#I had no therapist for like 4 months

[inkskinned]

one of the oddest arguments i've ever gotten into was like. i had agreed to give a dude a chance. we were on a first date. and he got. just. so mad. because i had told him i read about 2-5 books a week.

but he found out it was actually that i listen to 2-5 audiobooks. he was dead set on the idea - that's not reading, it's just listening. that i was lying, somehow, by implying i'd "read" the book.

language has a beautiful ability to adapt over time, particularly in the face of technology. when i "connect to the internet" i'm referencing the oldschool method of literally plugging into the internet - which i very rarely physically do. i roll down my window, which is a reference to the circular mechanical action it used to take. hell - the floppy disc remains our resolute save file icon. when i say i "ran to the store," nobody expects me to actually run - and what my version of running to the store looks like and your version are probably pretty different.

i told the guy, baffled: i look at things through glasses, that's still seeing. nobody complains i'm filtering the image.

he says: that's not the same and you know it.

i use audiobooks because i have adhd, and it makes it so i can actually focus. i am using it to help a medically diagnosed condition.

language also has a really cool ability: when we read something, our brains look at a word and make an image. when we hear a story, our brains hear a word and make an image. whether we hear it or read it - the word means the same thing, written or spoken. there is no quantifiable difference in the knowledge-encoding experience - i still happily hallucinate while i'm listening.

and i just kind of stared at him while he was telling me that "claiming" i had "actually read" a book that i had actually-listened-to was lying

and my only baffled response was like: "... are you gatekeeping the experience of... reading?"

[kirishwima]

me: is okay

me all of a sudden: something is inherently wrong with me and i dont know where it came from nor how to fix it i only know its there and its debilitating and no one will ever understand it

me: is okay again

[foxgirlmoth]

I don't like publicly talking about relationship stuff but falling in love is such a nice feeling. It feels open and honest and comforting to me with these girls. Do I have to constantly fight anxieties that I might not be good enough? Do I have to fight through some past trauma caused by an asshole who used me? Sure. Sure. But I can tell when its worth fighting these kinds of thoughts. I gotta let myself be happy and find out that yeah. I wanna cry at 4 am because I feel very loved and cared for by these women in my life. I haven't been able to spend 7 hours straight with many people but this lovely girl watched a show with me and then I streamed Hollow Knight to her for at least 6 hours until it was early in the morning and I was so sleepy I could have fallen asleep while listening to her. I miss you every night when we're asleep and so far apart. I want your warmth against my back or in my arms. I miss you.

[schadenfreudich]

Was looking if there is literally any apartment in my area, and there is just none.

(At least based on size, because I can't have any that's bigger than 45 qm, if I remember that correctly, because that's the most the jobcenter would pay for, and there is technically one, but that one is in the far off village with the worst possible public transport and no store in the village, so you have to have a car to be able to live there. Or the little bit of public transport would also be too expensive, because fuck having public transport that is actually usable by people who are most dependent on it, fuck you, germany)

[carmenlire]

if I can be honest lol I feel like shit and lowkey like everyone hates me because I'm so annoying:/

[tvslashers]

ohhhh yeah. I need therapy to live

[apocalypticdemon]

i am so tired of having to talk people off the ledge

[ranger-kellyn]

just realized i'm officially older than both my parents were when they had me and now i'm. Feeling.

[oceantornadoo]

IDK! HEAR ME OUT THO!!!

Simon, staging the break in and what not so he could push you back into his arms??? INSANE!

Delicious story. Thank you for the food! <3

so originally when i made that last fic (which unexpectedly blew up tysm everyone) i added in the creepy elements almost on accident?? but this and another reply has me thinking...

tw: slight humiliation (but you'll like it)=

simon riley wasn't a bad man. he also wasn't a bad husband. at least that's what he told himself.

when you had presented him with those divorce papers a bit ago (13 months and 4 days, but who was counting), he thought it was a bluff. a joke. he had gone too far in your last argument, and that was your reaction. when he told you he'd go to therapy, you stared at him with a look he'd only see on men in the battlefield. dead all the way through, a walking husk. so he signed them and went to therapy anyways.

the whole time, this whole 13-month break, where you had been 'building a new life' or whatever, he had been planning. internalizing the commentary his therapist would make, and then spitting it back out to you while you moved out of his place. every time you seemed to forget one extra box, and who's to say if he hid a couple in his room? he had a plan.

over time, simon really seemed to have learned so much from therapy. so much about communication. he had become open and welcoming, far from that man who would respond to your complaints with hard stares and a lack of words. so maybe you met for coffee a couple of times and that's how he knew about the cafe by your new place. maybe that's how he tailed you one night after a date, just to make sure this new guy didn't try anything (and not to figure out your unit number). whatever he did, he played a dangerous game by letting you have this illusion of freedom while balancing his presence in your life, just enough to make you want more. after weeks and week of stagnant progress, he needed one extra push. something small, not even a shove.

and if he happened to mention your unit number to a bunch of shady guys that hung out in the alley by your building? happened to brag about your pretty pussy and sweet-smelling panties? maybe mention your habit of not locking the window when you left for work? who's to say. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

and now here you were, back in his arms where you belonged. a little frightened but comforted in the knowledge that he could protect you. the ghost wasn't shed when he took his mask off, but you didn't need to know that.

--

your body was so used to being in simon's arms you didn't even realize you had been grinding on him for the past ten minutes. his boxers you wore were sticky with arousal as you grinded against his clothed cock in the dark. even in your dream, it was simon underneath you, no one else. "si." you panted, a near-whisper that only a military man could have heard. "dove?" he adjusted your sleeping positions, tossing the covers to give you more room to maneuver against him.

"i know i said that thing about the line not being crossed." he gave you a low chuckle. silly little girl. you had finally realized how much you needed him and he was going to milk you for all you were worth. "and?" you stopped. shit. he needed to seem more responsive. he moved you from his thigh to his boner using one arm, the other one snaking its way under your shirt to stroke your back. you moaned as he massaged the tension from the day's earlier events away, giving you sweet relief. the sweetness of the massage made a hard contrast to the friction in your core as he rubbed you against his hardened cock.

"spit it out, baby." he growled. "can you-fuck." his hand had moved to the back of your neck now, holding it in a tight grip. his hand was so large he could feel the pulse points on either side of your jaw, heart racing. finally. "can you get me off? just this once?" he snorted, moving you up and down against him faster, dragging your sensitive clit over and over. "what's the magic word?" he flipped you both around, pressing his body weight on top of you.

simon turned the light on, wanting to see how needy you were. you were panting, shirt sticky with sweat as your chest moved up and down with exertion. he hiked up your shirt and took off your boxers, exposing your sticky cunt to the cool air. he took a sniff of the fabric, noting your small gasp as if you didn't know how obsessed he was with you already. "magic word." your mouth dropped. guess you weren't getting off that easily. "please, simon." he clucked his tongue at that. "ghost?" he left out a short laugh, arms reaching out to tug his shirt off of you. your nipples were so hard, aching to be pinched and sucked just how you liked them. "not ghost." he reached over to his nightstand, pulling something out of the drawer. he fumbled with his hand for a second, then held yours up to the light as he slipped something on it.

"husband." the words left your mouth in a whoosh, eyes transfixed on your wedding ring that was on your hand. the one you had flung at him after he complained about the divorce papers, the one you said you'd rather die than wear again. and here it was, right back on your finger, sparkling in the lamplight.

simon captured your mouth in a rough kiss, entering you with his ring and middle finger at the same time. "so willing for your husband, hm? all puffy and wet. look at your cunt, darling." you both looked down at your pussy at the same time. it was squelching, your vibrator sessions not holding a candle to what your ex husband could do to you. you were almost embarrassed by how desperate your pussy looked, clit enlarged from its earlier friction. his fingers worked in and out of you, wedding ring covered in slick. you watched as he pressed his thumb to your clit in small circles, a tightening sensation in your lower belly rising to the surface. "simon, si-fuck" he gave your pussy a small slap, pulling his fingers out as you addressed him incorrectly. "husband, please." he entered you again roughly, drawing a low moan from you. he captured your nipple in his mouth, teething it just enough to make you hurt. punishment.

"please please please i'm right ther-" he pressed hard against your clit and sent you careening off the edge into your orgasm, back bowing off the bed. simon gave you small love bites as you recovered, hand still working your cunt to draw out your orgasm.

finally, he removed his fingers and drew back from you, forcing eye contact. he put both in his mouth, moaning at the taste of your arousal mixed with the metal from the wedding band. your jaw was still open, looking at him like you had never seen him before. like the sheep's skin had finally been removed, and now only the wolf remained.

"let's get you to bed, wife."

[glitterock]

bro just did the gay therapy intake interview and i got in sat down and started crying and the guy was like slay ur in

[scarletcomet]

talking to your therapist after a relapse is always weird because it's like should i bring it up? it's not too relevant if i relapse for absolutely no reason, right? do i even feel comfortable telling her?

[bls-luv-me]

It gets harder and harder to live everyday.

[turtlesandfrogs]

I'm going to share a secret that I wish I had known sooner: There's this thing called "physical therapy" and it can make you stop hurting.

It's magical. I know I guy who spent literal decades (he's in his like, 70s now) thinking that he had arthritis in his knees. He went to the physical therapist, and in a year he was without knee pain.

I know an 80-year-old lady that was falling down a lot, couldn't step over a curb, and couldn't get up off the floor. She was convinced (and it did take some convincing) to go to a physical therapist, and she hasn't fallen in months, can step over curbs, and can get back off the ground with only a 4 inch support. And she's still getting better!

I hurt my shoulder being a dumbass and doing an aerial silks trick I knew was too hard for me, had a fucked up shoulder for months, and physical therapy made the pain go away.

If you're going around without a full range of movement, just living in pain, please go to a physical therapist. If you were assigned physical therapy and didn't go, please reconsider.

If you're going to a chiropractor for pain on a reoccurring basis, please, please, please consider going to a physical therapist. They can't fix everything, but it's amazing what they can do.

And yes, just like mental therapy, the doing of it can suck big time, but the rewards are worth it.

[kiyoomi-levin]

villain pt.1 (bakugoxf!reader) [NSFW]

a/n this was originally supposed to be a single fic but i wanted to see how ppl liked it lol. pt 2 is already in the making (and i promise it's more spicy than this one)

summary: harley (you) realize that joker (your boyfriend) is in love with batman (bakugo). If only harley also knew batman’s obsessed with her. —> inspired by this short  word count: 4.9k warning(s): bakugo’s literally just a horndog

“I swear, Ren, if you pull anything like that again…”

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes as he pulls away from your grip. 

“Enough, y/n. I always get you out, don’t I?” 

You frown, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself. 

“You try getting caught and being put into jail multiple times in a single month. It’s not funny,” you sigh. 

You don’t even know what it’s like to be tied up by Bakugo fucking Katsuki, you want to add. 

But you keep your mouth shut. 

Ren’s already in a bad mood, jaw clenched tight as he walks faster. You’re almost jogging at this point just to keep up with his pace.

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath. 

Ren hardly glances at you as the two of you enter your cheap apartment complex, walking silently up the two flights of stairs to your front door.  

You cringe as you round the corner—on your front door is a familiar piece of white paper, the contents of which you already know by heart.

Late rent notice: Dear tenet, your rent was due on the 7th of February. As of the date of this letter, your payment is 4 days past due. 

Frustrated, you rip the paper off of the metal door as Ren reaches over and enters the pin. 

Your jaw drops as he walks inside carelessly, unbothered with the notice. 

The two of you have been dating for almost a year now; you’re long used to his carefree nature. 

That’s what first drew you to him. 

Now it merely disgusts you. 

“Ren,” you cautiously call out as the door shuts behind you, “I think it’s time to give it up.”

Your boyfriend tosses himself onto the wrinkled couch, pointing towards the fridge. Frowning, you head over and grab him a cold beer. 

“Thanks babe.”

You collapse next to him, relishing in the fluffy texture. After being in a holding cell for a few days, you’ve definitely missed the warmth of your home. 

“I know you’re mad, and I understand. But we learned something new from last time, didn’t we? Dynamight was literally showing off his weaknesses! If we just—”

“Ren, stop it! That was the last time. I’m done. Seriously.” 

Your boyfriend is pouting now, reaching over to hold you in his arms. You want to fight back, you should. 

He jumps into his usual rant about how much he hates Dynamight; that asshole, always flaunting his wealth and looks. He’s just a shitty hero with a shitty quirk.

Meanwhile, you’re fighting back tears of frustration. 

How had you gotten here?

A year ago, you had seemingly met the man of your dreams at the villain rehabilitation center (looking back, maybe that hadn’t been the best idea). 

You had been working there as a volunteer and was popular with all of the residents as a bright psychology student and aspiring therapist.

Despite the havoc these wannabe villains had wreaked across Japan, you had treated all of them with kindness and respect, hoping you would be able to make a positive difference in at least a single person’s life. 

How naive you had been. 

“Hey, y/n,” Ren smirks as you gently open the door to the small office. 

You exhale— this one villain has been bothering you more often recently, and he was just too cute for his own good. 

“Takanashi Ren. Your counseling appointment isn’t until later this evening.”

“Aw. I can’t give my favorite therapist a visit?” 

You grin at him, pushing your dark rimmed glasses up your nose. 

“I’m not a therapist yet,” you retort, stepping back as Ren pushes back from his chair, striding over to you. He has you cornered to a wall, and the muscles of his arm flex dangerously, reminding you of his crimes. 

Despite this, all you can notice is how bright his eyes are— gosh, you just love the way they twinkle.

“I’m sure a smart girl like you’ll achieve all your academic dreams. I just hope I’m out of here on time to watch you cross that stage.”

And with that, you’d fallen head over heels for a cringy, third-rate villain with no plans for the immediate future. But the more time you spent with him, you truly felt as though you’d met your match. 

He was intelligent. Witty. Funny. 

Most importantly, he was different. His ideas for a liberated world— where all quirks were considered equal and everyone had the freedom to use their quirks as they wanted— was just unlike what you’d ever considered. 

If only you had paused for a moment and asked him just how he would create that world. 

It had been too late when you had realized what you had gotten yourself into. Now, you spend your days as a college dropout, supporting your boyfriend in his schemes that always end in failure and with you in handcuffs. 

But you had already sworn to devote yourself to him. 

Question. Would you die for me?

Yes.

That’s too easy. Would you live for me?

… Yes.

“y/n, are you listening? We’ll stake out at his condo. I’ll do all the work, babe, you just have to stand watch. I’ve already planned it all out. ”

There it is, that strike of pain in your heart. 

Dynamight. 

That’s all your stupid boyfriend cares about. 

You’re already shaking your head, refusing furiously— but he’s begging, begging! 

… And you sigh and look away. 

“Last. Time.”

You peek out of the corner of your eye to see Ren’s face brighten. 

He really is just as pretty as when you first met him a year ago. 

“I promise, y/n. Last time.”

Fuck Ren and his promises.

From the moment you had scaled Dynamight’s luxurious condo, you had known your boyfriend had skimped on doing his research again. 

There’s no way we’re gonna get away with this.

Stuffed in a large delivery box, you only pray that Ren’s mailman cosplay is good enough to get through the lobby. 

Nervously holding your breath, you cringe as your boyfriend flirts with the ladies at the front desk and wheels you into the elevator. 

Tap tap tap. 

Three gentle knocks on the front of the box and you know it’s your turn.

“I’ve just disabled the hallway cameras,” Ren whispers as he pulls the box open. 

You step out eagerly, stretching, before turning towards the door. 

The corners of your mouth twitch as you suddenly remember why you hate rich people. 

Dynamight’s door just screams narcissism— who really needs a gold plated front door? 

Bakugo, the nameplate reads. The dreaded name you hear on a near-daily basis. 

You scoff as you reach into your pocket and pull out your decoding tool, placing it on the keypad in a single, practiced motion.

Ren taps his foot impatiently as you work with the machine— you only let out a breath of relief as the door buzzes and swings open what feels like an eternity later. 

You’re already sweating as your heart thumps with discomfort and fear at being at the hero’s homebase. 

Comically, it feels as though the two of you have just broken into a villain’s lair. 

“God, babe. You’re the best,” Ren murmurs, pushing you aside. 

He’s a little too eager to ruin his nemesis’ life. 

Ren rushes inside of Dynamight’s home, barely holding back his immediate laughter as he spots the marble dining table. 

He’s already poking around as you carefully close the door quietly behind you, tiptoeing into the large house. 

“Can you believe this man? He’s so fucking full of himself,” Ren spits as he stares at the various newspaper clippings of Dynamight adoring the bookshelves.

Forget that— if you were Dynamight, you’d be living like this too. 

This is life you had envisioned for yourself. 

Gorgeous white pillars uphold a high ceiling and there’s a leather couch in the center of the room. A giant television sits in front of it, almost mocking you. 

One day… When this was all over, would Ren want to live like this with you?

“Come on, babe. We gotta find the data,” Ren says, heading towards the closest door to him. 

The initial excitement has worn off and he’s now refueled by hatred. 

Right. The data. 

If you could just get your hands on the data of all of the current Japanese heroes, that would be the biggest data breach in the history of the World Heroes Association. 

You and Ren would go down as super villains— a title you still weren’t sure if you wanted. 

You repress these useless thoughts, though, and trail Ren around the large home as he throws open doors. 

“Are you sure he’ll even have it?” 

“Yeah, there’s no way a top hero wouldn’t have access to this— Damn! A basement. You think he’d keep his PC down here?”

You think back to your encounters with Dynamight, shivering as you remember his piercing red eyes meeting yours. 

Your boyfriend heads down without hesitation as you follow him, nearly jumping when he yelps in joy. 

“His computer’s right here.” 

You swallow as you turn your head around the dark basement, eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. 

Ren presses the power button of the computer and the entire room lights up from the bright screen. 

Couch, television, gaming consoles, mini fridge— this must be his man cave. 

“Alright. Get on it, babe,” Ren says, stepping back as the flickering monitor. 

Sighing, you lean down, plug in your trusty usb stick into the PC. This was going to be a long day. 

WARNING. 

You jump for real this time, letting out a surprised shout as the machine blares a loud alarm. 

Holy fuck, what’s going on? 

Before you can move, the heavy door to the basement suddenly slams shut— you hear the metallic locks clicking in place.

You glance at Ren in desperation, but he’s not looking at you, only frowning at the computer.

“Get on with it. We have at least 15 minutes, I’ll find a way out by then.”

You don’t bother protesting. Despite his easy going demeanor, you know Ren cares about you.

“Don’t worry, he’s in Korea for a conference,” he reassures you as he steps towards the staircase.

BOOM. 

You scream as you’re pushed back by an explosion, groaning in pain as you strike the side of Dynamight’s large desk. 

Collapsing on the ground, dust arises on either side of you. 

Your ears are ringing and your vision is hopelessly blurry.

When you muster up the strength to touch your stinging face, you wince as your hand comes back bloody. 

Ren. He was closer to the door. 

Your eyes widen as you roll yourself onto your side, trying to reach up to the chair next to you for help—

“Fucker!” 

You gasp as your vision clears and you take in the sight in front of you.

Dynamight has your boyfriend pressed onto the floor and strikes him in the face, once. Twice. Three times. 

Ren tries to fight back, but he’s basically hopelessly laying there, taking in the blows. 

It’s clear you’ve caught him off duty— Dynamight’s clad in nothing but a tank top and shorts. 

Despite that, he dominates your boyfriend easily. He’s kneeling on Ren’s stomach, one hand pinning down your boyfriend’s shoulder and the other punching his face at a sickening rate. 

You do nothing but watch as you watch Ren’s eyes flicker, then shut. 

Adrenaline courses through your veins, taking away the remaining rationality in you.

Pushing yourself onto your feet, you throw yourself at Dynamight, whose eyebrows merely raise as he registers your face.

You pull out your knife, swinging for his neck— Dynamight throws up his arm, blocking your attempt— before you can react, you’re pinned to the ground next to your boyfriend. 

“You… asshole…” you hiss, airflow momentarily cut off.

You struggle against Dynamight's strength, grimacing. You’re on your stomach, hands pinned behind your back. You try to kick him, but the strength in your legs fails you. 

Dynamight lets out a small laugh as he sits on your ass and your eyes widen as you feel his dick through his pants grinding on you purposefully. 

Fucking pervert. 

You turn your head to your side, glaring into Dynamight’s blood-colored eyes. The corners of his eyes are pointed upwards, he’s grinning madly. 

Leaning forward, Bakugo rests his right hand next to your face. Your immediate reaction is to lunge at it, trying to bite, but he pulls back quickly, yanking on your wrists. Your body arches upwards and you wince at the slight pull. 

“Easy. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Despite your slowly subsiding anger and hatred towards the man on top of you, you feel yourself blushing against your will. 

You hate how he talks to you. You silently remind yourself to take a recording of it next time and report him for sexual harassment. 

While you’re fuming over your current situation and mumbling profanities at him, Bakugo leans back and admires you.

You look really good like this— actually, you look perfect. Your eyes are slightly moist, cheeks flushed and lips a delectable pink. Bakugo’s mouth is watering at the sight. 

He’s already hard. He’s been aching in anticipation since he first got the alert that you broke into his home. 

What would happen if he were to just… 

You’re staring up at Bakugo again, watery eyes meeting his narrowed ones, and he feels a shiver run down his spine as he admires his reflection in them. 

“Can you let me go already? You’ve won, we get it,” you huff, cheeks inflating. 

He wants to stuff them full with his cock.

Easy, Dynamight. You’re a hero. 

He glances down at you apathetically, although his cock is throbbing. 

You ignore it the best you can, although you’re turning pink again.

You shift from side to side, hoping you won’t have to beg him to let you go. 

You’d rather die than do that.

Smirking, he clicks his tongue as he reaches forward with his right hand and strokes your face. 

“Give me a reason. You’re imposing on my home, doing who knows what?” 

Your teeth find his hand this time, sinking into the hardened flesh.

You bite down as hard as you can, wishing he’d just let go of you. Your jaw is just beginning to ache as you muster the courage to look back up at him.

Your blood runs cold as you notice his unchanging expression— he looks almost bored. But something flashes in his eyes.

Fuck, maybe you shouldn’t have done that. 

As you pull back, you squeak as he grabs you by your hair, sliding forward to sit on your wrists.

One hand holds your head upwards, while his other holds your face. His hand engulfs your entire jaw as he forces you to look into his eyes. 

“I could take you right now, but I’ll save that for later.”

From a distance, you hear the shouts of policemen and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Bakugo lets go and watches as your head falls back onto the floor.

You’re so caught up in the commotion you don’t catch his next words.

“You’ll be begging for it soon, anyway.”

You can do nothing but watch in handcuffs as Ren’s eyes open hazily and focus on you. 

“y/n, I’m so sorry,” he starts. 

You shake your head, smiling sadly at him. Was it really over? 

No, you promised you’d always be with him—

“Dynamight.” 

Your boyfriend’s eyes have shifted from you onto Dynamight, the one person that has been on his mind obsessively for the past few years.. 

Ren’s shouting at Dynamight now, who merely laughs in response. 

You don’t even notice that Dynamight’s staring at you.  

All you notice is that you’re not in Ren’s line of sight anymore. 

The words of policemen and Ren start swirling together as your heartbeat slows.

He’s not in love with you, is he?

You can hear your heart physically shattering.

He’s in love with Dynamight.

Bakugo’s still embarrassingly hard as he readjusts himself, sighing as he looks around his ransacked home. 

The police have taken longer than he’d hoped, making sure to photograph everything.

Even more irritatingly, the medics had tried to heal your teeth marks imprinted in his arm, which he had pulled away quickly. 

“I’m going to save this as evidence during the trial,” Bakugo had quickly lied. 

The young medic had blinked in confusion, but nodded eagerly, not wanting to defy the number one hero’s demand.

When his agency had first received the tip that you and Whiplash would be attempting a data breach, Bakugo had rolled his eyes and hesitated on flying back in early from his vacation.

You and Whiplash were shitty, third-rate villains, if you could be even labeled as such. 

You would always be deserted by your boyfriend, who’d dip the moment Bakugo stepped close to the crime scene. You (with your gorgeous, angered face that turns him on so fast) would be left behind for Bakugo to handcuff. 

Bakugo still remembers the first time he’d been called to a scene with you and Whiplash. 

One year ago, two petty, new criminals had attempted to rob a series of homes in upper Tokyo. 

Bakugo had been whisked away from his date with a pretty newscaster and was irritated to hell— he had been working all night sweet talking to the girl and was surely going to get laid— but when he had gotten to the scene, still pulling on his gloves, all thoughts of regret flew out the window.

“Get me the fuck out of here!” 

The female villain is shouting as she kicks her legs. 

The scene is laughable— her upper half is tapped in the tights washing machine and Bakugo takes his sweet time striding over to you, admiring the curve of your ass and the way you shake as you try to free yourself. 

“What happened here?” 

Bakugo smirks. He’d heard that the male villain had gotten away but the female was still somewhere on the premises. 

He’d been incredibly lucky to find you first. It’s hard to hold back from slapping your ass and ripping those black tights off of you, but Bakugo swallows and moves to touch your hip instead.

You squeak in surprise as you feel two fingers tracing a triangle onto your upper thigh. 

“Stop touching me, pervert! You sick freak! I have a boyfriend! I’ll kill you if you try anything!” 

Your scream is slightly muffled as you bang your hands on the sides of the circular machine.

Your back is aching from being bent over for the past ten minutes and you arch your back, holding back a pained moan. Whoever this asshole was, you were gonna rip him a new one when he freed you. 

Bakugo frowns as ‘boyfriend’ echoes inside his head. 

Were you being truthful or were you just trying to scare him off? 

It’s taking everything in him to not grind against you and with every passing second Bakugo feels closer to losing the battle with his sex driven core.

After another moment of deliberation, Bakugo reaches out, yanking you effortlessly out of the machine. 

God. 

You were just as pretty as he’d hoped. Face flushed and sweaty from being inside a confined space for so long, you collapse on your ass and fan yourself dramatically, taking in big gulps of fresh air before looking up to glare at him. 

“Fucking freak! What sort of perverted police officer are you?” You demand, frowning as Bakugo silently holds his hand out. 

A few seconds of silence pass before you awkwardly take it, allowing him to help you up. 

“Thank you,” you mumble as you wipe your hands on your shirt. 

Your eyebrows are still furrowed with frustration as you bite the inside of your cheek. 

Ugh… you’re so adorable, Bakugo wants to just squeeze you to death. 

Now he really wishes he hadn’t helped you out. You were helpless, bent over just perfectly, practically inviting him…. As his imagination runs wild, he feels the blood rushing towards his groin. 

Oblivious, you stretch your sore body, letting out a soft moan. You’re strangely relaxed, as if you were simply meeting an old friend. 

“I’m going to be arresting you now. Turn around,” Bakugo sighs, shifting his balance from foot to foot. If only he wasn’t an up-and-coming hero.

Your eyebrows raise and the ends of your lips quirk upwards. 

“Isn’t there something else I could do to get out of this?” You tease, turning around and holding your wrists behind your back.

Fuck. Is that you wiggling your ass or is he just seeing things? 

Bakugo’s breath hitches. The cold cuffs in his hands are only furthering his imagination. He’s about to pounce on you, but as he’s deciding which piece of your clothing he’ll rip away first—

“Don’t get any ideas, perv. That was a joke.” 

You giggle at his silence, looking back to glance at his face, which pales in humiliation.

You’re still laughing as Bakugo curses under his breath and shoves you harshly into the police car. 

You wouldn’t be laughing when he fucks you silly—which, he swears, he will one day. 

Since your destined meeting, you had been on Bakugo’s mind. 

Every. Single. Day. 

Your pout. Your delicate hands. Your arching back. Your whines and the way you try to fight back every time he walks you to the police van.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just a phase.

To Bakugo’s horror, when he met up with the same newscaster from that night, he found himself unable to get hard, no matter how much she sucked him off. 

He could have waved that off as an anomaly, but six girls later, Bakugo finally had to admit he may have a problem on his hands. 

Bakugo knew the solution to his ED and meaningless infatuation with you.

He was sure all he had to do was fuck you. Easy enough— he’s confident in his sex appeal.

But you were also an impossible target.

You and your villain boyfriend moved around constantly, living under various aliases. 

And when Bakugo could finally meet you (about once a month, when your boyfriend’s plans were foiled once again) you were whisked off into police custody before he could even bring up sex. 

How was he even supposed to get to that topic, anyways? 

Hey, y/n. I only get hard when I see you cry. Or, actually, when I just think about you at all. 

Wanna bang?

Bakugo halfheartedly (almost unconsciously, this is just an immediate reaction to seeing you) discards his shorts and briefs as he leans against the back of the couch. 

Staring up at the ceiling, he’s now regretting letting his agency call for backup. 

He’d had you under him, in his own home. He even had a condom ready in his shorts— something he’s started carrying around since last year in hopes he’d get ambushed by you randomly.

It’s unfortunate he couldn’t take things further with you, but for tonight, his imagination and thoughts of you would have to suffice. 

He almost saw you cry…

Bakugo’s almost drooling at the memory of your teary eyes as you stared at your boyfriend, who was dragged away into the back of a van despite his protests.

Fuck. What does he have to do to make you cry? 

He throughout beating up Whiplash would be enough, but maybe you didn’t like your boyfriend as much as he thought— that makes him smile. 

“Ugh…” 

Bakugo can barely hold back a soft moan as his cock hardens quickly, now standing in his hand. 

It’s hot, and typically Bakugo would shed all his clothes, but tiny specks of your blood decorate his white top. It’s like you’re basically touching him.

He admires the bruising teeth prints on his right hand, the one that’s now slowly stroking his dick. 

Your mouth was on his hand. His hand. The thought alone makes him want to cum.

Bakugo allows himself a full stroke, groaning as he presses himself deeper into the couch.

It almost feels as if he’s simply overstimulating himself, as if he’d already cum— that’s how strong you were as a stimulus. 

With how much you tease, you’d start with the tip, wouldn’t you? 

Bakugo gently holds his cock at the base with his left hand and thumbs the tip, rubbing his rough thumb against the wet precum. 

He’d manhandle you, he’s imagined it countless times, it’s what a girl like you needs. 

In his imagination, you’d be a pillow princess. He’s confident about this. 

Your attitude, the way you demand he frees you… it all points towards you being a menace in bed.

You would saunter into the bedroom, wearing nothing but thin lingerie (in his favorite color, dark orange, almost red). You’d smirk as you climb onto his bed, making yourself comfortable. 

Your pretty eyes would narrow as he walks in shirtless with a raging boner. 

You would be sitting there, legs outstretched for him to grasp. 

Bakugo would grab your ankles in each hand, focusing on kissing your precious feet before moving upwards. 

He’d press his lips against your shin, your knee, then suck your plush thighs, savoring your taste. 

He’d maintain his eyes on you throughout, admiring the way your lips part slightly and your heavy breaths. You’d glare at him when you notice him staring at you— you’re always fighting back, aren’t you?

But in bed he’s the one in control. 

He’d get to your panties and give your clothed clit a lick, pinning down your legs that threaten to close. 

Bakugo would suck, embracing the taste of lace and your juices leaking from across the other side of clothing. 

Contrary to popular belief, Bakugo wasn’t that full of himself. 

In bed, he only has one priority— your pleasure. 

Bakugo allows himself to slightly loosen his grip and start stroking his entire length slowly, just like how you’d do it. 

Just a few singular strokes feel so good, his entire body lights up, electricity running up his spine. 

He runs his thumb along the one long vein from the base of his cock, shivering. His cock is getting heavier in his hand and a familiar pressure is slowly building in his stomach. 

After a few moments, Bakugo would finally push aside the flimsy fabric, licking your clit directly. 

He’d be fisting his cock while doing so, like he’s doing now, stroking to the rhythm of his flattened tongue. 

He’d be almost drooling at the taste, sometimes letting himself wander to your hole and slip his tongue in your tightness. He’d continue alternating between sucking and licking, relishing in your increasingly loud moans. 

Your legs would begin to tremble beneath him and you’d start begging quietly despite your stubbornness.

Your eyes would start to roll to the back of your head— and that’s when he’d stop, pulling away entirely, still stroking himself, tightening his fist around his heat if necessary to prevent himself from releasing. 

You’d whine and maybe kick him, legs weakened from your ruined orgasm. 

A little edging never hurt anyone. 

It only makes the pleasure of a shared orgasm stronger. 

Bakugo would tease your hole, nudging at the entrance with the tip of his leaking cock. 

Without warning, he’d thrust— you’d groan from the intrusion, grasping the sheets. 

He’d start moving mercilessly, pulling out his length to the tip before slamming it back in, over and over. He would quicken with your moans fueling his pace. 

He’d lean over to capture your pretty lips with his, intertwining your tongues. 

Fuck, Bakugo really isn’t going to last, especially with his new favorite mental photograph—you lying on your back helplessly. Bakugo’s mind does the photoshop for him, removing the debris from the explosion and placing the two of you on his bed.

He’s stroking himself fervently now, at the same pace he imagines himself fucking you at. 

You’d be shaking under him, holding back your tears. And, in typical y/n fashion, your pride would force you to hold your moans back. You’d be pressing your trembling hand against your mouth, wouldn’t you? You would be biting down on it, with the same teeth that were clamped down on his own hand earlier.

You’d cum as he rubs his thumb roughly against your clit, eyes rolling to the back of your head, mouth dropping open. 

Bakugo would make sure to ride you out throughout the entirety of your orgasm before allowing himself to fall into how tight and wet you are and reaching his peak himself. 

“y/n… I’m cumming…” 

Bakugo bites back a groan as his eyes close, lips almost breaking from how hard he’s clenching down. 

Continuing to pump, Bakugo’s hips lift as he thrusts into his fist one final time—his orgasm is so strong, it feels as though he’s losing control of his entire body, shaking as he feels his cum squirt and his cock pulsing from the base. 

When Bakugo finally gathers his energy, he opens his eyes, blinking uncomfortably at the harsh lights of the living room. There’s warm cum now cooling all over his hands and the coffee table in front of him, only adding to the list of things he has to clean up after your little home invasion. 

Sighing, Bakugo stands up, grabbing a tissue and wiping the traces of his release away. 

It’s a little humiliating.

Yet another day of having to imagine you writhing under him to get off. 

Bakugo won’t admit it— he never will— but honestly, it’s not as bad as he makes it out to be.

But he knows the real thing will be better. 

Now, if only he could get his hands on you… 

a/n yeah so i rewrote this whole thing on 4 hours of sleep so its prob shit and the formatting is wonky but whatevs.

STAN ENHYPEN STREAM SWEET VENOM (ENG VER)

[helen-with-an-a]

The Object that stood in the way of a World Cup pt. 5

Hi. So here is the last part of the official story, but I do want to do another part of some cute moments and things like that. Also thanks to @lyak12 for the big sister moments with Lucy ahaha. <3

Ona Batlle x Reader

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5 : Epilogue

Flashbacks are in italics

TW: Suggestiveness

Description: R returns to playing football

Word Count: 3.7k

You didn’t have to send the letter. But you did. Sort of. You left in her cubby for her to see after practice. It was the last day before your first match back. It was the last match of the domestic league and you had been promised at least the final 10 minutes. Was it the best timing for something of that magnitude? Probably not. But you needed her to know how you felt before the summer breaks began, and she went off the Olympics.

You hadn’t been ignoring Ona like you were at the beginning of the season, but you weren’t friends either. You still remained in your separate friend groups, but you didn’t avoid her like the plague, and she had gradually left her little corner of the gym during sessions. You were still in love with her. That much was definite – you often stared at her during matches, allowing yourself to reminisce over your memories. But you wanted to do it properly, with full communication and honest answers. You decided that the letter was an olive branch; she could do with it as she pleased.

She could ignore it. That would hurt, but you would endure it.

She could acknowledge but reject you. That would be painful but survivable.

She could accept it. That thought made your heart happy.

Since That Day with Lucy and the time away to repair yourself, everyone could see how much better you were doing. You were laughing again, smiling brightly as Patri joked around, giggling at Pina for tripping over the cones, chatting softly to Esmee or chasing after Mapi as Ingrid shook her head. Lucy was happy that the bubbly girl she considered a little sister was returning.

That Day, she had taken you to her house and laid you in bed. You were exhausted – mentally, emotionally, physically – and so fragile. She couldn’t remember a time when she had seen you so small. She had called Keira; she was frightened by your outburst, disturbed by what you had told her and saddened to think you thought you couldn’t talk to her. Keira had done an excellent job in calming her - promising it wasn’t her fault and that she was there for you now, and that’s all that mattered. The pair had set up the guest bedroom for you to stay in as you got ready to go back to England. They had given the heads up to the Lionesses that you would be coming home for a while – Leah got the full story, but everyone was told that you weren’t doing ok and needed more support than they could give you at Barcelona.

Ona was also taking the months to heal. She was talking to a therapist that helped her regulate her emotions, particularly when she was scared. You could see the change. It was nothing drastic, nothing too noticeable, but you knew. She was working on herself, and that was all that you wanted. You still watched all of her games for Spain. You had promised her you would always support her, and you always would. You hadn’t watched the matches in person, but they were always on your TV – sometimes favouring watching her matches over the Lionesses.

“Ugh, I don’t want to go,” Ona complained as you packed her suitcase for her. She was lying on your bed with just a big T-shirt on. It was one of your old England training tops.

“Because of what happened last time?” You knew bringing it up was a risk, but you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to protect her from everything bad in the world.

“I mean, yes, there’s that, but …” She looked a little embarrassed as she turned her head away from you. You reached over and gently grabbed her chin, forcing her to look you in the eye.

“But?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Te voy a extrañar.” You heart softened at her confession.

“Oni,” you cooed as you flopped on top of her. I’m going to miss you too—so much. But I will still be supporting you. I promise.” You littered kisses over her face, ignoring her squeals and laughter telling you to get off

“You’re playing on the 7th, right?” You breathed into her ear as you gently bit her earlobe

“Sí” She all but moaned out.

“Well, my match is on the 6th,” you drifted over to the other side of her neck. “So, I will be watching your game; I’ll always watch your games. Forever and ever.” You drifted down her body, pushing her t-shirt up as you went.

“Si us plau, fot-me,” she begged.

“I don’t speak Catalan, Oni.” You reminded her as you tugged off her shirt.

80 minutes into the last game of the season, your number flashed green on the screen held up by the 4th Official. This was it. All your hard work had finally paid off. Marta ran over to you and smacked your awaiting hands, using them to pull you into a brief hug. “Vamos, chica,” She whispered in your ear. You ran onto the pitch as the crowd clapped and cheered for you. You looked to where you knew some of the Lionesses sat; they had made the trip over to Spain to watch your debut. You knew it was in your mind, but you would swear on your life that their cheers were the loudest. This was your happy place, finally back on the pitch. You felt the final pieces of tension melt away. You were finally home. All the emotions of the past 18 months were forgotten. The heartbreak, heartache, anger, fear, and frustration were all gone in a moment as the ball fell to your feet. You always felt the most at peace on the pitch.

“Ok, listen up.” It was media day for United, something you had mixed feelings over. You always liked the video side of media day, but you hated the photos – you always felt so awkward doing them. “On videos, we have Toone and Russo, and Blundell and Galton. On photos, we have Ladd, Zelem, and Parris. On interviews, we have Turner and Williams, Batlle and Y/S/N …” You stopped listening. Thank god you didn’t have to do photos straight away. And you were with Oni – sure, it would fuel the flame about whatever you were for the fans. But you were with Oni.

“Vamos, amor. We’ve got an interview to do.” Ona tangled her fingers with yours and pulled you over to the interview station.

“It’s pretty simple, introduce yourself, then just read the cards and answer them. We’re already rolling, so just start whenever you’re ready.” A man said from behind the camera. You looked at Ona for confirmation before introducing yourself. It was simple. The questions were nothing you hadn’t seen or answered before.

“Ok, amor, what is your happy place?” Ona read from the card.

“Hmm … lemme think ... um, is it cliché to say the football pitch?” You laughed, looking at Ona as she rested her head on your shoulder, groaning at your answer. “What? It is. It’s always been the place that calms me down. I don’t really get nervous on the pitch either, even for important games. Beforehand, I’ll be absolutely bricking it, but on the pitch … cool as a cucumber.”

“Bricking … it?” Your phrasing confused her. You always forget that she was speaking her non-native language; she was so fluent in English now.

“Oh, um … nervous, I guess? Oni, you know how I get before games, especially the big ones, but I'm absolutely fine once that whistle goes.”

“I do know how nervous you get. Do you remember our game at the Arnold Clark Cup? You were so nervous. Leah had to come get me before the match.” She smiled teasingly at you.

“Stop,” you whined. You said you’d take that to the grave.” You didn’t like people knowing how panicky you could get. You also didn't particularly want to spill how Ona had gotten you to calm down —she had kissed you—long and hard and deep. It had calmed you down instantly.

They say that history repeats itself, and you think they might be onto something. Your team was finishing the domestic season in typical Barca fashion. You were 8-0 up with 10 minutes still to play. You set a pass to Lucy as you began to push forward. It was a perfect cross back from Ona as you entered the penalty area. You controlled it with your chest to the ground. You swung your leg back. This time, there was no clash of studs. No horrific pain. No blood. This time, you released the ball into the back of the net.

You didn’t care what you looked like as you ran around like a headless chicken. You may have looked silly celebrating this hard for the ninth goal of the game, but you didn’t care. You were back. You leapt onto Ona, legs wrapping around her waist as her arms came to support you under your thighs.

“Estás de Vuelta, amor,” she shouted. With that response alone, you knew she had read the letter.

“I’m back, Oni,” you laughed as she put you down and straight into the arms of Lucy and the rest of the team.

The match ended 9-0. The match had been won long before that, but everyone assured you you got the winner. Medals were handed out as you cheered with the rest of the squad, music blasted, and shouts were heard from all around. You didn’t bother looking for your parents; you knew they weren’t there. But you did see the smiling faces of Alessia, Ella and Leah, with Mary and Georgia on Facetime. After promises to find them later you found a relatively quiet corner in the tunnel and allowed yourself to fully process your feelings. Elation. Happiness. Love. Everything was so different compared to this time last year.

Someone cleared their throat, drawing your attention to them. It was Ona. “Um … can we talk?”

“Yeh, yeh. Do you want to sit?” You gestured to the floor against the wall. You both got comfortable and sat for a few heartbeats.

“Felicidades … your goal, it was beautiful.” She was clearly a little awkward.

“Oni, the letter –” you started

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry for what I did to you. I was looking for a fight. I was terrified you’d leave me behind. And I was jealous Barca wanted you. There will never be a day where I don’t regret what I did to you, and I hate myself for it. For hurting you so badly. You didn’t deserve any of what happened. I was a raging bitch, and I was so awful to you, and -” She gushed out.

“Oni, stop,” you said gently. "It’s ok. I forgive you. You need to start forgiving yourself, too.” You rested your head on her shoulder. You did forgive her. She had done a horrible thing, but she wasn’t a horrible person. She leaned her head on top of yours, enjoying the closeness she had craved for so long.

“Did you mean it?” she said after a long pause. Her voice was fearful that you might reject her—which was perfectly within your rights, she reminded herself. “That you’re still in love with me?”

“Yes. I am still absolutely head-over-heels in love with you. I never stopped," you answered honestly. "But if we are to try again, we’re going to need to be friends first. So, I’m reintroducing myself to you.” You stuck out your hand. “Hola, I’m Y/N," you repeated the words you said to her so long ago back in Manchester when you first met.

“Hola, soy Ona.” She laughed as she shook your hand, letting it linger for longer than she should have. Her hand was warm, rough, soft, and perfect.

"Got any nicknames?" Her lips split into that beautiful wide grin. Your smile matched hers.

“Um, hola.” You said as you stood in front of her cubby.

“Hola?” She was sceptical of you. Not many people had made an effort to talk to her, let alone talk to her in Spanish. It was the end of her third day at United, and she was homesick and terrified about whether she had done the right thing.

“So, I overheard you in the lunchroom earlier about Spanish food being so different from English food, and I was going to make paella for my tea tonight anyways, so I was wondering if you wanted to come round? I can’t promise it will be any good; the recipe I’m supposed to be following says it's ‘Spanish Rice’, not even paella, but … yeh.” God, you were so awkward; you hadn’t even let her answer the question. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You probably have plans. So … anyways … I’m gonna now,” you went to turn around before her fingers caught your wrist.

“You didn’t let me answer” She smiled. Your heart fluttered in a strange way. Were you having a heart attack because a pretty girl smiled at you?

“What is tea? I thought it was a drink.” She asked. Oh, god – that voice. You thought you had died and gone to heaven.

“Tea? … oh, yeh. Sorry, I forgot I’m northern,” you laughed. “It’s how you say dinner if you’re northern. Um, I think it’s ‘cena’ in Spanish?”

“Ah, sí, sí. Yes, I shall come for tea.” She giggled. You knew you had just fallen in love right then and there.

Ona was slightly nervous as she knocked on your flat door. A pretty girl had asked her to come round. She wasn’t used to this; she was usually confident, always knowing who and what she wanted. But you had surprised her with your gentle smile, quick ramblings, and soft laugh; you had stolen her heart and didn’t even know it.

“Hey, sorry to leave you hanging.” You said as you answered the door. Your expression confused her, but she ignored it as you ushered her into your flat. It was exactly how she expected, a perfect physical representation of you. She never wanted to leave.

“Ok, so I’ve already cooked it, so it’s ready when you are, really. I don’t particularly like seafood, so it’s chicken and chorizo. I know that Barcelona is famous for its seafood. And there are peppers and peas in there, too. I hope that’s okay,” you said as you gestured for her to sit at the table.

“Sounds deliciosa,” she commented, looking around. Your flat was clean, neat, and tidy, but not to the point that it looked like no one lived there. You had a lot of pictures of friends dotted around, but it didn’t seem like many of your family. You clearly took pride in your home. Ona could respect that. She always thought that you could tell a lot about someone based on how they decorate and treat a space.

“Here you go,” you said as you handed her a bowl of steaming rice. “So … this might come across as rude or something, and I really don’t want that, but … um, how do I ask this? How, um … howdoyousayyourname?” You said it so quickly it was a blur. Ona clearly didn’t understand you.

“Qué?”

“Um … how do you say your last name?” You asked sheepishly. “I want to get it right. It’s important to me that I say people’s names right,” you explained. Her heart melted at your kind gesture.

“Oh, um, it’s like bat-jyay.”

“Batlle,” you said slowly. “Batlle,” you said quicker, reassurance in her accompanying smile.

“Cool … now that that’s out of the way, do you have any nicknames or anything?” It was clear to Ona that you were trying to get her to feel more comfortable around you.

“Um … not really. It’s common in Spain to add 'ita' at the end of words, so sometimes Onita? Or Oni, I guess?”

“Oni, I like it.” The nickname rolled off your tongue so effortlessly that Ona swooned.

“What about you, any nicknames?”

“Oh, no, not really. I mean beyond the standard English love, or darling, or pet, or duck or anything really,” you laughed.

“Well, I won’t call you love. But I will call your amor, sí?” Your heart was doing backflips as you looked down at the table, hiding your blush.

The summer that followed was unforgettable. You hadn’t had a summer off since … you couldn’t remember when. You and Ona had used the few weeks before she left for camp to reacquaint yourself. There were lots of laughs shared over coffees and slightly too-long hugs. It was easy to fall back in love with her and rediscover your dynamic.

You didn’t go to Paris, no matter how much you wanted to see her. You watched every game, though, sending her a steady stream of your consciousness through text. You knew she couldn’t see them when she was playing, but you wanted her to know you supported her like you had promised to do all those years ago. Ona adored the fact that she would look at her phone after the match to hundreds of messages, reading every one as she chuckled at your play-by-play.

She didn’t attend preseason, but you did, obviously. You used the time to add the final touches to your new style of play. You were ready to prove to the world that you were back and better than ever. You had seen some comments on social media speculating about your return. But you knew you were ready. When Ona returned, you lingered behind the group who swarmed the Olympians. She had quickly extricated herself and came to join you. “Congratulations, Oni. I’m very proud of you,” You said as you hugged her tightly, dropping a series of light kisses on her head.

The final Friday before the season officially started was full of drinks and laughter. You had one final blowout before settling in for the next season, and naturally, you ended up at Manuela’s.

“You did good, kid,” Lucy said as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You were at the bar, sipping on a fruity drink.

“Thanks, Luce. For everything. I know I didn’t exactly make it easy on you, but …”

“Hey, no, don’t do that. You were in a bad place. I didn’t do it because I needed to; I did it because I wanted to. You’re like my little sister. I love you more than I love my actual little sister.” She promised you.

“I know, but still. Thank you. I appreciate you, truly.” You rested your head against her shoulder as she squeezed you gently.

“Y/N,” Someone called for your attention. It was an incredibly drunk Patri. “Ven a bailar, chica.” You made your way over to the group; almost everyone was incredibly drunk; even Alexia had the tell-tale flush on her cheeks, but that could have been more to do with Olga dancing in front of her than the alcohol. The only people that you think weren’t drunk were you and Ona.

“You’re not drinking?” You asked as she came to stand next to you.

“Not really, don’t want to be hungover tomorrow,” she answered. “What about you?”

“Same. This is probably the only drink I’ll have.” Your therapist had advised you to stay away from drinking as much as possible, telling you that it could affect you in negative ways. You didn’t really mind; you liked being able to remember everyone’s drunk antics. It was useful for blackmail purposes, and at least one other person remained sober during nights out anyway.

You spent the night splitting yourself between the dancefloor with Patri and Pina, the booth with Ingrid and Mapi, or the table Marta and Caroline had claimed. It was fun, but you forgot how hot Barcelona nights out could be, even in the late summer, when the temperature rarely dipped below mid-teens. It was hot and loud, and sweaty. To escape, you pushed your way outside, taking deep breaths of the fresh night air.

“Esta todo bien, amor?” It was Ona.

“Always so concerned, Oni.” You laughed.

“Lo siento. It’s just, I saw you leave … and I wanted to check on you and …” She was starting to panic, thinking she was overstepping a boundary.

“Hey, Oni. It’s ok. I like that you're so concerned about me.” You reached for her hand, holding it tightly to reassure her. “I keep forgetting how hot Barcelona can be,” you explained. "I’m still not used to it.” She laughed lightly.

“You’ll have to get used to it. I don’t want you to leave Barcelona” she trailed off, “because of the weather” she added quickly.

“I don’t want to leave Barcelona either … especially because of the weather,” you teased.

“Callate,” She groaned as you tugged her closer, arm going around her shoulder as hers came around your waist. “I like your outfit.” She murmured as she played with the lace on the bottom of your bralette. “It’s the same one you wore in Manchester the first time we…” she whispered, trailing off again. You knew exactly what she was referring to.

“Do you want to go dance?” You asked after a few minutes of soaking up her closeness.

“Sí, vamos.” She led you back to the dancefloor, her back coming against your front as you held her close. It felt like the most normal thing to press your body closer. It felt right as she turned around to face you, her arms looping around your neck. It felt normal as your eyes flicked from hers to her lips and back again. The way your heart pounded felt nice when she stepped even closer, somehow managing to pull herself even more against you. Like always, the way the world slid sideways as your lips pressed against hers. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Vull això. ens vull. Si us plau, porta'm a casa.”

“I still don’t speak Catalan, Oni.”

Yeh, so that's the end of the proper story, but I want to do an epilogue/final chapter thing about cute moments between R and Ona and stuff. So, yeh. I hope you enjoyed it.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for having a mental breakdown over my extremely close friend (accidentally) posting (what I thought was) radfem propaganda?

(🧵🎤for finding later)

It’s a very long story and I’m gonna have so many mixed opinions on this, so buckle up broskies.

I(X, minor) had met 👑(F, at least 4 years older than me) 2 months ago after a close friend of her was exposed as a pedophile. Coincidentally, that same pedophile had spread lies about me being a sociopathic asshole a few months ago, so me and 👑 grew extremely close because of both the aforementioned pedo and also because we shared a favorite manga, and we quickly started talking everyday about our favorite characters from the manga.

Due to our close friendship, I educated 👑 about BPD (a disorder I myself have, this is important), genderfluidity, and radical feminism. And apparently, I should’ve educated 👑 a little more about radical feminism.

Also due to our close friendship, 👑 opened up to me about a traumatic experience she had with her stepdad. This triggered me slight flashbacks to an extremely nasty and messy fight I had with an ex last year, but I didn’t want to seem like I was victim blaming, so I kept my mouth shut.

2~ weeks ago, 👑 posted about the “Man or Bear” question, and chose bear. She also brought up the traumatic experience her stepdad inflicted on her in the tags.

(I personally believe the “Man or Bear” question is radfem propaganda because when women choose bear, they always bring up a traumatic experience a man inflicted on them in some way. To me this sounds like they are saying that all men are misogynists that want to see women suffer, which is obviously not the case.)

When I saw the post, I was quite pissed. Eventually, I saw it another time, and I started having a meltdown. I was actually crying, impulsively vagueposting about her and the post, and eventually when I had to go to sleep I angrily messaged 👑 telling her about the mental breakdown accompanied by a middle finger emoji.

When I woke up and checked my notifications, I saw that 👑 had messaged me 4 times saying she’s sorry, that she didn’t mean ill towards men and that she had deleted the post (which she did, but that did barely anything to comfort me). I, still extremely pissed at 👑, told her about how pissed I was, that I trusted her but now I can’t, and that she should fuck off. 👑 replied by asking if there was anything she could do to regain my trust, so I, in the mood to just make it known that I was extremely pissed, told 👑 to go harass a radfem. And she did.

Later that day, me and 👑 had an important conversation about what had happened. I explained to her that I was holding a grudge against her since she told me about her trauma because it reminded me of the fight between me and my ex, and that I thought she was slowly making her trauma her personality. She understood, and she apologized.

Me and 👑 are now in much better terms, but I am extremely scared that I ruined her opinion on me and that she dislikes me now because she’s an extremely close friend of mine and I had opened up to her about everything bad in my life, and I threw it all away because I didn’t want to be reminded over something that happened a year ago.

TLDR; I held a grudge against my therapist friend for opening up to me about her trauma because I got flashbacks to a fight with an ex, then had a meltdown when she posted about the Man or Bear question, and now I don’t know what to do about our friendship.