. "They don't know that every match I play well is because of you. Because you give me peace here," he touched his heart, "so I can focus out there."

They made it back to their bedroom, where he'd already propped up extra pillows and laid out her favorite blanket – the soft one she claimed helped with nausea.

"I love you," she murmured as he tucked her in. "Even when I'm rubbish at showing it."

"You show it every day." He knelt beside the bed, taking her hand. "Every time you watch my matches even though football bores you. Every time you listen to me overthink a play. Every time you just... see me. Not the footballer. Just me."

______________________________________________

"Lūk," her mother's voice crackled through the phone the next morning, the Thai term for daughter carrying waves of disapproval. "This is what happens when you don't listen to your mother. Working all day instead of taking care of your home..."

Saniya caught Ibou's eye across their bedroom as she sat propped against the headboard. He was laying out her clothes for the doctor's appointment, pretending not to listen but she could see the tension in his shoulders.

"Mae, please," Saniya sighed. "My house is clean. My work is important. And Ibou—"

"Ah, your footballer. He played badly the other day, no? I saw on the news. Maybe if you were home more—"

"Phɔ̄ mai?" Saniya interrupted, asking about her father, desperate to change the subject.

But her mother wasn't finished. "You know in Thailand, young wives know their place. Not running around and neglecting their duties. Now you're sick because—"

He gently took the phone from Saniya's trembling hand. "Mama," he said respectfully, though it cost him. "Saniya needs to rest now. We're seeing the doctor soon. We'll call you after."

Ibou ended the call before his mother-in-law could protest. Saniya's eyes were wet.

"Hey," he murmured, sitting beside her. "None of that."

"She's right about one thing," Saniya whispered. "I haven't been taking care of you properly. Your match—"

"Stop." His voice was firm but gentle. "None of this is on you."

She leaned into him, and he could feel her slight fever through his shirt. "I just wish... I wish I could be what she wants without losing who I am."

"Who you are," Ibou said carefully, "is exactly who you're meant to be. My wife. Dr. Konaté. The woman who helps athletes find their strength again." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Your mae just needs to understand that."

Another wave of nausea hit her then, and Ibou held her hair back as she heaved into the bathroom basin. His phone lit up with another notification – the gaffer wanting to discuss his performance – but it could wait.

Liverpool's spring was more like winter's stubborn little sister, refusing to let go. Rain peppered their Range Rover's windshield as Ibou navigated through morning traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Saniya's. She'd barely managed breakfast – just a few sips of tea and a nibble of toast.

"Bismillah," he whispered, stealing glances at his wife's pale face. The weather had been brutal lately, nothing like the gentle warmth they'd left behind in Dubai months ago. Maybe that's what she needed – another escape to the sun, away from Liverpool's relentless grey and her mother's equally relentless calls.

Saniya dozed against the window, wrapped in one of his hoodies despite the car's heating being on full blast. Ibou's mind wandered as he drove, prayers falling from his lips without thought. "Ya Allah, keep her safe. Keep her healthy." The morning light caught her wedding ring, and his heart squeezed. She was everything – his heart, his home, his peace.

At the private clinic, Ibou didn't let Saniya lift a finger. He helped her from the car, one arm secure around her waist, shielding her from the drizzle with his body. Inside, he handled all the paperwork, rattling off her symptoms to the receptionist while Saniya leaned against him.

"Started about a few weeks ago," he explained, rubbing slow circles on her back. "The vomiting's getting worse, especially in the morning. Fever, fatigue…"

In the exam room, he helped her change into the paper gown, his large hands unusually gentle with the ties. "Your hands are freezing, bébé," he murmured, catching them in his. "We need to get you somewhere warm. Dubai was good for you—"

A knock interrupted his planning, and a nurse entered with a friendly smile and a small plastic cup.

"What's this for?" Ibou asked, even as Saniya took it with knowing eyes.

"Just routine," the nurse explained. "We always do pregnancy checks with these symptoms, especially in young married couples."

Ibou's eyes widened. The cup nearly slipped from Saniya's fingers, but he caught it automatically, his mind racing. Morning sickness. Fatigue. The weird crying jag over a puppy commercial last week. They'd been letting nature take its course, trusting in Allah's timing, but somehow he hadn't connected the dots…

"Oh," he said softly, looking at his wife. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, a mix of fear and something else – hope, maybe?

"I'll give you a moment," the nurse said kindly, closing the door behind her.

Saniya's hands were trembling. "Ibou…"

"Hey." He knelt in front of her, taking her face in his hands. "Whatever this test says, we're in it together. Allah's timing is perfect, remember?"

She nodded, tears spilling over. "Help me up? I'm still a bit wobbly."

"Always."

The minutes crawled by like hours. Ibou paced the small exam room, stealing glances at Saniya who sat perched on the exam table, fingers twisted in the paper gown. When the doctor finally returned, her smile told them everything before she even spoke.

"Congratulations," she said warmly. "The test is positive."

Ibou's legs went weak. He gripped the edge of the exam table, his other hand finding Saniya's automatically.

"How... how far along?" Saniya's voice was barely a whisper.

"Based on your symptoms and timeline, I'd estimate about six weeks. We'll do some blood work to confirm everything, and then schedule an ultrasound for next week."

Ibou couldn't stop staring at Saniya's still-flat stomach. Subhanallah. Their baby was in there. Their miracle.

"I should mention," Saniya spoke up, "I've had some spotting..."

The doctor nodded reassuringly. "That can be completely normal in early pregnancy. However," she turned to include Ibou in her explanation, clearly recognizing the worried crease between his brows, "we'll want to monitor it. Any heavy bleeding or severe cramps, you come straight to hospital."

"What about nausea medication?" Ibou asked, already mentally cataloging everything Saniya had eaten in the past week. "She can barely keep water down sometimes."

"We'll prescribe something safe for pregnancy. And I'm giving you a list of recommended supplements." The doctor smiled at Ibou's intense focus. "I can see she's in good hands."

"The best hands," Saniya agreed, squeezing Ibou's fingers. She knew that look in his eyes – he was already planning, protecting, providing.

After the doctor left them to get dressed, Ibou helped Saniya down from the table, pulling her into his arms. For a long moment, they just stood there, holding each other.

"We're having a baby," he whispered against her hair, voice thick with emotion.

"You're going to be impossible now, aren't you?" But her eyes were sparkling when she looked up at him. "Even more protective than usual?"

"You have no idea." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Allah has blessed us with the most precious gift. You're carrying our little miracle."

"Speaking of carrying..." She raised an eyebrow. "I can still walk, you know."

"Debatable." His hands spanned her waist reverently. "Doctor said rest. And fluids. And—"

"Ibou."

"Hmm?"

"Kiss me first. Then you can start your master plan of wrapping me in cotton wool."

He laughed softly, bending to comply. When their lips met, he could taste both their tears of joy.

"Your mother's going to flip," he murmured against her mouth.

Saniya groaned. "Can we not? Just for today? Let's keep this just for us right now."

"Whatever you want, ma belle." His hand drifted to her stomach. "Both of you."

The rain had stopped when they left the clinic, weak sunshine breaking through Liverpool's clouds like a blessing. Ibou helped Saniya into the car with exaggerated care, ignoring her amused eye-roll.

"We need to stock up on ginger tea," he said as he pulled out of the parking lot. "And crackers. And maybe we should get one of those pregnancy pillows? I saw them online—"

"Habibi," Saniya interrupted fondly. "We have time."

"I know, I know." But his mind was already racing ahead – baby-proofing the house, converting the spare room into a nursery, making sure Saniya had everything she needed to be comfortable.

At a red light, he caught her watching him with that soft look she got sometimes, like she could see right through to his soul.

"What?"

"Nothing." She smiled. "Just thinking about how lucky this baby is, having you for their baba."

His heart did a funny flip at the word. Baba. He was going to be a father.

"Ya Allah," he breathed, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

"We're going to be okay," Saniya assured him, reading his mind as usual. "All three of us."

_______________________________________________

Three weeks had passed in a blur of morning sickness and secret smiles. The match against Arsenal was electric – Ibou playing like a man possessed, each tackle precise, every clearance perfect. The roar of Anfield was deafening. Ninety-third minute, and Ibou had just made a goal-saving tackle that had the Kop singing his name. When the final whistle blew – Liverpool 2, Arsenal 0 – he dropped to his knees, pointing skyward. "Alhamdulillah," he whispered.

Saniya watched from the family section, her aunt's hand tight in hers. "Your husband," Aunt Malai said proudly, "plays like a tiger."

After showering, Ibou found Mo in the tunnel. "Mashallah, brother," Mo grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Whatever's got you flying today, keep it up."

Ibou just smiled, ducking his head. "Allah is good."

"Alhamdulillah, all the time."

Once the aftermatch rituals were over — handshakes, quick interviews in which he credited the team and Allah's blessing — Ibou found them waiting by the family entrance. Saniya's eyes were bright with pride and something else, that secret joy they'd been carrying these past weeks.

"Good performance today," Aunt Malai beamed. She reached up to pat his cheek, and Ibou bent down obligingly, earning a laugh from Saniya.

The drive home was full of Aunt Malai's chatter – about the match, about how handsome Ibou looked in his kit ("But too thin! We must feed him more!"), about how lovely Saniya's new coat was. It was so different from her sister's critical commentary, like night and day.

Their kitchen soon filled with the aromas of Thailand – lemongrass, galangal, coconut milk. Aunt Malai had insisted on cooking, shooing them both to the breakfast bar while she worked her magic.

"Noo chai," she called Saniya by her Thai pet name, meaning little mouse. "Taste this tom yum goong. I made it mild for your stomach."

The fragrant soup steamed in a bowl, alongside green curry chicken made with halal meat and a mountain of jasmine rice.

"Ibou, sit, sit!" Aunt Malai urged, pushing a bowl toward him. "You played like a warrior today. You need to eat!"

Under the table, Saniya squeezed his hand. Their eyes met, and she raised an eyebrow in question. He nodded, heart swelling.

"Khun Pa," Saniya addressed her aunt softly. "We have something to tell you."

Aunt Malai set down her spoon, eyes sharp. "Yes, lūk wăan?"

"I'm pregnant."

The spoon clattered. "Jing jing? Really?" Tears sprang to Aunt Malai's eyes instantly. "Oh, my sweet ones!" She was up and around the table in a flash, pulling them both into a fierce hug.

"The baby will be so beautiful," she sniffled, patting Saniya's still-flat stomach. "Those curls with these cheekbones!" She pinched Ibou's cheek lovingly. "Have you told your mae?"

Saniya shook her head.

"Good." Aunt Malai's face turned serious. "Don't tell her until you're ready. That sister of mine…" She clicked her tongue. "Don't worry, I will speak to her about how she treats you both. She forgets what it means to have a kind heart."

"Khun Pa, you don't have to—"

"Nonsense. Someone must remind her that love is not about control." She cupped Saniya's face in her hands. "You are perfect exactly as you are, noo chai. Both of you."

Ibou pulled Saniya closer, dropping a kiss on her temple. She'd been so much more relaxed with her aunt here, laughing more freely, the shadow of her mother's disapproval temporarily lifted. Allah forgive him, but sometimes he couldn't help thinking Aunt Malai should have been Saniya's mother. The woman had never married, choosing instead to pour her love into her nieces and nephews. But Saniya – creative, stubborn, beautiful Saniya – held a special place in her heart.

"You know," Aunt Malai continued, laying out steaming dishes on their kitchen island, "when you were little, noo chai, you used to say you'd marry a prince."

Saniya groaned. "Khun Pa..."

"Well," her aunt gestured to Ibou with her serving spoon, "you did better. You married a king."

"Now you're just trying to make him blush," Saniya laughed.

The revelation about the baby turned dinner into a celebration. Aunt Malai insisted on calling her favorite Thai restaurant in Liverpool to order mango sticky rice – "for dessert, for the baby!" She peppered them with questions about symptoms, about doctor's visits, about their plans.

Later, after Aunt Malai had retired to the guest room, Ibou held Saniya close on their sofa. "Your aunt," he murmured into her hair, "is a gift from Allah."

"She's what mothers should be," Saniya agreed quietly. Her hand drifted to her stomach, where their miracle was growing. "Our baby is going to have the best Khun Ya."

The Thai word for grandmother sounded like a promise. A reminder that family wasn't always about blood – sometimes it was about who chose to love you, wholly and without conditions.

Gender reveals weren't traditionally Muslim, but like many things in their interfaith marriage, they found their own way to celebrate while respecting both cultures. The gathering at their home was a beautiful blend – Islamic prayers for the baby's health mixed with Thai customs and modern celebrations.

Their spacious living room buzzed with voices in French, English, Thai, and Arabic. Trent was trying to convince Mo that his gift was the best ("It's a custom Liverpool kit!"), while Virgil's wife helped arrange platters of mixed halal and Thai dishes that Aunt Malai had supervised.

Saniya couldn't keep still, moving from group to group, her hands constantly in motion as she talked – a stim that helped her ADHD brain process all the excitement. Her baby bump, now prominent at six months, was draped in a flowing sage green dress that made her skin glow.

"Lūk!" Her mother's sharp voice cut through the chatter. "Sit down! This is too much walking."

Ibou watched his wife's shoulders tense. Just last week, Mrs. Okafor had been berating Saniya for being "lazy" during her sabbatical from her practice. The time in hospital from stress had scared them all, but her mother's reaction – showing up unannounced in Liverpool, armed with criticism – had only made things worse.

"Mae," Saniya started, but her father stepped in.

"Enough," Mr. Okafor said quietly. His voice carried the weight of last week's stern conversation with his wife. "Let her be happy."

The tension broke as Ibou's little sister squealed, "Time for the reveal!"

They'd kept it simple – a large black balloon filled with either pink or blue confetti. Ibou's parents stood close by, his mother already wiping tears. His teammates had their phones ready, though they'd promised not to post until after. Even Didier had flown in, standing proud like an uncle.

"Together?" Ibou asked softly, pulling Saniya close.

She nodded, her free hand still moving in excited patterns against her bump. "Together."

The pop seemed to echo. Pink confetti rained down.

A girl.

The room erupted. Ibou's mother burst into proper tears, his father immediately starting prayers of gratitude. Aunt Malai called out Thai blessings, her voice carrying over the cheers of his teammates.

"Une petite princesse," Ibou's sister squealed, already planning shopping trips.

But Ibou watched Saniya's face – pure joy, pure peace. This was how she should always look, not stressed in a hospital bed, not tense from her mother's words.

"A girl," Saniya whispered against his chest.

"Our girl," he corrected, kissing her there in front of everyone.

Later, after Cama and Trent had argued over who'd be the better "uncle", after Mo had blessed them three times, after Mrs. Okafor had been quietly but firmly led away by her husband (following critiques of everything from the "wasteful" pink decorations to how Saniya "shouldn't mix religions like this"), they curled up on their bed.

Virgil's wife had organized the cleanup, understanding new parent exhaustion. Pink confetti still sparkled in odd corners, Thai garlands draped over prayer beads, different worlds meeting just like them.

"She's going to be perfect," Saniya murmured, both hands cradling their bump. "Strong like her baba."

"Kind like her mama," Ibou added. "Free like her mama too."

Because that was their silent promise to their daughter – she would be free to be herself, to move how she needed, to love what she loved. No criticism would dim her light.

Their princess kicked, strong and sure, as if agreeing.

Amira Malai Konaté arrived on Christmas morning, just as the first snow of winter dusted Liverpool's streets. She came into the world strong and loud, just like her mother, with a head full of dark curls and her father's eyes. The delivery room had been peaceful – Ibou reciting quiet prayers while Saniya brought their miracle into the world, Aunt Malai waiting just outside with excitement and love.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Liverpool had just secured the Carabao Cup in a thrilling final against Manchester City, Ibou playing the full ninety minutes with a newfound calm. That calm, he'd later tell his teammates, came from knowing Saniya was safe at home with Aunt Malai, their little one choosing to stay put until after baba had brought home some silverware.

"Mini Konaté knows how to make an entrance," Mo had joked.

Now, three weeks into parenthood, Ibou found himself discovering a whole new kind of joy in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn. Like tonight, pacing their bedroom at 3 AM, Amira snuggled against his chest in her tiny Liverpool sleeper – a gift from "Uncle Trent" who'd had it specially made.

"She has your temper," he whispered to Saniya, who watched them from their bed with tired eyes and a soft smile. Amira had been crying for an hour, but each tear was precious to him. Every midnight feeding, every tiny grip of her finger around his, every perfect yawn – it was all miracle.

"She has your lungs," Saniya countered, reaching for the water bottle Ibou had started keeping on her nightstand. "And your determination. When she wants something, she wants it now."

"Allah's perfect timing," he murmured, swaying gently as Amira finally settled. "Just like her mama – knows exactly what she wants."

The ban on Mrs. Okafor had come two days after the birth. She'd arrived unannounced at the hospital, somehow slipping past the security measures Ibou had arranged. Within minutes, she'd started: the "Muslim name" they'd chosen was too foreign, Saniya wasn't holding the baby correctly, their house wasn't properly prepared according to Thai traditions.

It was Mr. Okafor, usually so diplomatic, who finally snapped. "Juling," he'd said, his quiet voice carrying years of built-up frustration. "You will not poison this joy like you've tried to poison everything else. Until you can speak with love, you will not speak to them at all."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mrs. Okafor had left in tears, but for once, they weren't the manipulative kind. Something in her husband's words had finally reached her.

Now, Aunt Malai ran their household with gentle efficiency, showing them how love should flow. She cooked Thai soups for Saniya's recovery, teaching Ibou the exact temperature for testing bath water, singing Thai lullabies about brave warriors and kind hearts to Amira.

"In Thailand," she'd explain, preparing another batch of khao tom mat for Saniya's midnight cravings, "we believe babies choose their parents. Amira chose well."

The team's response to their Christmas miracle had been overwhelming in the best way. The WhatsApp group was now basically Amira's fan club. Virgil, usually so stoic, turned to absolute mush around her. Mo brought prayers and blessings, along with his wife's homemade Egyptian dishes. Even Cama had FaceTimed from Madrid, demanding to see his "petite nièce."

"Your teammates are something else," Saniya laughed one evening, showing Ibou the latest delivery – a custom-made baby bouncer with "Future Captain" embroidered on it, courtesy of Henderson.

"They're family," Ibou said simply, watching Amira sleep in her bassinet. "Just like she's already got the whole squad wrapped around her finger."

Amira's name held all their hopes – Amira, Arabic for "princess," chosen by Ibou during one of their late-night talks about dreams and futures. Malai, after the aunt who showed them what motherly love should look like, who stepped in when they needed her most. And finally Konaté, binding all their cultures together in this tiny, perfect package.

Winter stretched ahead of them; Liverpool sat top of the table, but for once, football wasn't Ibou's primary focus. These precious weeks were for learning every perfect detail of their daughter – the way she scrunched her nose just like Saniya when she was about to cry, how she already reached for her father's voice, the peaceful sighs she made when finally drifting off to sleep.

"Remember our first night in Dubai?" Ibou asked one morning. "When you said something about feeling complete?"

"Mhm," Saniya hummed, watching them from their bed. "Little did we know…"

"Allah's plan is always perfect." He settled into the rocking chair Aunt Malai had insisted they needed, Amira quiet and content in his arms. Outside, Liverpool's endless snow was cold, but inside their home, it was nothing but warmth.

Their little miracle had her mother's strength, her father's gentle heart, and the love of two cultures flowing through her veins. In her perfect face, they saw everything they'd built together – every prayer answered, every struggle overcome, every moment of faith rewarded.

"Je t'aime, ma princesse," Ibou whispered, watching the sun rise over another perfect morning with his girls. Saniya had drifted back to sleep, one hand still reaching for them even in dreams. Amira blinked up at him with those eyes that mirrored his own, and his heart expanded impossibly further.

This was what they'd been waiting for, he realized. Not just a baby, but this complete circle of love. Their daughter would grow up knowing only acceptance, only joy, only the kind of love that bridges continents and cultures. She would have her mother's fire, her father's faith, and the unshakeable knowledge that she was wanted, cherished, chosen.

Football would continue, life would get busy again. But these moments – these quiet, perfect moments with his miracle and her mother – these would sustain him through everything. Because now they were complete. Now they were home.

[little-mrs-morales]

Public Enemy

Dieter Bravo x PA F!Reader

Summary: Dieter is dramatic about another meme moment from his life.

Warning: lot of Fluff!

"I'm public enemy number one," Dieter moaned dramatically, sprawling across the couch in your shared trailer. A green Sheraton robe slipped off his shoulder in his typical over-the-top fashion. "Did you see the comments? They're calling me a monster! A child kicker! A baby dropper!"

You barely looked up from your phone, scrolling through the endless barrage of emails from PR. Another day, another Bravo scandal. "You didn't kickt he kid, Dieter. You tripped, the kid tripped. Both of you ended up face down on the sidewalk. It's not like you threw them into traffic."

"It doesn’t matter what actually happened!" He sat up, clutching the edge of the robe like a scandalized Victorian widow. "What matters is how it looks! Have you seen the memes? My face is everywhere! There's one of me Photoshopped as a soccer player about to score—"

"Yeah, I’ve seen it," you interrupted chuckling, holding up your phone to show him. "You’re not even in the top 20 trending topics anymore. Taylor Swift’s cat has taken over."

Dieter squinted at the screen like you’d just insulted his entire existence."Wait, I’m not in the top 20? People don’t even care that I kicked a kid?"

"You didn’t kick the kid!" you repeated, your patience fraying at the edges. "And no, they don’t care. The world has moved on, as it always does. You’re not public enemy number one. You’re not even close."

He slumped back against the couch, deflated. "Well, that’s... disappointing. I thought at least I’d get some kind of villain arc out of this."

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound breaking through his pitiful pout. Setting your phone down, you crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside him. "Relax, Dieter. You’re not a villain. You’re just… clumsy. And honestly? That kid tripped first. If anything, they should be apologizing to you." 

His eyes lit up like a child being told they could have dessert before dinner. "You think so?" 

"No," you deadpanned, pushing his shoulder lightly. "But I think we can spin this. You’ve got a puppy calendar shoot next week. We’ll post a few pictures, make people forget about the kid thing. Puppies fix everything."

Dieter groaned, flopping dramatically against you. "Fine. But only if you promise to get me one of those puppies after the shoot. I need emotional support after this trauma."

"Trauma?" You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile. "You tripped on the sidewalk. The kid's probably forgotten about it already."

"Yeah, but the memes will live forever," he muttered into your shoulder. 

You sighed, patting his head like the overgrown child he was. "And so will your career, Dieter. Now stop sulking. We’ve got work to do."

For a moment, he was quiet, his head resting comfortably on your shoulder. Then, in typical Dieter fashion, he whispered, "You’ll still love me when I’m canceled, right?"

You didn’t even hesitate. "Dieter, you’re not even in the top 20 reasons people are mad today. You are not gonna get canceled. Definitely not after the puppy calendar."

He grinned, a spark of his usual mischief returning. "Or… I can make a nude calendar," he added, shifting to lay across the couch and dropping his head dramatically into your lap. "I mean, I’m hot as hell. People would eat that up."

You smacked his forehead lightly, earning an exaggerated groan. "Ow! Rude!" he whined, tilting his head to pout at you. "And you can’t even deny it. You do love the nudes I send when we’re apart!"

Your hand instinctively moved to his messy hair, smoothing it out in slow strokes. "Dieter," you warned, trying not to smile. 

He caught the faint curve of your lips and smirked. "See? You can’t deny it. You’re blushing." 

"I am not blushing," you countered, your fingers still threading through his wild curls. 

"You are," he teased, closing his eyes and sinking further into your touch. His voice dropped into a theatrical sigh. "But even if you weren’t, I’d forgive you. Because I’m a generous man. A kind man. A man who loves you even when you’re mean to me."

You rolled your eyes, your fingers gently tugging at his hair. "You’re impossible."

He opened one eye, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Yeah, but I’m your impossible." 

Your teasing expression softened. "You are. And I love you, ridiculousness and all." 

That took the wind out of his dramatics. For a moment, his grin faltered, replaced by something more genuine. "Good," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "Because I love you too."

You smiled, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. "And you’re stuck with me."

"Best decision of your life," he quipped, though his words held none of his usual bravado. He closed his eyes again, his body finally relaxing in your lap. 

As your fingers continued to stroke his hair, he added with a sleepy grin, "Now, about that nude calendar…"

You smacked his shoulder lightly, shaking your head with a laugh. 

"See? Mean to me, wanted one for your eyes only" he mumbled, already halfway to sleep. 

And for once, the world outside didn’t matter. Just you, Dieter, and the soft rhythm of your breathing together. 

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Humanity

[CW: Passive suicidal ideation.]

Being a person feels... heavy. Like I'm always full of something. It didn't have to be gross, but it usually was. Sometimes it was something with an easy word to it, like disdain or cowardice, but usually it was more vague. Some sort of congealed, disgusting mass that's been slowly accumulating for as long as I've been alive, weighing my guts down until I'm too stressed to eat and too tired to sleep.

I don't want to die. Death sounds too painful, and I'm scared of commitment. But, as I looked out into the bay, waiting for the traffic on the toll bridge to advance, I can't help but daydream. If I drove into the river, just by some freak accident out of my control, I... wouldn't do much to fight it. I would just let whatever happens happen as I sit still. Let this heaviness in my chest weigh me down and drown me.

My whole life was like that, really. Just moment after moment of letting things out of my control happen to me. My parents never really let me do much, either because we didn't have money, or they decided it wasn't right. I had to move out young after they died, and that didn't give me much of a choice in where to work and where to rent. I didn't even have a chance to think about what my major would've been.

Being a waitress meant doing what you're told when you're told, which table to go to and what to bring them, and what to clean. The work itself was fine, it's just... everything around it. The same awful people just as trapped here as I am, the same inconsiderate boss that barely pays me enough to buy vegetables, the same disgusting smell of fish and chips, all building up and coagulating little by little.

The only way I could get through an average work day was by shutting my brain off and just letting my body move on its own. The years I've worked there have just been the same fog of meaningless obedience. It's a sort of torture, suppressing your ego all just to become your work, for the sake of people you hate. Just feeling full and heavy and gross.

That's how I survived most of my life. Ever since I started school, I learned quick that you keep your head down and go with the flow. Don't be too loud, too big, too anything. Just look pretty and do what you're told without thinking too hard about what you're doing. Try not to feel too much.

Of course dying isn't that big of a deal. I don't feel like I was ever truly alive, ever something that could really be called a person.

Oh, I'm home.

God it's so cold out. It's like the wind is trying to bite me through my coat. I really wish our heating worked, but I've given up trying to fight for it a long time ago.

I can hear the music from here. I swear to fucking god if she's throwing another party I'm going to scream. She can't keep doing this, she really can't.

I fumble with my keys because it's too cold in the hallway, and I struggle with the lock because it hasn't been replaced in over a decade. This is the right key, and I keep trying to turn it, but it won't unlock and my fingers are starting to hurt.

Today needs to end. Please. I just need to stop, after everything, I just need things to stop and let me be still for a single fucking-

Finally.

I leave the door open for as little time as I can. I don't even take my coat off before I march into the living room. She's there, on the couch with more friends than I've ever met. They're all smiling, talking with each other, and having fun. They're smoking weed inside.

I need to stop looking at the one sitting on the arm of the couch, she's not important right now.

"Hey, what the fuck?!" I raise my voice to be heard over the music and drunken ramblings. "I told you that you can't keep doing this, I'M the one who gets in shit for this with the landlord!"

She looked around her, gauging her guests' reactions. She forces a timid smile. "Hey, you don't have to make a big deal out of this, alright? Nothing's gonna happen if nobody tells on us, so just relax." She turns away from me, back to the others. To the woman on the arm of the couch. My roommate falls into this sort of drunken fawning, trying to excuse my behaviour, but that woman on the arm of the couch doesn't join in with them exaggeratedly rolling their eyes or shooing me away.

"I'm not the bad guy here! You're the one who keeps...!" I wince, bringing a hand over my eyes as I recoil into the door frame. It's so loud. "Fuck it, I can't do this with you, I'm going to bed." I turn and leave and slam my door and lock it. She turns the music back up. I'm ordering food and going to sleep.

After I stop crying.

. . . . .

"Do you like your life, darling?"

I'm floating. I'm naked. I can't tell where I am. I don't think I'm anywhere.

"...No."

The woman from earlier. I couldn't stop thinking about her all night. The way she looked, how she carried herself, it was just stuck in my brain.

She's so... big. She's towering over me. I'm like a toy, barely up to her shins.

This isn't a dream. She's there. I can feel her in front of me, almost more real than being awake. I've never been more lucid before.

"Such a poor thing..." She looks so sad. For me?

She's kneeling. "Let me take all that hurt away. I've always wanted nothing more than to help someone like you live the life they deserve." I should be scared. I shouldn't trust her. "I already know you'd make such a good doll~"

I look down at my body. It's fluctuating, moving in and out as I look at myself. My torso is flat and wooden like a marionette, but with each breath in it expands with cloth instead of skin. I can feel the seems of my stitches, the plastic of my joints, the clattering of my porcelain, all at once. It feels... welcome.

She's reaching for me. I know I should flinch, I should be scared of her crushing me as she wraps her hands around me like a doll, but I can't even remember what such a distrust would feel like. She's pulling me to eye level.

Why does her touch feel so... nice?

I feel a breach, like I've just come up for air. I can feel my soul hack and sputter, and finally begin to breathe. I've never felt so light, so emptied. Everything disgusting inside of myself was drained away. Have I been drowning all this time?

"Meet me whenever you're ready, darling." I know where she means. I see her manor, grand and sprawling, but tucked away just out of sight. I can see it so perfectly. "I'll be waiting for you there."

Her hands start to loosen, and I start to fall, further and further away from Miss.

I inhale sharply, way too deeply, as I wake up. It feels like I'm gasping for air. My whole body... hurts is the wrong word, there's a heavy rawness pulsating through me. It's not the heaviness normally in my chest. I'm in a puddle of sweat. I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes.

My phone says it's 4:37 am. I don't care. I need to see her.

. . . . .

It's a blur. I'm on autopilot, too wired to think. This doesn't feel like before, this isn't the fog. This is pure intention.

I find myself in my car, driving to her. I know where to go, I know. I need to get there. I can't afford to waste any time.

I leave my car parked on a dirt road and wander into the forest just as the sun starts to rise. I didn't bother grabbing anything I didn't need to get here, and I left what i did grab in the car anyway. I didn't even take the keys out of the ignition. Whatever happens, I'm not coming back.

It's a few minutes of walking from the road to her manor. I have plenty of time to reconsider. It's not too late to go back. I'm afraid, of course. My self-preservation is trying to restrain me by my neck. But every time I think about giving into that fear, that complacency stopping me from stepping into the unknown, the idea of returning to what was... I keep walking. I couldn't explain why. Too much momentum, too heavy to bother stopping.

I'm here. Oh god, this is really happening. I lean against the house on an outstretched arm as I stare at the front door. It's thick and wooden, like something from a fairy tale. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and raise a fist. She opens the door before I can knock.

This is really happening.

"Oh, I'm so happy you came, darling!" She quickly reaches an arm around me and ushers me through the door. "And so quick, too! I knew I made the right choice."

She sits me down on the couch and disappears just a room away. Before I can even admire the decor, she returns with two glasses, and a jug of iced tea. She sits down beside me, pours herself a glass, and sets the jug out of my reach.

She takes a swig of her drink, leaning back and swirling it in her cup. She stretches her arm across the back of the couch. I could cuddle up to her so easily, and I've never before felt this tempted to do that with someone. "Tell me what you know about dolls."

I feel something I've never felt before. Just a little, just enough.

"U-uh..." I try to gather everything I can. I don't know why I'm so caught off guard by the question, I came here for a reason. But saying it out loud, actually articulating these feelings, is something totally foreign.

"A doll is like a person, but... not." I take a deep breath. I feel like I'm standing in front of a stadium of thousands. "Witches use their magic to turn people into dolls so they can have servants. And... there are rules to being a doll, like how you have to call yourself an object, and do everything you're told."

I look at her for approval. She's waiting for me to continue. "Am I gonna be a doll?"

The witch almost... melts. She has such a kind, compassionate smile. She sets her drink down and turns her body to face me as much as she can. "Do you want to be a doll, darling?"

"I... I mean, I, uh..." I have never felt more like prey. Why is my face so warm? I'd do anything for her.

She reaches out and takes my hands, that I was holding up to my chest defensively. I leave them limp, just letting her grab them. I feel my shoulders start to lower just a little bit. She's so warm.

"Dolls are empty spaces shaped like people." She teaches me. "Dolls are objects that are obedient and docile. There's a special feeling they have called stillness, where your thoughts go away and you just feel happy." She starts to smile, a tender eagerness. "Can you feel it now?"

I feel it. I feel it. I feel it, I feel it. The stillness. She's making me still. It's gone. I don't feel heavy. I'm empty in such a wonderful way. I feel like I could float through the breeze for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy. Like I could do anything, and I would be happy. Is this what life was supposed to feel like? All this time?

"It's a big decision, darling." Her voice is so... magical. It's calming, it's exciting, it's everything to me. "This can only happen if you want it to. Think about your old life, everything you'll leave behind. This is your last chance."

I think about being a human. I think about everything that comes with being a human, the things I'll lose. My autonomy, my identity, things I was never granted in the first place. The privilege of destroying my self just a little every day, all to save myself the trouble of feeling. More than anything, that disgusting heavy feeling, the filth so deeply compacted inside me I thought it was inherent to being.

"Y... y-yes... yes, I want to be a doll!" I'm smiling so wide. Crying hasn't felt this good in a long, long time.

The witch smiles back at me. She pulls me into her, hugging me so tenderly. She's soft, and warm, and so many things.

"You're going to become such a good doll."

Good doll. I can finally feel good.

[papaziggy-devblog]

I've always struggled with making self inserts or ocs for shipping

do you have any advice? back when i was a teenager my friends always put my ships down and said theirs were better and ever since ive been really self-conscious and i cant enjoy them like i did when i was younger... but seeing everyone have fun lately on your blog is making me want to try again

its been like twelve years and im so nervous still, i always think my ships will be worse compared to others and that people are going to compare them again

Try to remember ships and oc's and self inserts are all just indulgent fun.. they're meant to make you happy... not for anyone else.. just YOU

And if someone is putting down something that brings you joy then that just shows how shitty they are.. either shitty or jealous... cause like... fuck who does that? Making fun of something that makes someone happy is just scummy

Life is short... Do what you want and what brings you joy... fuck everyone else

I think friendo's also had some good takes too:

@lavender-teardroplettes: Dont base your enjoyment on what others think! It’s supposed to be fun and personal to you, so everyone’s story is going to be different. It doesn’t make anyone “better” or “worse” and if you’re the only one hyping up your ship then hype it up and be its biggest cheerleader. It’s better to have fun and say “fuck it” than to worry about “what ifs” and not.

@indycinders: Well for me personally, I never self shipped until recently. The main thing I like to remember is that everyone has their own opinions about their fictional others and favorite characters. What I might consider my headcanon might be someone else’s ick. That’s okay. It’s for me. Not them. It’s for my happiness. Not theirs.

If you think you might get upset about your fave charas being put in situations you don’t like or whatever, please make sure to stay off certain tags. It goes both ways. Don’t attack someone for their interests uwu

[dreamlogic]

aye can i get a fuckin uuuhhhh

break. on my burger

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

finished helluva boss and now i have Thoughts

[widevibratobitch]

omw to play emotional support for my mom disguised as ✨fun family bonding time✨ for the rest of the week <3333 there's something so deeply wrong with me uwu teehee

[stinkbeck]

nothing more relaxing than like acting out a play in my room alone