#BUT onward to my complaining

[discountdyke]

im exhausted and im feeling whiny

[notbecauseofvictories]

more than anything in this world I love wandering through museums and taking pictures of things to research later. like oh, interesting concept, what if I spent an hour reading about that when I am in my pajamas in bed and it can really blow my mind.

[lotrmusical]

Namer of nameless hills and tall mountains green A crown of stars upon his head like gems was seen High peak to deepest vale and all inbetween Undimmed by cloud or shade of night, a splendour fair and keen Light and song, vanquishing the dark and gloom Harp and trumpet, burnish gold the air Precious realm, O Moria, O Khazad-dûm O my people, would that I had found you there!

happy anniversary, watermill lotr! you know how we're always saying that lament for moria deserves to be a full-length song? i have made extra bits to turn it into one!

borrowed from gimli's song of durin in the books to put together an extra verse and pre-chorus, and set them to music. (this audio is an auditory reference for the new bits, stuck together in musescore with the vocal line represented by cello because i am not a singer)

pdf scores (one with multi-instrumental accompaniment and one with guitar reduction) + lyrics are on google drive here!

[lesamis]

Bestie u good?

anon i am sobbing in your arms

[kingofcomedy]

love that my body is rebelling against me and keeps waking up after only sleeping for like 4 hours

[taniushka12]

night springs north star was fucking excellent and i had such a great time playing it it completely makes up for Number one fan 😭

[fionnaskyborn]

pros of learning how to play fighting game:

undergoing a learning experience, trying out something entirely different from anything i have previously played

i get to look at a little guy do cool things on my screen :)

cons of learning how to play fighting game:

i am clumsy as all hell with the inputs

the order in which you press and/or hold buttons to create inputs is less like trying to get a sequence of movements right and more like playing a rhythm game (down then while not letting go of down press forward then let go of down and THEN press an attack button on the other side of the keyboard). i suck at rhythm games. hell world

sometimes, the damn things just... won't register? at all? you do a half circle to forward input and the game says "half circle forward? oh, sorry, that's ensenga :)" or, worse, "too slow, that's a regular heavy slash move :)". brother. why must you do me like this.

the area between the knuckles of my ring and little finger hurts like a motherfucker (though this has hurt in various areas since at least this morning, but i'm willing to bet that practicing quarter and half circle inputs for at least an hour did not make the situation any better)

[slav-every-day]

[airenyah]

maybe i'm about to have a change of plans. maybe i won't be making my mother watch last twilight and only friends this semester break, maybe instead i'll go for a star in my mind rewatch and will also sit her down in front of mafia the series

[darkaac]

Finished ACSyndicate after quite a long time (forgot i had it installed teehee) and it's good!! love zipping across London

[violetsareblue-afterdark]

haha the ai are a little more wild the last few days huh?

[dagasinfilo]

oooh i can feel my brain entering baby toddler mode. i hate the hustle i hate the grind i don’t even like making money. in general. i can barely handle unavoidable responsibilities of mild importance. i’m gonna do it im gonna take my time and do my best but goooood damn. i was just not made for independence. and it makes me mad.

[gaogaigoatgrrl]

i hope that in the wake of predstrogen/predesterone's back-to-back deletion we don't forget about the ongoing building wave of seemingly organic transmisogyny from the userbase leading up to it, some of which may or may not have been the result of terf psyops but all of which certainly wouldn't have been possible without the eager participation of a significant proportion of users, including but probably not limited to:

the entire concept of transandrophobia (if this offends you, think long and hard about why you want so badly for it to be real)

the ongoing backlash against the terms tme and tma (if they offend you, think long and hard about why they might have practical value to trans women and people with similar social positionality)

the ongoing trend of trans women's blogs getting flagged on the flimsiest of pretenses and generally receiving far more scrutiny for "adult content" than anyone else's

the seeming unironic revival of "baeddel" as a slur for outspoken trans women, on the basis of a long-dead clique that, ironically enough, self-applied the long-dead (and tbf, etymologically questionable) slur from the middle ages to reclaim it

the entire "trans women should be fucking trans men instead of complaining about transmisogyny" genre of post

the backlash when tgirls finally started calling out the aforementioned bullshit

the copypasted anons sent to several trans women (many of whom were lesbians) sexually harassing them and threatening corrective rape for calling out the aforementioned bullshit

the backlash when tgirls called the aforementioned bullshit sexual harassment

the expansion of flexible queer label use (which to be clear, i am generally all for) to include "afab trans women", muddying the waters and making transmisogyny harder to articulate

the backlash when tgirls started calling out the aforementioned bullshit

the aita incident in which a trans woman described a cis woman claiming to be a trans woman in a group chat and giving other trans women terrible medical advice based on no actual qualifications or experience, and got a huge backlash for warning them about the aforementioned bullshit despite the stakes of, you know, following terrible medical advice

everything from the sixth point onward happened within the past... week? two weeks? my sense of time is a bit fuzzy. who knows what the rest of this week has in store?

people on this website are so incredibly hostile to trans women even being able to name our own oppression, let alone resist it in any concrete way. and i know it's not just this website. don't you get tired of the crab bucket bullshit? holy fucking shit.

like, i've been lucky, i've overwhelmingly managed to dodge it (probably on account of frankly being a pretty boring and inconsistent poster). this time last year, i was actually bored that i didn't have anons in my inbox to argue with. but i've seen it happen to so many other women now, it's absurd. even if it never hits you personally, you can never shake the awareness that it's happening to so many of the cool girls on here, people you like and whose posts you laugh at and who you look up to. they just kinda seem to drop like flies over time. don't you get tired?

[rainydayathogwarts]

hi! you know your best friends with no boundaries fic, I'm literally obsessed and was wondering if you'd consider writing something similar but with Spencer Reid because I'm also obsessed with him🙏🙏 please and thank you (totally understand if not💚)

And they were roommates - Spencer Reid

summary: Contrary to popular belief, Spencer Reid was not touch starved. In fact, there was nothing more he liked than to cuddle with his roommate. wc: 2.4k+ cw: SMUT, roommates/best friends/ lovers dynamics, panty theft (super brief)

Spencer Reid was not a touchy person. His germaphobic nature allowed him to endure very little physical contact with people, whether they were strangers or his family at the behavioural analysis unit in the FBI. However, it was not to say that Spencer Reid was touch starved, for he had one person he could always count on to give him some physical comfort.

You’d been friends with Spencer since university: you were completing your bachelor’s degree whilst the young genius was finishing up his third phd. In an exhausting night at the library, you’d encountered Spencer, and had complained to him about the library’s organisation system. You’d apologised, “These long nights are really wearing my patience.” But Spencer Reid had surprised you. He ranted on to you about statistics, explaining how a library’s organisation can quickly affect the levels of student productivity. You’d smiled, introducing yourself to him with an extended had. Hesitantly, Spencer shook it, only secretly sanitising his hands when you turned away from him. From that day onwards, Spencer Reid became your best friend.

At first, you had respected Spencer’s boundaries, understanding that he was not a touchy man despite your opposing preference. Then, one night, in a flood of emotions, completely wrecked by his mother’s decreasing health, Spencer had broken down in front of you, and you comforted him the only way you knew how. Your hug had taken Spencer by surprise, but the boy didn’t jerk away from you. Instead, he accepted your touch, leaning into your body's comfortable warmth as you ran a hand through his hair, whispering quiet words of comfort. He spent the night curled up in your arms, head dug in the crook of your neck. That was the first time he stayed in your dorm, and many similar nights followed.

Now, you and Spencer shared an apartment whilst he worked for the bau and you worked a part time job at the University of Virginia, where you were completing your masters degree. Your apartment held two cozy bedrooms, but at this point it was just for show, because you spent most nights cuddled up together on the sofa, your body laying nearly flat over his. The jingle of Spencer’s keys on the other side of your front door gave his entrance away, and you leaped up from your spot on the couch to greet him at the door. Spencer jumped when his eyes landed on you, and he had to readjust his hold on the plastic grocery bag he carried to make sure he didn’t drop it. He hugged you with one arm, letting you take the bag from him as he took his shoes and coat off, leaving them both at the entrance.

“Check in the bag.” He called out as he followed you into the living room. Peeking in the bag, you gasped, seeing the box of microwavable popcorn inside. “Movie night?” You questioned, looking out for Spencer’s reaction. He was smiling widely, nodding proudly with his chest puffed up, cheeks rosy. “I thought we could watch that film you’d mentioned the other day? With Anne Hathaway?” He was taken aback by the tight hug you’d pulled him in, whispering “Oh, you’re the best.” Spencer nervously laughed, resting both hands on your waist.

“Why don’t you get changed and I can take care of the rest?” Spencer nodded, pressing a single kiss on your forehead. You swallowed thickly, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see the giddy look on your face, face hotly flushing. With the popcorn in a bowl and the movie ready on the television, you cozied up on the couch with a blanket, putting your laptop away. Spencer was back in the living room in no time, hopping on the couch right next to you and throwing his arm around your shoulder, tugging you into his chest. Draping your legs over his lap, Spencer put a cold hand on your thigh, and you dug your face into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent.

Spencer ran his hand up and down your leg, creating a row of chills across your skin wherever he left his touch. A shiver went down your spine, and Spencer quickly glanced down at you, mumbling “Are you cold?” Your eyes widened, unsure of how to tell him that no, you were not cold. In fact, your body was warming up relatively quickly from his touch. You shook your head silently. Spencer nodded at you, bringing you closer to him, his hand around your shoulders travelling down to your waist.

Silently deliberating, Spencer stared ahead at the screen, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Spencer wasn’t dumb. In fact, he was the single smartest person he knew, and it didn’t take a genius to decode the messages you were sending him. Spencer ducked down, digging his head in the crook of your neck, and you immediately brought a hand up to string in his soft curls. The rim of his glasses poked your neck uncomfortably, but you didn’t want to disturb him, a feat that was quickly rewarded with a soft kiss in the crook of your neck. Your eyes shot open in surprise, breath hitching in your throat, but you didn’t want to startle Spencer or make him think you weren’t enjoying this. Because, god, you were.

Your eyes fluttered shut when he kissed you again, lips parting as a satisfied breath escaped your lungs. “Is this okay?” Spencer asked against your skin, his teeth grazing over your pulse point. You gasped, nodding quickly, your thighs unconsciously squeezing shut to soothe the throb between your legs. Spencer, with his hand still on your thigh, felt the movement, but he decided to tease for a moment longer, shutting his eyes as he softly ran his tongue over the spot on your neck, closing his mouth slightly to begin sucking on the area. You tried suppressing the moan that bubbled in your chest, but it was a clearly miserable attempt because Spencer’s grin was prominent against your skin, and he finally unhid his face from you.

Spencer pushed you back slightly so you laid flat on the couch, moving from under you so he could hover over you, his glasses swinging inches away from his face, barely hanging on by their grip on his ears. Spencer’s lips were bare centimetres away from yours, but he was clearly waiting for the go ahead from you. “Spence?” The boy hummed, leaning in to press a kiss right next to your lips. “This isn’t going to change anything right?” His breath shook, shaking his head as one of his hands softly ran underneath your shirt, causing you to buck your body upwards into his touch.

“No, no it won’t change anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Spencer took your eager hum as a plead for a kiss, so he leaned down, finally pressing his lips to yours. It was like a primal need in him was unleashed, a guttural groan coming out of his throat. Both your hands were instantly cupping his face and pulling him closer to you, parting your mouth further as Spencer sucked on your tongue. You whimpered, one hand travelling down to snake under his jumper. Spencer shuddered, a broken moan escaping his lips. He desperately lowered his hips down onto yours, driving them forward to grind against yours. Spencer broke the kiss, instantly amplifying the moans escaping your lips. “This won’t change anything,” You started, and Spencer reinforced that with a nod of his head. “So fuck me properly, Spence.”

Spencer gasped at your words, his hips unexpectedly bucking into yours, where you felt every ridge of his covered cock. “You-really?” You pushed Spencer away by the chest, observing his face, the colourful light coming from the lit screen reflecting the redness on his face. Your roommate sat back on his knees, watching as you sat up, crawling towards him and forcing him on his back, falling on fluffy pillows.

You climbed over Spencer, sitting on his lap and tugging his pyjama pants down. Spencer watched you wordlessly, adjusting his glasses to sit straight on his face. He finally found the courage to hook his fingers into the band of your shorts and panties, encouraging them down your legs. You watched his reaction, amused at the open-mouthed, wide-eyed, dilated pupil look he was carrying on his face. “Spence?” His head snapped towards you, face flushing impossibly darker at the idea of being caught admiring your body. It was almost enough to distract him from the way your fingers wrapped around his cock over his boxers. His lips bucked into yours, gasping loudly as his fingers tightly gripped your hips.

Leaning forward to press your weight against Spencer’s chest, you kicked your shorts and panties off your legs before sitting back down on his lap. “Can I take these off?” You asked, playing with the elastic band of his trousers. Spencer nodded, a pleading look in his eyes. You giggled, leaning down to press a chaste kiss on his lips, and the second you pulled away, Spencer’s torso was lifting off the couch, eagerly chasing your lips. “Please.” He begged, hips bucking into your hand. You didn’t know if he was asking for another kiss or for you to finally take off his trousers, so you did both, reconnecting your lips as you lowered his boxers.

Spencer sighed in relief, using his tight hold on your hips to drag you forward on his body, closer to his cock. You dug your face in Spencer’s neck, kissing him teasingly, but Spencer impatiently whined, throwing his head back. “Please, please.” Finally, you sunk down onto Spencer’s cock, eliciting a loud moan from him. Your breath hitched and you gasped loudly, saying with a broken voice “I have - have to warn you. I don’t usually get on top.”

Spencer nodded eagerly, immediately thrusting his hips up and rolling you over. You cried out, throwing your head back as Spencer desperately started snapping his hips into you, a certain fervour in his movements. Spencer whined with each thrust of his hips, a breath of air escaping his lips and hitting your face every time his body slammed into yours. A guttural moan dispersed in the air, and immediately, you were pulling Spencer’s face down to yours to desperately press your lips together. Spencer parted his lips to bite your bottom lip, tugging a moan out of your chest. You wrapped your arms over Spencer’s shoulders, forcing him closer to you, and he whined as his arms shook, dropping his weight onto you.

“Sorry,” He whimpered against your lips, “Fuck, I’m sorry.” You wordlessly dismissed his apology, tangling your hand in Spencer’s hair to pull him back into a wet kiss. You heard the creak of his glasses as your faces collided in an eager kiss. Spencer rolled his hips into yours, balancing his weight onto one arm so his second arm could come down to your thigh and pull your leg apart from the other. The new found space allowed Spencer to slide deeper into your cunt, causing you both to moan loudly, your pussy clenching around the wet ridges of his cock. “Oh god.” You cried, words coming out muffled as Spencer glided his tongue against yours

“Please Spence.” You begged as Spencer separated his kiss from yours to look deeply into your eyes, a hand coming up to push the hair away from your face, stubbornly sticking to the glistening sweat. “’Re you close?” You hummed, digging your nails into Spencer’s shoulders as you dug your head into the couch cushions. Spencer smiled from above you, watching as your face contorted into pleasure, failing to squeeze your thighs together for more friction. Spencer groaned, head falling into the crook of your neck and pressing kisses on your skin as a hand trailed down to rub circles on your clit.

Spencer bit down on your neck just as you let out a high-pitched moan, whimpering when his teeth sunk into your skin. Your eyes shut tightly as a shock of pleasure darted up to your abdomen, but Spencer caressed your cheek, begging “Look at me when you cum, please.” Your eyes shot open at his words as pleasure overtook you. You don’t know what triggered your orgasm, Spencer’s pleading tone or the use of the endearing term ‘baby’, but it had you coming anyway, your loud cries filling the air.

Spencer grunted as you came, his pelvis stilling, cock buried inside you. Spencer felt his dick throb as you clenched around him, trying not to cum as you loudly cried his name out. Spencer was only pulling out when you slumped back against the couch, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips. Spencer wrapped a hand around his cock, but you put a hand over his, prompting him to let go of himself. You gently squeezed the base of Spencer’s cock, beginning to stroke him, but there was no need: he was already coming, white, thick ropes of cum shooting out of his cock and onto your tank top.

Spencer sat back on his knees, catching his breath softly as he watched you watch him, a coy smile on your face. You giggled nervously, and Spencer grinned, crawling over you before lowering himself onto you, still hovering over you as he began kissing you. “So, same time tomorrow?” Spencer joked, moving off you and finding your shorts on the floor, carefully helping you slip your feet into the holes of your shorts. “Mhm, doesn’t have to be tomorrow.” You teased, standing up and walking out of the living room. You turned to look at Spencer one last time before rounding the corner to enter the hallway, leaving Spencer alone in the living room to blankly stare at the screen, watching cluelessly as the two characters began arguing, trying to distract himself from the way his cock hardened once more.

Spencer scanned the room, jumping up when he spotted your abandoned panties on the floor. He quickly pocketed them before rushing to follow you towards your bedroom. “What did you say about not tomorrow?” He breathlessly asked as he opened your bedroom door. You spun around to look at him, putting a look of fake shock on your face as he gasped, staring at your now naked body, eyes glued to your tits.

Spencer shut the door, approaching you, and it didn’t open again for a very long time.

[p0orbaby]

Your Turn to Bear the Burden

summary: one rule for one, and one for another

warnings: a little angsty

a/n: i didn’t exactly stick to the request but it’s close enough !

word count: 1.8k

-

Dinner is sea bass. You have it twice a week because Alexia swears it’s good for the omega-3s, and because she read somewhere that it helps reduce the risk of age related cognitive decline. It’s grilled, seasoned with Maldon sea salt and a drizzle of olive oil from a suspiciously artisanal bottle she brought back from a day trip in Girona. The fish sits on a porcelain plate, beside a scatter of wild rocket (that you suspect isn’t that wild) and a dollop of aioli that she keeps insisting is homemade but always tastes exactly like the jarred one you buy from Mercadona. You don’t complain. You’ve learned not to. Complaining about food in this house would be like complaining about Picasso’s brushstrokes. It’s pointless and makes you look uncultured.

Alexia sits across from you, sleeves rolled to the elbows of her crisp white linen shirt. She’s wearing the Cartier watch you bought her last year, and her hair, damp from her post-training shower, is slicked back with that agonisingly expensive hair product she orders from Paris. Her fork scrapes against her plate in slow, deliberate motions. She eats like someone’s recording her for an advert—perfect posture, elbows off the table, chewing with a rhythm that feels both measured and faintly patronising.

“Eat,” she says, gesturing at your untouched plate. “It’s good for your heart”

“My heart’s fine,” you mutter, stabbing a piece of fish with the fork. It flakes too perfectly, like it’s been carved from soap.

“Your blood pressure says otherwise.” She’s got that look again. The one that makes you feel like she’s your personal physician instead of your wife.

You open your mouth to reply, but then Aina, your six-year-old, decides to detonate the conversational equivalent of an atomic bomb.

“Mami, is the lady at training your girlfriend?”

The question is dropped so casually that, for a moment, you think you’ve misheard. It hangs in the air, heavy and improbable, like a chandelier dangling by a single thread.

Alexia freezes mid-cut of her food, the sharp edge of the knife grazing the plate with a faint squeak that makes you wince. She’s poised in that awkward half-motion, as though still deciding whether to commit to slicing the fish or abandoning the endeavour altogether.

You set your cutlery down with deliberate care. The silver catches the light, refracting it into neat prisms on the table. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice calm but laced with incredulity. “What?”

“The lady at training,” Aina repeats, savouring her newfound role as household disruptor. She waves a chunk of fish in the air with the authority of a conductor cueing a symphony. “The one with the shiny hair who always laughs at your jokes”

Alexia clears her throat, a sound more purposeful than polite. “Aina, cariño, eat your dinner”

“I am,” Aina replies, affronted, her cheeks puffed with indignation—and probably another piece of food. “But she’s always there. She calls you Ale, too. Like Mamá does”

Your head tilts ever so slightly, your gaze sharpening like the edge of a freshly honed knife. “She calls you Ale?”

“It’s my nickname,” Alexia says, far too quickly. Her knife saws through her sea bass with unnecessary vigour, the motion a little too aggressive for a piece of fish.

“For people who are close,” you murmur, your voice sugared with the faintest trace of menace. Honey over a blade.

“She’s just being friendly,” Alexia mutters, but it’s a hopeless defence. Friendly? Alexia’s version of friendly typically involves curt nods and silences so loaded they could tip over a cargo ship. You’ve seen her reduce overzealous fans to apologetic puddles with nothing more than a well-timed brow lift. This shiny-haired woman must be either extraordinarily resilient or willfully obtuse.

The conversation limps onward—or at least, it pretends to. Aina, blissfully oblivious to the tension, pivots to a monologue about school. There’s a new maths teacher who “smells like raisins,” and the class hamster escaped during art, prompting chaos and a stern lecture from Mrs. Lopez. Alexia seizes this distraction like a lifeline, nodding along with exaggerated interest and lobbing in questions about multiplication tables and papier-mâché volcanoes. But you’re not fooled.

You’re watching her, the cogs in your mind spinning with precision. There’s a tell, you know there is. Something in the way her shoulders stiffen just a fraction too much when Aina says “shiny hair.” The way her hand lingers on her wine glass a moment too long, as if considering the merits of drowning herself in Rioja.

You let it lie for now.

-

Later, when Aina is cocooned in her duvet, her breathing deep and even, you find Alexia in the kitchen. The dishwasher hums faintly as she loads it with the precision of a neurosurgeon mid-surgery. Plates are slotted in at perfect right angles, bowls stacked by diameter like a tidy topographical map, cutlery pointed handle-up because “it’s more hygienic”—a rule she enforces as if it’s in the Geneva Conventions.

You lean against the counter, your stance casual but your tone anything but. “So. The lady with the shiny hair”

Alexia doesn’t look up, focused on positioning a stubborn saucepan. “What about her?”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

Her exhale is sharp, controlled. She straightens to face you, her expression carefully blank, a masterpiece of denial. “Don’t be ridiculous”

You cross your arms, the picture of patient fury. “I’m not the one making friends at our daughters extra curricular activities”

“She’s not even my friend,” Alexia says, but it’s the wrong thing to say, and she knows it the second it’s out of her mouth. You watch the words hang in the air, a misstep that invites you to pounce. She’s inadvertently handed you the key to a door she didn’t want opened.

“Oh, so she’s just hitting on you,” you say, your tone silky and exact, as if you’re presenting an irrefutable conclusion in court. Your hand cradles the wine glass with a precision that borders on art, its curve mirroring the faint smile playing on your lips.

“Do you hear yourself?” Alexia asks, her voice pitched higher than usual—an octave reserved for complete disbelief.

“Do you hear Aina?” you counter, your words razor-sharp but draped in velvet. “Because she’s clearly picked up on something.”

Alexia exhales, running a hand through her hair in that harried way she does when faced with impossible tactics—like breaking down a parked bus defence or convincing Aina that broccoli isn’t evil. “She’s six. She thinks people are dating if they stand next to each other for more then five minutes”

You raise an eyebrow, arching it with surgical precision. “And yet she’s never accused me of having a girlfriend on my errands”

Alexia hesitates. It’s brief, but you see it—the tiny glitch in her system. Her mouth opens, then closes, her defences recalibrating. She hates this. She thrives on control, on certainty, on organising chaos into perfect diagonal lines, whether it’s her wardrobe or your shared holiday schedules. Being put on the defensive is an alien sensation, and she wears it badly.

“It’s not what you think,” she says finally.

“Great,” you reply, folding your arms. “Because I’m not thinking anything. Yet.”

Alexia exhales through her nose, the kind of exhale that says she’s already tired of this conversation, even though it’s barely started. “She’s a parent of one of the other kids at football. That’s it”

“Right. And the arm-touching?”

“She’s just… tactile”

“Tactile,” you repeat, as if tasting the word for the first time. “Interesting choice of adjective”

Alexia leans forward, her elbows resting on the table—a rare lapse in her usually impeccable posture. “You’re blowing this out of proportion”

“Am I?” You pick up your wine glass and swirl the liquid, not because it needs aerating but because it gives your hands something to do. It’s a Rioja. Medium-bodied. Too warm. “You keep me on a leash so tight I can’t even glance at a waitress without getting a lecture, but shiny hair can play patty-cake with your arm, and I’m the one who’s out of line?”

“She’s not playing patty-cake”

“You’re right. That would require both hands”

“Stop it”

“Why? Is it making you uncomfortable?”

Alexia’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t answer right away, which is unusual for her. She’s usually quick with her rebuttals—sharp, precise, like the lawyer she secretly wishes she’d become. But now, she’s uncharacteristically quiet.

“She’s just being friendly,” Alexia says finally, her voice lower now, almost defensive. “You know how people are”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.” You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Because the people I know don’t make a habit of fondling married women during football training”

“Fondling?” Alexia’s eyebrows shoot up. “Now who’s being dramatic?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, setting your wine glass down with enough force to make the liquid slosh over the rim. “Would you prefer ‘caressing’? Or maybe ‘groping’? No, wait, I’ve got it—‘inappropriate physical contact.’ How’s that for a euphemism?”

Alexia sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re paranoid”

“And you’re a hypocrite”

That lands. You can tell by the way her jaw tightens, the muscles working under her skin like she’s chewing on something bitter. You let the silence stretch out, savouring it like the last bite of dessert. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, but no less sharp.

“What do you want me to say?” she asks. “That I’ll tell her to stop? Fine. I’ll tell her to stop. Happy?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Because that’s not the point

“Then what is the point?”

“The point,” you say, your voice rising now, “is that you don’t get to police my every interaction and then brush this off like it’s nothing. You don’t get to play the saint while shiny hair out there auditioning for Handsy Football Mums Gone Wild”

Alexia’s lips press into a thin line. For a moment, you think she might yell, but she doesn’t. She just sits there, staring at you with those infuriatingly steady eyes, like she’s trying to dissect you with her gaze alone.

“She’s not interested in me,” Alexia says eventually, her tone measured, controlled. “She’s just… like that. With everyone”

“Do you actually believe that,” you ask, “or are you just hoping I will?”

She doesn’t answer. And for the first time tonight, you feel like you’ve won—not the argument, necessarily, but something. A crack in her armour, maybe. Or a shift in the balance of power.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Alexia says finally, her voice quieter now. Almost vulnerable.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t trust me,

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you pick up your wine glass again, taking a long, slow sip. The wine tastes better now. Richer. Fuller. Or maybe that’s just the satisfaction of knowing you’ve rattled her.

“It’s not about trust,” you say eventually, setting the glass back down. “It’s about consistency”

Alexia tilts her head, confused. “Consistency?”

“If you’re going to be the morality police,” you say, your tone light but cutting, “you’d better make sure you’re following your own rules. Otherwise, it’s just embarrassing”

She doesn’t reply. And for the first time all evening, you think maybe—just maybe—she’s out of things to say.

[ceesimz]

feels like we only go backwards

is this all you'll ever be? (angst -> comfort/fluff)

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, but I am done with this.” 

All of your adult life, you thought that the six month mark argument stage was a myth. Maybe that’s because you hadn’t ever made it to that milestone before, dating wasn’t your thing.

“And everytime you say that, I don’t understand what you mean!” 

Apparently it was true.

“No, you do not get to pull that card. You know exactly what I mean. I come home after working all day, exhausted, just to hear you whine and complain about chores and other bullshit. You work from home, I travel all over Spain and Europe, so I'm sorry if I forget my chores once in a while!” 

You think it's unfair that the person you are truly, genuinely, wholeheartedly in love with is the one you can't stop arguing against. Relationships aren't meant to be like that, even you can recognise and acknowledge that after years and years of failed attempts at them.

“What, just because you're famous you think you're more important than me? That your job is more exhausting? I rarely work from home, the only time I do is when you're actually in the city so that I can try and see you! How fucking selfish are you? My job is important, in fact I make an actual difference to people's lives whereas you kick a ball around the pitch and expect everyone to worship you for it!” 

The first one began when you were running late picking Alexia up after she had a meeting, her car was in the garage and the weather was especially awful that day. Maybe the torrential downpour should have been a sign of things to come, things only got worse from then onwards.

“My job IS important! It is my life, if you can't understand that part of me then I don't know why you're still here!” 

Alexia feels like the walls are closing in on her where she lays on her couch, thinks her life might end after a particularly bad argument, the worst of them all so far. For weeks, the tension had been simmering slowly, but now it had boiled over completely. She wasn’t sure she would get you back.

“Wow. Okay. You know, if you never loved me, liked me, even. I wish you would have told me to leave sooner.” 

Both of you were to blame in all this, you two knew that. For some reason, you were just too stubborn to acknowledge that fact and do anything about it. So you both sat in different apartments in the same city, lost and fatalistically melancholic about a situation that could be solved with some simple communication. One conversation could save you from this, but were either of you brave enough to take that first step?

“Dios mío, now you are being even more ridiculous. How can you say that after all I have done for you?” 

You don’t think you’ve ever hated yourself more than you did, lying in bed and feeling sorry for yourself. Your neighbours were probably on the other side of the wall, laughing at the pity party happening in the next apartment over. From this moment on, you could never take the elevator again, you think the small talk that would occur might be your last straw.

“All you have done? Enlighten me on what you think love is, Alexia, because you’re making it out to be something transactional, and if that’s the case then this relationship might be the worst fucking ‘investment’ of my life. Don’t even act like you’re some kind of saint either, I have spent the last month feeling more alone than loved.” 

That final statement from you was when the penny dropped for Alexia. It was a sentence that would haunt her forever. There wasn’t even a thing she could do about it either; you slipped your shoes on, and walked out after it. 

You didn’t mean to leave at that precise moment, you knew that was the worst thing to do in an argument. In all honesty, it wasn’t even to make a point to Alexia. What you admitted in that moment felt way too vulnerable, you inwardly cringed when the words fell out. Your only choice then, it felt like, to save the last ounce of your dignity was to flee so that you didn’t give your heart the chance to feel bad for saying that to the woman you loved.

Being annoyed and angry didn’t come naturally to you, being sympathetic did. You knew you would have instantly felt a hundred times more guilty if you had stayed to see her reaction. And thankfully, for some time, you didn’t feel regret or remorse, you were hot with rage. Alexia didn’t try to stop you leaving, nor did she follow you. 

But then, in the quiet safe haven of your apartment, those feelings began to set in. Not even the dark of your bedroom or the comfort of your duvet could fend them off, sleep decided to go against you that night and opt out of helping you. That left you with no choice but to dwell on the evening’s events, the week’s dramas, and the month’s emotional turmoil. 

It had been one of the hardest months of your life, you just wanted it to be over. Instead, the only thing that seemed to have ended was your relationship.

And on the other side of the city, a two-time Ballon d’Or winner had reduced herself to tears after the realisation that all she had come to be in football had meant she had totally disregarded who she was at home and, more importantly, who she came home to. 

In football, when you make a mistake, there are twenty-plus people that will put you in your place and tell you exactly where you went wrong. In life, there is no such thing. There is no system, only consequence. Age was irrelevant when it came to learning things. Here, she was humbled in a way she had never been before, no nutmeg or own goal could match this. She knew, the moment it sunk in, that she needed it. 

She also needed you; she needed your love, your joy, your touch, if she ever hoped to feel whole again. The pain of the night’s occurrence was almost as horrible as the longing she felt when she thought back on the first months of knowing you. All was right in the world then – she was playing great football, and she had an incredible partner to come home to. Out of all the things she missed, all the obvious things, one thing that once seemed incredibly minor soon stepped out of the shadows and stabbed her right in the chest.

Knowing that, after the day she’d had no matter if it was good or bad, she would still get to come home to you was an unexplainable feeling. It was a phenomenon she wasn’t sure she could ever put into words. Something about being exhausted or full of energy, grumpy and miserable or content and calm, and still having someone that loved her was… priceless. If she lost that, you, forever, she was sure her heart would beat a little slower, have less will to live and function. A life without love like yours simply wasn’t worth it. 

As you both lay down in separate flats, only a car ride between you, the anxieties and the doubts were the same. Your soul was nearly a reflection of hers; the same morals, the same worries, the same guilt. Only the reasons for the last two were different. You were both determined characters, at work and in life in general. Alexia decided to put hers to good use.

Alexia: I’m coming over.

Initially, that text you received only made you feel a thousand times worse. The moment your phone vibrated with the notification, you scrambled to pick it up, hoping it was anything but that text. Maybe if you were in a better state of mind, you wouldn’t have spiralled at the sight of it. Maybe if you didn’t think your relationship was already dead and done with, it wouldn’t have been the final nail in the coffin. 

Staying in bed and feeling sorry for yourself was no longer cutting it, you had to get up and move. So, move you did. You never stopped pacing for a second. You waited for her in the lounge, a room that may as well have been a shrine to the woman about to serve you the worst news of your life. Framed photos littered the walls and any surface in sight – you were always an old soul, something Alexia adored about you. The way you demanded to have photos of every single person you loved on display reminded her of her mother, it was a sentiment that never failed to make her smile. 

But it wasn’t just the photos, it was the signs of life. The most agonising reminders of what simplicities you would lose; one of her jackets hung on the wall by the door, the dishes piled up in the sink from when you had shared breakfast just that morning, the book of yours she had been borrowing to read when she came over. They all served as a horrifying mockery of what you were about to let slip from your grasp. 

You had her, and soon you wouldn’t. 

The pacing stopped then, the sudden, strange grief strong enough to break through the autopilot movement of your legs and allow the world to come falling down on you. Whoever said that heartbreak didn’t cause a physical reaction clearly hadn’t lost a person like Alexia. She was one-in-eight-billion. No amount of searching would lead you to anyone that came remotely close to the beauty of her heart, her mind, and her soul.

“Cariño, let me in, please!” The pounding at your door brought you out of whatever pit of dread you had fallen into, only for you to fall right back into it the moment you came to. “Please. I need to talk to you, amor.”

“-if you can't understand that part of me then I don't know why you're still here!” 

Then why is she here?

The sound of the lock sliding and the door opening sent a surge of relief through Alexia, though it left the second she saw your face. Eyes full of tears and cheeks reddened by past drops that had fallen, even hours after the earlier altercation. The sun had set long ago, and it had taken any remaining hints of hope with it.

“Why are you here?” You said, knowing that the confidence you tried to put on crumbled with the crack of emotion in your voice.

“Let me in. Please, amor, I can’t… I can’t.” Sounded like she didn’t have much faith in her facade either, judging by the desperation in the way she spoke. There was also a drop of disdain too that you knew was aimed entirely at herself, you’d heard it before, and even after the way the day had gone, or rather the month, it still hurt to hear your favourite person in the world to talk like that.

If she was surprised at how you stood to the side to let her in, she didn’t show it. 

“Alexia…” You started, but trailed off fairly quick. You didn’t know what to say.

“No, don’t call me that. Please, not you.” She shook her head with the same amount of desperation as what was in her tone. 

You closed the door and slowly padded your way over to where she stood in the centre of the lounge. As you came to stand in front of her, you noticed the gloss of her eyes that glistened in the moonlight streaming through the window. The way you reached out and delicately put a hand on her arm was all instinct.

“What's wrong?” You asked quietly, but that only seemed to cause more unrest.

“Qué? What's wrong?! The fact that we love each other and we cannot stop arguing! Why are we against each other when we are supposed to be on the same team? I-it’s absurd, amor, I-”

“Ale, Ale, calm down.” Your other hand came up to grab her arm, holding tightly in an effort to grasp her attention. 

She didn't deserve your time. She had neglected you for the past month, yet here you were, taking her heart and caring for it with a tenderness that would make the world stop.

“I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t treat you like this anymore.”

Here it comes.

Your hands fell away when she said that, and the roles reversed. You slipped into a state of panic, though you tried to hide it, whilst Alexia’s composure came back to her.

“From now on, no more arguing. No more arguing, no more shouting, no more of it. It is not good for us, you don’t deserve it.” She had to get that out first, then take a deep breath, before she could move on to what really mattered to her. “I love you. These arguments hurt the both of us, but I cannot stand making you cry or making you feel alone. Dios, I will never make you feel like that again even if it kills me.”

Her words weren’t registering in your mind, you were nearly in a state of shock. Only minutes before she had showed up, you were in a near catatonic state at the anticipation of the death of your relationship. That wasn’t the case here.

“What?” You murmured, crossing your arms over your chest in a way that broke Alexia’s heart once more, because it was like you did it to defend yourself. 

She tried her best to soften her demeanour, from her body language to her eyes, and she cautiously stepped over. Her hands landed gently on your cheeks, brushing away the tears there, and she gazed at you with a softness you weren’t expecting to ever see again.

“I am sorry for how I have behaved towards you and I will say sorry for the rest of my life. I can’t lose you, amor, I would rather lose everything else in my life if it meant I could have you. I didn’t recognise that in the past and I am so sorry it took me this long to realise it. You don’t deserve my behaviour and I don’t deserve you.”

She let out a shaky breath, leaning down to rest her forehead against yours as she swallowed the lump in her throat and willed herself to get through her next words.

“What I said earlier, I do not mean it and I never could. I have never loved someone like I love you, and even though that scares me a tiny bit, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want you around, and I want you to want me around too. There are no excuses for the way I have neglected you and treated you, and I will be better. I will be better, I promise.”

“I…” You choked back your emotions and prepared yourself for her reaction to your next words. “I thought you were coming here to break up with me.”

Even though she was the one touching you, you sensed her whole body stiffen at that. You opened your eyes, not having even realised they were closed in the first place, and saw her eyes tightly shut and the familiar frown to her face. Though, there was a tremble to her chin that told you she was fighting back her sobs. 

“No.” Was all she muttered as she shook her head gently against yours. She quickly moved away then, and the loss of her was terrifying for a moment, before you realised she had just turned around to hide her tears for a moment when she wiped her face on the inside of her shirt, turning back afterward. Her hands cradled your face in the same way she did a moment ago. “No. I’m not breaking up with you and I don’t want to break up with you, ever. For as long as you let me, I will love you. I even-”

Her eyes went comically wide then, and if the moment wasn’t so serious, you probably would have laughed.

“What?” You wondered, watching in amusement as she groaned and threw her head back. 

“I bought two bouquets of flowers for you and I left them both in my car.” 

Even though you felt a little bad, you laughed at her admission. You laughed, genuinely and freely, and it felt different to any of the laughs you’d let out in the past few weeks. When Alexia moved past her frustration, she couldn’t help but join in with you. And before you knew it, your shared laughter bounced off of the walls despite the tears still present on either of your faces. The moment was funny, in fact the whole situation of both the flowers and the arguments that had been had were ridiculous.

Most of the time, you couldn’t even pick out why the argument started. Not to mention most fights were just rehashing the same points and excuses over and over. So yeah, it was ridiculous.

Alexia, however, wasn’t expecting you to wrap your arms around her in a hug she had missed for… she didn’t even know. Every act of intimacy of the last month had felt forced, with an ounce of apprehension in them. This hug, it was different. It was sincere and filled with the love that had been lacking recently. To be honest, it took her breath away.

“You’re not breaking up with me.” You mumbled into her neck where you had buried your face, a bashful smile on your face. 

“I’m not breaking up with you. If you’ll forgive me, if you’ll have me still, I’m not breaking up with you.” 

That sentence especially caught your attention. You leaned back in her arms, keeping your own tight around her, and looked up at her in confusion.

“Ale, if you forgive me. I said some horrible things too, it wasn’t only you. I was just as bad.” The blonde smiled sadly down at you and shook her head softly before moving forward to place a gentle, reassuring kiss to your temple.

“We both said some mean things. I want to forget it for now.” She whispered. You were more than happy to entertain her in that.

“Me too. I love you, Ale. So much.”

No relationship was perfect, that you knew now. But even through the arguments, the disagreements, the particularly bad fights, every moment outside of those occurrences were worth it, and more.

—

wrote this on a whim, and its... actually short? 😧 overall im not too sure about it, it's been a while since i posted something like this but hope you liked it 🙃🧡